Death Mage (Prof Croft Book 4) Read online

  “Because the book is the source of Marlow’s power, and it’s safer.”

  I thought of the man who had set fire to my mother and then watched as the flames consumed her. I imagined him smiling behind the gold mask, reveling in the power he held over a woman he’d rendered defenseless, a woman who had birthed his child. The anger inside me rose up more fiercely than the remembered flames. I grunted as I imagined myself driving the blade through Marlow’s chest, giving it a hard twist. Surprise, you piece of—

  “Everson,” Chicory said sharply, bringing me back. “You talked about your fear of being ill prepared? It’s much worse to be fully prepared only to be subverted by revenge. Find and destroy the book. Depriving the mage of his power will be justice enough. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “And if he tries to stop me?” I said, my knuckles still white around the sword’s hilt.

  “Just don’t go looking for a fight, is what I’m saying.” Chicory’s eyes seemed to waver.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I’m getting there,” he said irritably. “When you asked earlier, I said the blade could destroy him.”

  “What, now you’re saying it can’t?”

  “Would you stop and listen? It could if he gives you a chance to use it against him. Whisperer magic is different from the magic you’re accustomed to up here.”

  “Different how?”

  “When Lich nearly overthrew his siblings, it wasn’t a simple matter of being more powerful than the others. No, he tapped into a magic that bends minds, shapes thoughts. Whisperer magic. Lich made his siblings see what wasn’t there. Believe what wasn’t real. He turned them against one another, nearly driving them insane in the process. Were it not for the oldest Elder, who was able to resist the magic, Lich would have destroyed them all.”

  “What about the staff?” I asked.

  “The staff will absorb common magic. However, if Marlow or his followers get inside your head, all bets are off.”

  “Oh,” I said, my confidence flagging again.

  “That’s why we’re telling you to focus on the book. With the distilled blood, you’ll be able to access the Refuge and slip past any wards. With the robe of John the Baptist you’ll evade detection. With the staff, you’ll frustrate magical attacks. And with the sword, you’ll destroy the book. You need never face Marlow.”

  “Just wish you would’ve told me about Whisperer magic sooner.”

  “Would you rather I had told you when you still believed the preparations for the mission would kill you?”

  He had a point. “So how would I even know if I encountered Whisperer magic?”

  A shadow seemed to pass over Chicory’s face. “That’s the thing, Everson. There’s no good way to know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  We had been walking back toward the staircase, and now he stopped and sat on one of the bottom steps. I stood facing him. The orb of light arrived above us and sputtered quietly. While waiting for Chicory to answer, I couldn’t help but appreciate the power he wielded—summoning fireballs and elementals, all while maintaining an illumination orb, and with almost no effort. I’d given him less credit as a magic-user than he deserved.

  “If you allow them inside your head,” he said, “they’ll invert reality, turning the ugliest lies into the most enchanting truths. No matter what you do, you won’t be able to see your way out. Only the strongest magic can penetrate it. Elder magic.”

  “What’s the point of them using magic?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t they just kill me?”

  “They’ll first try to subvert you. How do you think Marlow built his army of resistance? Your mother was an exception, convincing Marlow she’d joined the rebellion willingly. An intercepted communication tipped him off.” He looked over at me with sober eyes. “I’m sorry to bring her up again, Everson. But your mother’s sacrifice is the reason the Order was able to learn as much about Marlow and the Front as it did. Marlow took a huge risk emerging from his hiding to murder Lady Bastet in his attempt to keep the truth from you, from us.”

  I nodded, understanding that was why there had been no signs of resistance at the murder scene. Marlow had infiltrated the mystic’s mind with Whisperer magic before cutting her throat and then ripping her cats’ heads from their bodies to make the crime look like the work of werewolves. He’d then shape-shifted into a cat and fled the scene as I was arriving.

  “Why didn’t Marlow kill me too?” I asked. “He had a chance.”

