Chapter 3
Taland Tivoux
Present day, a few hours earlier
Fascinating to see those tiny needles penetrating my skin the way they were doing, releasing ink, marking me forever. I had plenty of ink on my body already, but this one was…different. It was special. It was a reminder rather than a token from the past. It was raw and painful and bloody, and it reminded me of breaking and tearing and cutting and smashing and?—
“You good?”
My train of thought came to a halt, and I focused on Rotto, the only guy who knew how to handle a needle in the Tomb. They said he’d picked up the habit right here in his cell as a way to kill time. He’d been here seventeen years already and had the rest of his life to look forward to in this shithole.
“Perfect,” I said with a raised brow—why the fuck had he stopped? The pain felt mighty good against the chaos that had reigned inside me for the past two years. If I spent any more time in this place, I might have to tattoo every inch of my skin if it hurt this good.
“Just, uh…” Rotto wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his skin completely black with ink from his wrist down to his nails. “Just try to relax your pecs,” he finally muttered.
I hadn’t realized I wasn’t relaxed, but then the thought of that tattoo did things to my mind and body, so it was very possible that I’d interrupted his work.
I grinned, and it made him even more uncomfortable. I understood his hesitation—after scaring him half to death just a couple of minutes ago with my magic— for show , of course—he expected only the worst from me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Sorry about that, friend. Please, continue,” I said anyway.
He did.
Rotto was an orc, and just like with elves and trolls, you could only tell the species by their ears. His were wider around the middle, then went straight up to sharp points almost to the top of his round head. His kind were pretty bulky for the most part, but not Rotto here. He was thin and short which served him—his fingers weren’t meatballs but long and thin enough to hold a needle better than any tattoo artist I’d come across before.
Not that I’d tell him that, of course. And even if I did, he wouldn’t believe me. He’d think I was scheming to get something out of him, something that would probably end up with his death. I’d gone to great lengths to create the reputation for myself. Plenty of people to hurt and kill in the Tomb. And my appetite to cause pain and take lives has been very healthy since I came here .
I drank my vodka and continued to look at the needle as Rotto did his thing, tattooing the very middle of my chest based off a picture that a new inmate drew for me. He was a scrawny kid who’d killed another by accident—but what the hell did the IDD care about such semantics? Of course, they’re going to put him in the same place with the world’s most ruthless killers, then wonder why he becomes just as ruthless himself when he does.
Regardless—he was good with a pen and had gotten the image in my head just right. I needed it on my skin just in case I ever forgot.
“It’s, uh…” Rotto started again after a while as the minutes ticked by and I became more and more relaxed. Focusing on the pain definitely worked. The tiny pricks of those needles were heaven-sent, especially paired with the vodka. “This is…it’s a…erm, it’s…”
“A flower,” I filled in for him, and Rotto nodded, wiping his forehead again.
“It’s just that it’s…” He wet his lips, the dirt on his skin more visible now that he’d been sweating like a pig. “It’s poisonous,” he finally managed to choke out. “You know that, right? Deadly.”
That made me laugh. “Can’t you tell I’m already dead, friend?”
Rotto looked up at me, his small black eyes full of fear. I understood—it wasn’t just me and my Blackfire magic that put that fear in these inmates’ eyes. It was the group I associated myself with. The worst of the worst—mass murderers, rapists, cannibals, child killers who were locked up for life—together with me. Regardless that I hadn’t raped or ate or killed anyone before the Tomb, I was with them. I either became one of them or I served them—like Rotto did here .
It was an easy choice—especially since some of them knew my brothers and wouldn’t have taken no for an answer if I’d tried.
Rotto didn’t talk to me again until the black flower was inked into my chest all the way, complete with the velvety petals and the thorny vines. Perfect—exactly as I’d imagined it in my head. Like that new kid had drawn.
Now it would serve as my reminder until the day I died.
I felt the man coming up behind me a second before he put his hand on my naked shoulder, while Rotto was still gathering his things. My instincts rose within me together with magic as dark as the sins of these inmates, even though we were in the lounge area. Lots of guards and cameras, and most people didn’t pick fights in this vast space that fit all two hundred and thirteen of us that were currently incarcerated—well, two hundred and fourteen today, including the new kid. A fight could easily get out of control what with people itching to get their hands dirty all the time, and it would go south quickly.
