Beginning #3
And where did this transmatterportation spell lead? The nest of the Brotherhood, perhaps? If Nigel were foolish enough to follow, what would happen?
He grinned nastily. What would happen would be a bloodbath.
Nigel lifted his bottle, pausing to give it a little shake.
The sad sloshing sound inside betrayed how very little remained.
Would it be enough to take down the Brotherhood?
Well, that would depend entirely on how many of them there were.
None of them could equal him for sorcerous mastery, he was certain (though, a reasonable part of him protested, he wouldn’t be the first Dark Sorcerer to think this).
But by dint of sheer numbers alone, they might overwhelm him, especially if this messy little spell was left on purpose to lure him into their midst. This could very easily be a trap.
And none of the Brotherhood were crippled by a Sovereign Troth.
Well, troth or not, he was still the Grimshade Lord. Sure, he’d told Luna that version of himself was dead and buried, but, honestly, does the darkness of one’s heart ever truly die? Is it not always lurking, waiting for a convenient moment of resurrection?
This was that moment. That moment when he would sell what was left of his wicked soul for the sake of the woman he loved.
She may never know what he’d sacrificed for her.
That didn’t matter. As long as, after tonight, she could walk this world free and safe, choosing the life she wanted for herself.
Maybe she would marry Ward the Wardsman.
And have half-a-dozen dashing, muscular, green-eyed little boys.
The idea made him sick. But as long as she was happy . . .
“That’s all that matters,” Nigel whispered. He straightened his shoulders and cast back the hood of his dressing gown, coming suddenly back into full visibility. He motioned sharply to the houndsnose. “Get back,” he commanded. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The little blossom cowered away to the far end of the alley and sat on leafy haunches, watching with interest. Its stamen flopped like a panting tongue.
Nigel poured out five drops of Dire Matter over the place where the previous transmatterportation spell was drawn.
Raw power shimmered in the atmosphere, ready for him to manipulate as he willed.
He set to work drawing a pentagram sigil, tracing the lines with care.
No sloppy spellwork here, no indeed. He would catch hold of the previous spell, zero in on its coordinates, and land himself in precisely the same place as the previous sorcerer.
He’d need to be prepared to put up some sort of defensive shield immediately upon arrival, so he poured an extra drop of Dire Matter into his left palm.
Then he stood in the center of the pentagram.
At the houndsnose’s whine, he cast it a quick glance.
“Well, my friend,” he said, “this is it. If I do not return, tell Debbie to lock up Garden and lose the key. And if you see her, tell Miss Talbot . . .” His throat suddenly squeezed, trying to close up.
He swallowed painfully. “That is, I would like her to know . . .”
Another tightening and a threat of something that felt like a sob. But he had no time for such foolish, feeble emotions! Grimshade Lords didn’t get the luxury of soppiness.
“Never mind,” he said, growling the words. “Don’t tell her anything. It’s probably best if she forgets all about me anyway.”
He looked down at his sigil. Stretching out his right hand—while keeping his left firmly clenched around that drop of Dire Matter—he extended his sorcerous power to activate the magic. His tongue began to form the words of the strange, damned language of ancient days, and then—
Fire.
Slicing.
Stabbing.
Constricting horror, squeezing each cell of his physical frame tighter and tighter.
An explosion of cataclysmic pain, cascading through every facet of body and soul.
Oh gods.
Oh gods, he’d thought he’d purged out all the severmist!
He’d thought he was over it! But no. It was still there, still lurking in his blood, in his veins.
And the instant he called upon the Dire, the instant he sought to perform the channeling of soul and darkness, the poison did what it was meant to do.
It canceled out everything in a single, shut-down burst.
A strangled cry gagging on his lips, Nigel sank to his knees.
His head thrown back, his jaw clenched tight, and every muscle in his body tensed and locked.
He could not voice a second cry. Nothing would come out of his straining throat but a pathetic, gurgling noise.
A little bubbling of purple foam trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Then he collapsed to his side, smearing the sigil he’d taken such pains to draw. He felt the Dire Matter droplets evaporating slowly, uselessly, and his tunnel vision closed down on the image of the houndsnose leaping toward him, petals fluttering with concern.
Wow, he thought almost idly. What a stupid way to die.
Then everything went black.