“Luna!”
Nigel dropped the Dire-torch to sputter on the stone floor, casting weird red lights across the black walls of the chamber. The much-too-small chamber. The closed-in, claustrophobic, tomblike chamber.
“Oh, Luna! Luna, talk to me!” Falling to his knees before her, Nigel whipped off the gas mask and took her face between his hands, his fingers tense as he lifted her chin from her chest and pushed back snarls of limp hair.
A wild storm of emotion threatened to overcome him, and he pressed his forehead against hers, breathing raggedly.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, the words spitting with pain through his teeth.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my dear, my dearest girl.
I came as soon as I could. Oh, Luna, dear heart, can you hear me? ”
His trembling fingertips felt for a pulse.
He knew it would be there, of course—the Brotherhood would not allow her to die, no matter how severe her panic got.
But how could they keep her in a space like this?
Could they not see her terror? Had they no compassion in their heartless souls?
Had they left her in here, screaming in panic, until she fainted from sheer stress?
But no. Now that he looked, Nigel found many sorcerous workings surrounding her, including a subduing spell to knock her unconscious.
Good. As much as he hated it, perhaps it meant she was never aware of this dark and dreadful cell.
He also found indications of siphoned essential energies.
Mortimer would have needed those for the creation of such a lifelike simulacrum.
There was another spell as well. Something he did not recognize in the moment.
But he didn’t have time to work it out just now.
His gaze scanned from her face down to her huddled body. They’d taken her clothes. Everything but her delicate white slip. Even her stockings and shoes were removed. They hadn’t taken any chances when they dressed that simulacrum to take her place.
A rush of raw fury boiled up in Nigel’s soul.
How dare they? How dare those monsters lay hands on her, stripping her, leaving her nearly-naked and defenseless?
How dare they dishonor and sully her, how dare they lay these hideous spells upon her?
The temptation was strong to call down that last incendiary spell here and now, to obliterate all Nocturnus and its inhabitants!
But no. He had to get Luna out. He had to get her to safety.
Dragging another agonized inhale, Nigel forced himself to check her for other injuries.
There was a bad cut on her forehead, and, once again, he had to fight the surge of vengeance in his gut.
They seemed to have treated it at least—there was a bit of ointment and a small plaster.
He would clean it himself once he had her to safety. First things first, however.
He ran his hands up the chains clutching her slender wrists. A few tugs told him he would never have the strength to pull them from the wall, not without the aid of sorcery. But, hold on! Blackmere was most likely coming down here to fetch her. Which meant . . .
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, stroking her cheek with the backs of two fingers. He hated to leave her side even for a moment, even for a breath. He swallowed thickly. “Hold on. I’m getting you out of here.”
With that, he hastened back out into the passage where Blackmere continued to sit with his back to the wall, shuddering, a bomb stuck between his teeth.
He hadn’t spat it out, at least, probably fearing it would shatter.
In his state of shock, he wouldn’t have the defenses to protect himself from the severmist. Nigel couldn’t see much, having left the Dire-torch inside, but he felt around inside the man’s black robes until he found what he sought: an old-fashioned, iron keyring.
Very gothic, very villainous. Very in keeping with the aesthetic.
“Hmmm mmmm mmmph!” Blackmere whimpered.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Nigel replied, patting him gently on the cheek—too gently to break the crystal, but just firmly enough to be a threat. Then he returned to the cell.
Within moments, he’d unfastened the shackles.
Luna slumped forward. Nigel caught her in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder, and he breathed in her honeysuckle-and-vanilla scent.
A scent which no simulacrum could possibly mimic.
Not without weeks of drinking the same auspicious tea every morning, like a ritual.
Nigel closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Allowing this moment, at least, to be full of rightness. She was alive. She was in his arms. He’d got her.
And now, he was going to get her out.
With some awkward maneuvering, Nigel slipped one arm under her legs, the other around her back, and rose to his feet.
She was so light, even after all his efforts to fatten her up these last few months.
The siphoning of her essential energies hadn’t helped with that either.