  Chicory sighed. “We’ve been wondering the same. Perhaps he believed the murder would be enough to throw you off his scent.” My mentor’s voice turned darker. “Or maybe he has plans to use you down the road.”

  I remembered the chilling voice from the nightmare.

  Join us, Everson. Join the cluster. Become one.

  Everson … verson … son.

  “And we must remember,” Chicory said, “Marlow is controlled by the Whisperer, a being as old as the universe. If you think the Elders are hard to read, well…” His chuckle was without humor. “There’s no telling that creature’s plans.”

  “Hey, sorry for giving you crap upstairs. I just…”

  “It’s daunting, I know,” he said. “But feeling better, are we?”

  I considered the magical robe, the enhanced sword and staff, Chicory’s warning about not confronting Marlow. “I am, yeah,” I admitted. “When will the blood be ready?”

  “Another week, I imagine,” Chicory replied, pushing himself to his feet. “And now that we have you outfitted, we’ll spend the remaining time in simulations, preparing you for the task ahead. How does that sound?”

  “Best news I’ve heard today,” I said.

  6

  A week later I was back in the basement, staring down at the casting circle Chicory had created. It wasn’t large, but it was sophisticated, featuring several sigils I’d never seen before. Beneath the orb of light overhead, metal shavings glittered in the circle’s earthen grooves.

  “Let’s have a look at you,” Chicory said, turning me toward him.

  His curmudgeon’s lips curled and fussed as he looked me up and down. I’d dressed as he’d instructed: a dark shirt and pants with enough pockets to hold several spell items. I’d draped the tattered robe of John the Baptist over my right forearm. Around my waist was a belt to secure my sword cane. When Chicory’s gaze fell to my running shoes, he gave a critical grunt but said nothing.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, eyes returning to mine.

  “Honestly? Like I’m about to hurl all over the casting circle.”

  “Nerves, hm? Just remember what we practiced.”

  I nodded, going back over the last week of training, a week in which everything seemed to come together. The books Chicory had had me read, the exercises to grow my casting prism, the enhanced weapons. Combining these with my mentor’s instructions, I’d been able to steal past complex defenses, elude or slay a variety of creatures, and dispel potent magic. Indeed, it seemed as though I’d grown more as a wizard during that time than in the ten years prior.

  “This is going to sting a little.”

  Before I realized what he was doing, Chicory had my elbow in his grip and was sticking the needle of a copper syringe into the crook of my arm. I flinched at the bite. Chicory depressed the plunger, and the bluish blood in the glass tube disappeared inside me.

  He removed the needle and held his thumb over the injection site. As he chanted softly, I felt the distilled blood diffusing through me, my father’s essence displacing my mother’s.

  After a minute, he stepped back and nodded. “You’re ready.”

  I took a steadying breath and stepped into the casting circle. This was it. When I turned to face Chicory, I noticed that Tabitha had come down, her green eyes swimming through the gloom outside the orb’s light. She sauntered up and rubbed her body against Chicory’s leg.

  “Don’t give him a hard time while I’m away,” I said.<
br />
  She snorted. “Compared to the drills you put me through, this is going to be a vacation.”

  I shook my head before addressing Chicory. “Thanks for looking after her.”

  “Not a problem.” He checked his pocket watch. “It’s almost dusk, though. We need to start the ritual while the barrier between our realms is thinnest.” From a jacket pocket, he produced a black book and opened it. While he wet his thumb and leafed through the pages, I reviewed the plan in my mind, up to finding and destroying Lich’s book. A frightening thought hit me.

  “Wait!” I said. “How am I going to get back?”

  “Ah, yes,” Chicory said as though he’d forgotten something minor. He reached forward and mashed his thumb between my brows. A small bolt of energy pierced my forebrain and smoldered behind my eyes and deep in my ears. A bonding spell. “There,” he said, stepping back again. “When you’re ready to come home, concentrate as hard as you can, and I’ll retrieve you.”

  “Great,” I said, wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t said anything.

