Chapter 1
Gaetano
Ten years later
On occasion, even I’m compelled to enter a church. I loathe such days. I detest the hymns, the rituals, the relentless devotion. They reek of desperation, of a futile hope that light might shield one from the inevitable darkness.
That is to say, from me.
My presence in a church invites comparisons—to the devil, to a demon, and to dozens of lesser beings, well below my level.
I wander through the shadows and command the darkness. I feed on fear and warp the very fabric of the realm. I’m a witcher—a creature priests whisper about as they pray to a god who never answers.
And yet, here I am again, beneath domed ceilings and painted visions of paradise, surrounded by candles and symbols. The air is thick with the scent of incense, an attempt to create an atmosphere of purity and sanctity. By its very nature, this place denies my existence.
Amusing, isn’t it?
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I command thee to depart from this sacred ground! Begone, unclean demon, thou who defies the will of God! The light of Christ compels thee! By the power of Heaven and the authority of the Church, I cast thee out. Thy hold upon this soul is broken!”
Despite the terror twisting his features, the priest advances toward the shadowed corner where he believes I lurk.
The silver cross gleams in his outstretched hand, and the Bible shakes in his grip.
“Begone from this world, unclean spirit! Your time here has ended. You are nothing before the glory of the Almighty! In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to depart!”
I sigh.
Summoning my physical form, I appear behind him.
The priest, engrossed in his fervent exorcism of an imaginary specter, remains unaware of my presence.
My harvest, however, sits hunched over on a pew, head buried in his hands, as if ignoring the horrors around him might grant him salvation.
His muffled sobs echo through the vast chamber.
I take a few languid steps beneath the grand dome, where celestial murals watch over me with their vacant, painted faces.
The sacred energy of this place weaves through the threads of my dark magic, a futile battle of opposing forces.
The lamps quiver—once, twice—then surrender to darkness.
The candle flames waver, their glow fading, until nothing remains but the lingering scent of wax and incense.
Silence falls. It swallows the priest’s prayers and the whimpers of my harvest.
The click of my boots against the wooden floorboards is the only sound. A low hum coils beneath my skin like a whisper of static.
“He’s here…” My harvest’s words are a tremor in the dark.
He can’t see me. But I see him.
A silhouette trembling. A heartbeat pounding. A vessel bursting with fear.
A thrill courses through me, sharp and intoxicating. In a moment, I’ll be one step closer to my liberation.
I let the silence stretch and the apprehension mount. The suffocating weight of the unknown usually crushes them before I speak.
“Oh, God…” The priest exhales.
I smile in the darkness. “It’s not God, Father, but Gaetano.”
The shadows ripple around me. They writhe and extend like sentient tendrils. The very walls seem to close in, pressing inward with every breath I take. An illusion. But only I know that.
My harvest’s whimpers grow into ragged, incoherent sobs. The priest drops both his Bible and his cross and bolts for the door.
The hollow click-clack of my boots resumes.
I approach my harvest and crouch in front of him. “It’s time, Bobby.”
His lips tremble open, no doubt to plead.
The magic burns low and steady in my chest, crawling through my veins until it reaches my fingertips.
It rises from my heart and draws strength directly from his fear.
This is dark magic, the kind few still living dare to wield.
Unfortunately for Bobby, I’m one of them.
I steal his voice with a flick of magic. His words die in his throat until only terror remains on his face.
I never listen to their prayers.
It’s either me or them. That’s the single rule I’ve followed for the past five centuries.
Tonight, it’s Bobby.
He recoils as I press my palm against his shoulder, and the cold tendrils of my magic seep into his flesh.
A scream festers in his throat, but I don’t allow it to escape.
A dark sphere forms at the center of his chest It’s my magic, corrosive and ravenous.
It pulses in sync with his weakening heartbeat.
Spreading, creeping, devouring. His eyeballs roll back into his skull.
And then, a scream erupts, but not from his lips.
It’s from his soul. The sound rips through the church as I tear his soul from his body.
It writhes between my fingers, translucent and unstable.
Bobby’s body slackens, the flesh dissolving into threads of dark crimson that dissipate into the void.
They’re carried away by magic to where all the husks—what remains of my harvests after I take their living essence—are discarded.
I summon a portal with a mere twitch of my hand. The chasm yawns open before me; its eerie outline glows in the desecrated chamber.
But the spectacle is already over.
I cross the threshold of the portal, Bobby’s soul clutched in my grasp. The stone floors of my castle greet us. The disoriented soul slams into the wooden furniture, ricochets off the ceiling, until it collapses onto the ground, quivering. A scene I have seen play out too many times before.
“Welcome home, Bobby.”
I stand facing the wall. Covering its entire surface are numbers—one to three hundred—etched into stone in precise, methodical columns, each carved with obsessive, almost ritualistic care. Many are already crossed out, their lines deep and definitive.
My focus drifts over the sequence, past the faded reminders of previous harvests. I find 289. With a snap of my fingers, magic slashes through the inscribed numbers. The mark glows for a moment, then settles into a deep, irreversible void.
My eyes land on the next number in the sequence: 290.