How fragile she felt in his arms, like she was going to fall apart and float away.
The thought made him tighten his grip protectively.
Leaving the Dire-torch where it lay, Nigel stepped toward the cell door. Just as he reached it, however, voices erupted down the passage. One in particular called out echoingly: “Oi, Blackmere! Where are you, old bean?”
Nigel’s blood chilled. Whether it was the same eight sorcerers he’d poisoned or another cluster come from a different set of summoning cells, it hardly mattered. They were on their way. Searching for Blackmere and the prisoner he’d been commissioned to fetch.
“Damn,” Nigel growled and stepped back into the cell, pushing the door shut with his foot.
Of course, there was no lock on the inside.
He gritted his teeth. With his powers reduced to such dangerously low levels, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to control or support the spell he had in mind.
He’d hoped to carry her back to one of the summoning cells, where at least the sigils might have offered her some protection.
But he was just going to have to risk it.
Unwilling to put Luna down, he carefully set her feet on the ground and held her body supported against him.
Using his free arm, he first drew energy from the nearest source—which happened to be Percival Blackmere, sitting outside the door.
He heard the sorcerer yelp with pain, but he was in no position to fight the draining, and Nigel spared him no sympathy.
He took what he needed, braced himself, then swiftly exchanged the energy of this world for that of the Dire.
Immediately, the severmist in his system rose up in reaction.
It was still there, still searing, still agony beyond reason.
It shocked every nerve, burning and slicing simultaneously.
A ripple from the brainstem down through his spine and every extremity.
But it was no longer as strong as it had been last night or the night before. He could endure it. He must.
Nearly dropping Luna, Nigel staggered, found his footing.
Failure was not an option. They had one shot at escape, and he would not let her suffer for his ineptitude.
Fighting through torturous shocks, he shaped the sigil, refusing to let his shaking hand make a hash of the delicate working.
The magic pulsed out from him, and sparks of anti-light and weird colors ripped a seam in reality.
The shadows in the cell went dark and wibbly-wobbly as a portal to the Void yawned.
A Dire Demon approached.
There was a time when Nigel had commanded a demon of tremendous power, which he had ensorcelled to his will.
Drakthul the Abysswalker, it was called, a mighty entity of malice, whose very name induced madness in weaker minds.
But Nigel had broken off the association when he gave up his Dark Sorcerer persona.
Now, like any lowly practicing sorcerer, he had to risk whatever demon happened to show up at his call, great or small.
Hopefully this one would be great enough to accomplish his purpose.
Hopefully he’d have strength enough to command it, despite the pain shooting through every vein.
A hulk of darkness moved through the horrors of the Dire Dimensions.
Rippling waves of shadow, burning lantern eyes.
Fangs like honed swords, flashing red in the light of the Dire-torch.
A monstrous being, a malicious spirit, which sat upon the edge of the opening, curled its tail about its great front paws, and blinked at Nigel through half-lidded eyes.
It began to purr.
“Gronk Cat,” Nigel gasped.
In the same moment, voices erupted just outside the cell:
“Blackmere!”
“What happened, old boy?”
“Watch out, that’s severmist he’s got!”
They were officially out of time.
Lunging forward, Nigel tossed Luna up onto the demon cat’s broad back before gripping handfuls of silky fur and pulling himself up behind her.
He held her close against him, one arm wrapped tight around her middle.
“Gronk Cat!” he cried, even as the portal began to close, even as the cell door began to open, even as the first of the Brotherhood spilled through, defensive sigils raised. “Gronk Cat, carry us to . . .”
He hesitated. They needed somewhere protected. Somewhere with wards in place, strong enough to keep out Dark Sorcerers, even if only temporarily.
And the thought flashed through Nigel’s head: They kept her safe for nearly twenty years. Surely there are some powerful warding spells still in effect.
“Carry us to Tealeaf Cottage in the Crimble Mountains,” he commanded.
The portal snapped shut, cutting them off in the cacophony and chaos of the Void.