  “And if this works, if Marlow is your father, I will see you again. You’re as reckless as a child sometimes, but you’re more than capable. You’ve proven that this week.”

  “Thanks.” And I meant it.

  Aiming his wand at the circle, Chicory uttered a Word. The circle glowed white and closed around me. Beyond the hum of energy, his lips moved as he read from a book of the First Order.

  Tabitha watched with bored eyes.

  I smiled back at her even as a lump swelled in my throat. I had to remind myself that if Marlow was not my father, the blood that coursed inside me wouldn’t allow me past his defenses. I would be repelled back here. Which meant the tide of emotions I was feeling at the prospect of never seeing Tabitha or Chicory again would be for nothing.

  I was just beginning to settle into that thought when I realized I was no longer in the basement.

  Except for a slight tingling, there had been no warning. One moment I was standing in Chicory’s casting circle, the next, I was in a forest. A cold breeze carrying a stench of decay batted my hair and clacked the branches overhead. Beyond a low ceiling of ashen clouds, the sun was setting. Or rather a sun was setting. I wasn’t in our world anymore. I was inside the Refuge.

  Which means the Death Mage is my father.

  The knowledge didn’t bowl me over. Ever since Chicory had told me of the Order’s suspicion, a part of me had begun to accept it as truth. Nana’s story about my father being a hippie had never jibed, not in my child’s mind and even less so when I discovered my magic as an adult. My grandparents were trying to protect me, God love them. This explained from what.

  Stuffing down a swirl of emotions, I checked my belt and patted my various pockets. Everything had made the journey with me.

  “Let’s go ahead and put you on, then,” I whispered, donning the robe of John the Baptist.

  As had happened in the cathedral, a quiet descended over me and calmed my thumping heart. I peered around. The dark forest looked uniform in all directions, reminding me of my recurring dream. But I wasn’t a powerless child and I didn’t plan to wander aimlessly.

  I had a target.

  Kneeling, I wiped out a small circular area in the forest floor. The carpet of rotten leaves hid jelly-covered toadstools, which I wiped away, too. With my sword, I scratched my family’s casting circle into the earth and filled the grooves with copper filings. I then produced a Ziploc bag from one of my pockets and upended it over the circle. A clump of cat hair landed in its center—hair which held Marlow’s casting residue from when he’d murdered Lady Bastet.

  A current of fear wormed through me. The last time I had cast through the hair, Marlow had sensed me. He’d attacked me. This time, Chicory assured me, he couldn’t. The distilled blood that had delivered me to the Refuge would veil me from Marlow’s detection.

  Hope to hell Chicory’s right.

  “Cerrare,” I said, closing the circle.

  I incanted then, my staff aimed at the hair. The clump of hair shifted and rolled, sending up smoke, which the staff’s orb inhaled. I braced for a counterattack, but none came. Within moments, the staff was tugging me from the circle, in a direction opposite from where the sun had set.

  He’s here.

  Planting a foot against the tug, I returned what remained of the hair to the bag, pocketed it, and then broke the circle and covered it with debris. Veiled or not, I couldn’t get careless. The cane pulled me past trees, toward the man who had killed my mother.

  Not to confront him, I reminded myself as black anger smoldered inside me. To find Lich’s book.

  Before long, the forest thinned and opened onto a wide plain. A rocky hill rose from its center, an ancient palace at its plateaued pinnacle. Though impressive, the scene was hardly the stuff of postcards. The palace was made of black stone, the columned stories that stood atop one another unwieldy and wicked looking. Here and there firelight burned in windows.

  Looks like someone’s home.

  I scanned the open plain around the palace for guards. Instead, I spotted the silhouettes of what looked like large, hunchbacked dogs. Wargs, I realized, vicious predators with keen senses of sight and smell. Marlow was using them as an outer ring of security.

  I checked to ensure my robe was secure around me before stepping from the trees and toward the palace. I moved quickly and quietly, keeping track of the wargs as I went. There were at least two dozen of them patrolling the large plain. Every so often, one would stop and raise a ragged muzzle before resuming its patrol.