Even knowing that, I still wanted to jump and grab whoever it was that dared to touch me behind my back, but I squashed that instinct because I picked up his scent before he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “ Tonight. ”
That’s all he said. Tonight.
And then he was gone, swift as a shadow, which he could sometimes come very close to if he was sober and tried hard enough. Being a Blackfire, too, Garret used to be plenty powerful before he killed the wrong people and ended up in the Tomb. Now, the remains of him were easily dismissible—which was why he wasn’t farther up the chain of the worst criminals that the Tomb had to offer.
Whatever you do, do not let your strength and your magic weaken—train every day was the advice I received that one time I got a visitor. I took it quite literally and it served me a great deal. Give me another year or two in the Tomb, and I’d be the right hand of the Devil himself—the mage nobody really saw but who basically owned all the inmates of the Tomb and controlled them whichever way he pleased.
The very man who’d made it possible for Garret to deliver that message for me just now.
Tonight.
A surge of energy washed over me, so intense black flames slipped out of my fingertips, but it was okay. I wasn’t trying to stop it. After all, I was in a good mood now. It took so little, really. I was a very simple man. Promise me revenge and you’ll have put a smile on my face.
But first, a thank you was in order.
I knew I was being watched. Everybody was always being watched in the Tomb, and I’d learned to use that to my advantage before. Right now, though, I wanted everyone to see—a testament of my power. A memory, a token that would keep me in the twisted minds of these lowlifes—whatever you want to call it.
The new kid’s cell was near the south corner of the second floor. I purposely slammed my booted feet onto the metal of the stairs as I went up, to gather attention. Then I ran my rings on the thick metal bars of the cells as I made my way south, looking down the railing, grinning at the inmates who were still in the lounge area, watching me.
Then there was the kid lying on his bed made of hay, all by himself with a piece of paper in his hand and a tiny pencil that he barely held with his bony fingers. He pretended not to notice me standing there, leaning against the half open door with my black shirt in my hand, my torso naked still .
“Ginger,” I said, and he no longer had a choice but to look up at me.
Sweat covered his face—it was hot in the Tomb. The air-conditioning hadn’t worked since about, um…1991, give or take a couple years.
“Ginger, Ginger, Ginger.” I stepped into the room and the dim LED light on the ceiling hit my chest. Ginger was not the boy’s name, but his hair had a reddish hue to it, so I made good use of the fact because there was no way I’d remember his actual name.
“What do you think?” I asked, pretending not to notice how he’d basically become one with the wall at the end of his bed. “Did Rotto do a good job, or is he gonna have an early funeral?”
I put my shirt over my shoulder and my other hand in my pocket where my raven feather hid, almost completely spent, and stood perfectly still as the boy looked at my brand-new tattoo. My skin was still a bit red and raw, but you could see it. No foil to cover it up in here, but as luck would have it, I’d be out there by tonight.
“Well? Are you going to talk?” I asked a minute in. The boy was so scared he was practically shaking. He’d told me he just turned seventeen the month before, and that was definitely going to be a problem for him in this place, especially since he’d end up getting the attention of most every predator here by morning. Some were already coming closer to his cell to see the show.
“It’s…I-i-it’s good. He d-d-did a good job,” the kid stuttered, and my smile widened.
“You’re too kind,” I said, turning slightly toward the light and looking down at the tattoo myself. By then, at least two dozen inmates were watching us from barely twenty feet away. “I like it, too. I think Rotto did a great job, and so did you. So, I’m here to give my thanks.”
The boy knew.
He fucking knew what was coming because he could see the sick smile on my face just fine.
“No-no, please,” he whispered, pushing his mousy brown hair to the side. “No thanks needed. P-p-please.”
They put this boy in here with the rest of us?
And they called us monsters.
“Oh, but I think there is. And my mother taught me to always say thank you .” Slowly, I left my shirt over my shoulder and raised my hand toward him. Black flames danced on my fingers, ready to devour the little guy. He was Greenfire, and he could have pulled up a shield to protect himself from me if he were older and stronger and had an anchor, but alas…
“ Please !” Ginger called.
I laughed when I was done whispering my spell, and my magic, black and eager to consume, shot for him.