  Realizing I was on a collision course with one of the wargs, I crouched, retreated several steps, and held still. The approaching patrol was the size of a small rhino, its hair dark and bristly. Harsh breaths huffed from its wet muzzle.

  When it got to within twenty feet of me, the creature stopped and raised its head. I stiffened. A jelly-like substance dripped from the warg’s face. Bald patches showed over its coat, where the same substance appeared to have corroded through. The warg’s face waxed toward me, toadstools ringing its glowing eyes like blackheads. Could it sense me?

  I tightened my grip on my sword, debating whether or not to strike before the warg could send up an alarm. With a final snuff, the warg lowered his head again and resumed patrolling.

  Exhaling, I set my sights on a staircase that climbed to a wall surrounding the palace complex. I had considered circling the hill to search for a more concealed way up, but I didn’t like how the warg had looked in my direction. And the way that stuff was eating into its face…

  I grimaced and hurried my pace.

  Near the staircase, I opened my wizard’s senses. The approach looked clear, but a ward protected the staircase in a field of barbed energy. I followed a path up to it. The energy crackled and spit. My enhanced blade might cleave it, but without Marlow knowing? No, better to leave the ward intact and trust that the distillation of blood would fool it.

  I was bracing myself to step through when something rammed into my side.

  I stumbled into a backpedal from the largest warg I’d ever seen. It crouched onto its haunches, equally startled. The warg must have doubled back on its patrol without me hearing.

  Now, it came sniffing forward. When I stepped to one side, it pivoted toward me, a growl shaking the thick foam over its fangs. The damned thing could sense me. When I inhaled what smelled like spores, I imagined them communicating back to the toadstools and slimy fungi that covered the warg’s face, their root-like threads penetrating its canine brain, whispering to it.

  I took a quick look around. Two more wargs were approaching, eyes glowing a sickly green through the darkness. I gauged the distance to the staircase—about fifteen feet away—but the large warg had cut me off. With my sword held out, I slid the staff into my belt and dug into my pockets.

  Where are you?

  At last my fingers encountered the golf-ball sized rocks. Coughing grenades. I pulled one out and whispered, “
Attivare.” The rock tingled as the magic at its core came to life.

  I turned and hurled the grenade as far from the palace as I could. With a bark, the large warg charged me. I pivoted and brought my sword around, twisting my grip so the flat of the blade caught it instead of the edge. Metal rang against the side of the warg’s head. The beast stumbled past me and ate dirt.

  I backed toward the staircase as the warg recovered and wheeled. The skin over one half of its face had shorn off, revealing plates of bone.

  Fifty yards away, the grenade landed, releasing a burst of human coughing. The other two wargs that had been closing in on me turned and sprinted toward the fake sound. The large warg looked over its shoulder, then back in my direction. It took two stalking steps forward.

  Go, dammit. Go with the others.

  The warg moved its sniffing head from side to side, as though no longer sure where I was. Maybe the result of half the fungi being wiped from its face. I switched to an underhanded grip, ready to thrust the blade up into the warg’s heart if it lunged again.

  Its glowing gaze roamed all around me.

  At last the creature released a snort and sprinted off to join the others.

  I let out a trembling sigh and hurried past the defensive ward. A searing heat broke through me, but thanks to the blood match, my magic remained intact. I started up the steps. Very soon I realized that the palace complex wasn’t composed of black stone, but covered in black mold.

  On the dwindling plain below, the wargs resumed their patrols. I didn’t slow until I reached a landing that ended at the defensive wall. My staff tugged me toward a large door that hummed with locking magic. My sword could cleave it, but would that send up an alarm?

  I scanned the rampart high above. I couldn’t see anyone—or anything—patrolling its length. The dome of protective energy that extended over the palace looked to be identical to the ward at the base of the hill. It would let me through.

  Judging the wall to be about twenty feet high, I took several steps back, sword aimed down. With a running start, I whispered, “Forza dura!”