It looked so much like fire it still surprised me, but it wasn’t. My Blackfire was cold, ice-cold. Death cold, and it consumed the tiny body of the seventeen-year-old boy so fast while he struggled to free himself, to breathe, to get away, all in vain. Guards were on their way, running their sticks against the metal of the bars as they came, as if they were hoping to scare me into backing away.
“ Stop this second! ”
My magic was shutting down the boy’s body fast as the other inmates laughed and stepped in the guards’ way to give me a few more seconds. We all laughed as we watched the light shutting down in the boy’s eyes until he was no longer moving. No longer struggling.
Rot. My magic would rot his flesh—but it was magical rot, so much worse than actual decay. It was contagious, too, one of the worst diseases magic could cause. The pain it came with was no joke, even if it only hit once every couple of weeks.
“I said stop this second, you fucking m?—”
I turned, pulling my hand out of my pocket, my raven feather reduced to ashes.
“Hello, friends. What seems to be the problem here?”
Four guards, all Iridian, watched me like I was scum, worse than the insects they swatted off their lunch boxes every day. They were Bluefires and had their wands raised at me, their magic at the ready, their eyes wide and red as they moved from me and to the boy inside the cell.
“What the hell did you do to him?” the first guard asked, as other inmates gathered at my back. None would attack these guards—we knew what happened if we tried, so nobody would bother. But we did like to try to intimidate them every chance we got, so even if all they were doing was pretending to be on my side, I took it.
“I simply said goodnight,” I said, smiling still. “He fell right asleep—see?” And he’s not going to wake up for a little while…
I turned to the cell again, watching the still body of the boy that only moved slightly when he breathed in.
But the guard wouldn’t have it. He pressed the tip of his wand right in the middle of my new tattoo, and it hurt so badly I almost hissed. As it was, the smile remained on my face even as the other inmates slowly took a step back.
“Get to your cell. Now, ” the guard spit, pressing his wand against me harder until it hurt so much it felt like I was being burned with actual fire.
But I didn’t move. If I moved now, he’d have won. If I stepped away from his wand, away from the pain, there would be hell to pay from him in the future—as well as from the other inmates. That’s the second advice I was given by my visitor—never ever show fear to anyone, no matter the consequence.
So, I remained there, took the pain and molded with it, and I smiled and smiled until the guard had no choice but to step back and take his fucking wand with him.
“He’s just a kid,” he finally spit, and it made my night.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel bad?” I wondered.
Bluefire magic turned up on the tip of his wand. The other guards raised theirs again as well. Every inmate behind me held their breath.
“Are you going to make up your mind now? Should I go, or should I continue this conversation with you, friends? It’s late and I’m tired. What will it be?”
My voice was easy as a feather.
The guards wanted to murder me on the spot.
“Get to your fucking cell,” the first one finally spit, his wide blue eyes eerie under the light of his wand.
I bowed deeply. “Goodnight, friends,” I told them, and I turned around to go to the stairway and the third floor where my cell was. The other inmates made way for me to pass as the guards cursed under their breaths and shouted for everyone to clear the halls and get to bed.
As I climbed the stairs, I looked back to see two of them by the cell of the boy still, looking, never daring to go in. Maybe they really did feel bad for him, those guards.
Didn’t matter, though. Nothing was going to help little Ginger now.
“You’re fucking sick,” said Garret from his cell when I passed him by, a big grin on his face that mirrored mine.
I said nothing, but for a moment there, I imagined how I would take the life out of him in perfect detail. I imagined the tools I’d use, the screams he’d scream, the blood he’d bleed. I imagined it all and I almost felt better when I reached my cell.
Before going in, I put my hands on the cold, dirty metal of the railing, same as always, and looked out at the lounge area and the five floors full of cells built all around it. Not all were used—the Tomb had the capacity to house five hundred of the worst criminals out there. They’d made an attempt to separate us as well as they could, but it didn’t really make a difference. We could all see each other. We couldn’t get out there, but we could do plenty in here. That was the nature of the Tomb—who cared if we killed each other while we waited for death? So long as we didn’t disrupt their precious peace out there, we were fine.
That was all going to change for me tonight, though. I looked up at the fourth floor, at the cells across from mine up there, at the two men holding the railing just like I was doing, looking at me.
They nodded.
I nodded, too.
Then I walked into my cell and closed the door a minute before the magical and electronic locks fell into place at the same time.
Those locks weren’t going to hold me here any longer. Nothing would.
It seemed the Devil had finally found a way to get me out of here for the price that I promised to pay him. I’d been waiting for this night for over three months since I was able to get close enough to him to send word.
And he actually answered.
Our cells were small, six feet wide, including the bed, with nothing more in it but a toilet shell, a sink, and a broken mirror I used for shaving. I threw my black inmate shirt on the bed—mine was an actual mattress with clean sheets that I’d stolen from others—then grabbed the metal box I hid underneath the wooden frame. It was a very big box for what it held inside, but it was the only one I’d found. I unlocked it with a little key I kept in my boot, and I pulled the rusty lid open to find three raven feathers in there—one big, the hairs black and shiny and thick, the other three barely the size of my index finger.
My anchors, charged and ready for use.
We mages have a fifth element that runs in our blood—what we call magic. That same element is everywhere in nature, too. But to use it without something to guide it, keep it compressed and aimed, to simply let it out of ourselves without forethought is dangerous, deadly. Our physical bodies can almost never handle it, and it would open us up to all kinds of magical energies that exist in nature—and other mages.
In most cases it either killed you on the spot or it messed you up for good. That’s why every Iridian, regardless of what coven they belonged to, had what we called anchors— magical objects prepared through simple rituals to draw magic in them, magic that would guide and keep ours compressed and controlled when we used it. Spells were necessary, too—to shape the magic and give it intent. Without spells you had no clue what the magic could do to the world outside or to your own body.
Redfires used gold and precious gems, most as rings; Bluefires used wands; Greenfires used staffs made of spelled wood; and Whitefires used the bones of their deceased.
We Blackfires used the feathers of dead and reincarnated ravens as our anchors, as those hold our magic the most and the longest. Blackfire magic eats through our anchors, like Green and Blue, whereas White and Red can hold onto one anchor for all their lives if they so choose.
We weren’t really allowed to use magic or have anchors in the Tomb, but rules were made to be broken, weren’t they? The feathers in this box were the last ones that my visitor had snuck in that time he came. They’d lasted me the exactly right amount of time, too.
I took one of the smaller feathers first and activated it with three words—spells were usually short for obvious reasons—and I put it in my pocket. I was going to need it if I was to use magic undetected inside the Tomb before I made my escape.
Then I took the bigger feather, one so glossy it looked dipped in oil, with iridescent greens and blues and purples—such pretty colors. I activated it and put it over my pillow, ready for use, just like the Devil asked.
Putting the box away, I then turned and sat in the middle of my bed. With my hands on my knees, I looked at the opposite wall, at the lines I’d engraved with a feather that first night I came here. I sucked at drawing, but I liked to think I’d gotten a few lines of that face right, as well as a few curves of that silky, wavy, golden white hair, the ends of which touched her lower back.
And what I’d lacked in drawing skills, I made up for with my imagination.
The shape of her eyes was exactly right. Sharp, up-tilted, slightly softer than a cat’s. The color of them, that brown that mixed with gold to create a fiery orange, I saw only in my mind’s eye. The nose I’d drawn awfully—hers was smaller, rounder—but the shape of her lips was perfect, just as it was in real life. And the three marks on the right side of her face—one above the arch of her brow, one on the highest point of her cheek right below the outer corner of her eye, and one below the corner of her lip, too. Yes, those I’d gotten exactly right, but the small scratches on the wall that were supposed to be her freckles looked like flies.
The face of the woman who put me where I am today. Who lied, cheated, betrayed me, and I was too obsessed with those fucking freckles to see it coming.
Regardless—the image of her was perfectly clear in my mind, and I thought it was going to be years until I saw her again, maybe even a decade. I was prepared to wait a lifetime for it, too, but my visitor had been right—once again. The Devil could make things happen against all odds, even in the Tomb.
The Devil was going to get me out of here tonight, and then I’d be free. As long as it took me to find her, I would.
My lips stretched and stretched, and my eyes barely blinked.
Finally, my life was going to pick up where it left off. The Tomb was about to drop to two hundred and thirteen inmates again.
I’m coming for you, sweetness.