Chapter Eight
In my early centuries, I learned making clandestine deals with shadow hags is a terrible idea. If I had more time, I would have other options, but the truth of the matter is, I’m desperate.
I need answers, and I need them now.
When Ylara suggested we track down the one she knew to be lurking in the lower layers of the Tower, I nearly laughed in her face. There’s no way Netharis would allow a shadow hag residency within his walls. But when she stared at me, silent, it became clear she wasn’t joking.
Mercurial creatures at best, vindictive and greedy at worst, shadow hags are an ancient breed of demon, unbound, Unhoused, and treacherous. They’re too much of a wild card, following their own set of rules and skirting the choler of the gods.
Many tend to hide within the veil, a godless realm with an abundance of fresh souls for them to feed upon. Why one would hide in the hells, so close to Netharis, is beyond me. All it would take is for Netharis to catch her scent and he would trap her in obsidian.
Netharis prefers to have control over what information from and about the hells makes it to the living realm, and shadow hags are essentially information brokers. They’ll share anything they know for the right price.
Typically, that price is paid in souls.
Two elder souls should more than suffice for the information I need.
Shadow hags are one of the few creatures capable of travel between the hells, the veil, and the living realm. It makes sense to ask one how I can do the same. I’m not fond of the idea of bartering with one, but I’ve little other choice.
Sucking in a sharp breath, the stench of decay and stagnant water stings my nose, and I grimace as Ylara and I trudge through ankle deep mud and rot.
I don’t make a habit of visiting these lower levels. They’re a breeding ground for lesser demons. Creatures like imps, nubeculai, and whisper demons—prompting the use of a mental ward—run rampant here. While they’re not much of a threat, the fewer eyes we have on us, the better.
The silver light cast by the magelight I’d summoned floats several feet ahead, illuminating the wide black marble hall as we press forward.
Unlike the near sterile clean of the halls of the greater echelon floors of the library, dormitories, and throne room, these layers are a more accurate portrayal of the hells.
Obscene and filthy, slow decaying corpses litter the hall, some stacked in mounds I’m forced to move around. They’re the bodies of necromancers who have failed to return to the living realm during an excursion into this realm for souls.
Stepping over a strange collection of left arms, I peer into the darkness beyond the magelight.
Aside from our slow, squelching steps, the hall lies silent and somber.
The muck forces us to move at a slow pace, neither of us wanting to misstep and injure ourselves or find ourselves face to face with a demon who’s decided to skip this evening’s hunt.
My innate vibrates with anticipation, sending a shiver down my spine and along my arms. It likes being here even less than I do.
“You’re sure it’s this layer?” I ask in a whisper, but even that sounds loud against the stark silence.
Walking beside me, Ylara nods. “She’s always here. It’s just a matter of finding where she’s set up for the night. She never stays in the same place for more than a day.”
I purse my lips in annoyance.
Not only a dangerous target but a moving one as well.
Great.
“Sunshine has hidden in the hells for nearly twelve centuries,” Ylara says, and I glance at my sister through the corner of my eyes. She stares at the darkness before her, searching for any sign of unwelcome visitors.
“The hag’s name is Sunshine?” I mutter the question.
Stifling a small laugh, Ylara smiles. “Yes. Sunshine. You’ll understand when you see her.”
“How do you know this hag?” I ask, knowing gods damned well Ylara isn’t going to give me a straight answer.
She hesitates. “I wouldn’t say I know her.”
And here comes her lie. I smirk.
“But I have bartered with her before,” she follows with a short, nervous laugh as if she’s just admitted to something embarrassing.
I admit, it’s not the lie I was expecting.
“I won’t ask what for, or why, or when, or even how often. But I will tell you Netharis will find out, and when he does, you can expect both you and Sunshine to spend time in obsidian,” I say in a firm tone, and she gives me a tight nod.
He’d lock them in obsidian after bursting into hellfire with his rage. Knowing Netharis, I’ll be blamed for Ylara’s involvement with a shadow hag too—after all, he left her in my care as my ward. Nine hundred years span between us in age, and sometimes I feel she’s older than I.
As we turn a corner, a series of flickering, red orbs outside the sphere of light come into view.
Souls.
Weak ones at that.
Narrowing my eyes against the magelight to see beyond it, the souls are bound to one another, their red glow highlights a thin tendril of black wrapped around them, stringing them together.
They’re being herded.
My eyes shoot wide with the realization.
“Necromancer,” I breathe, stopping my feet. Ylara follows suit, freezing beside me.
While certain necromancers are welcome in the Tower to collect souls, being spotted by one is exactly what I don’t need. There’s a high chance this necromancer is a House patriarch of Cerwiden, the sister continent of Eldoterra. And if so, he’ll hold a contract with Netharis.
Netharis cannot learn Ylara and I have been down here.
With a nervous glance, my sister looks over her shoulder. “Should we go around another way?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“No.” I shake my head.
Crooking my fingers with the needed runes to command the magelight, it vanishes, and darkness swallows us.
“We wait,” I whisper, and Ylara’s hand grabs mine.
It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the only light in the hall coming from the weak glow of the souls ahead. With feet firmly planted, every muscle in my body tenses as I prepare for the possibility of being discovered.
I may have to kill a necromancer.
I fixate on the chain of souls, watching them closely.
For the time being, the orbs are oblivious to the two Death Bringers standing twenty feet away in the shadows.
An eternity passes before the sound of shuffling feet and clinking glass through the muck and grime echoes down the corridor.
Finally, the necromancer emerges from the hall on the left, just beyond the souls, their red light washing over him.
He pitches at the waist, picking up the loose end of the tether and straightens himself, giving me a clear view of his face.
A dark fae.
Undoubtedly a Cerwiden House patriarch.
His face is blackened by an abundance of Malbolge runes, and his eyes glow red as they search the hall.
Silver hair cascades over his shoulder, pulled into a single thick braid decorated with tiny gold trinkets.
Matching gold omen charms hang around his neck.
They rest against his exposed chest where his House brand lies inked over his heart.
Lord of Blood, it reads.
He wears deep crimson robes, held at the waist with a wide leather belt from which several small glass jars hang on his left. Each containing some kind of herb or poison, I’m sure. Perhaps even dried fingers, a necessary item for entry into the hells.
His eyes narrow as they sweep the hall, sweep over me, and despite being well hidden in the dark, outside of the light of the souls, I feel seen. Ylara’s grip tightens; she feels it too.
If I had a beating heart, it would be thundering wildly right now.
“Make yourself known, demon,” he demands, his voice deep and full of a resonating power that dances along my spine. His hand falls to the dagger at his waist. “These souls are claimed,” he adds firmly.
A moment of silence passes, and his face settles into a scathing scowl. He takes a deep breath and a few steps forward, pushing past the souls.
“Not simply a demon,” he says as he withdraws his dagger. “A Death Bringer who stalks from the shadows.”
Ylara shifts beside me, and instinctively my grip grows iron clad around her hand causing her to freeze. If forced from hiding, it should be me to face the necromancer, not Ylara.
Releasing her, I move forward into the light. The necromancer’s face turns into a sanguine smile.
“I do not seek you or your souls, necromancer,” I say, willing confidence and authority into my voice. “I am simply waiting for you to leave. I’ve no business with you.”
A dark, ominous laugh fills the space between us, echoing down the corridor as he sheathes his weapon. “I thought your scent was familiar,” he says with a knowing grin, his voice low. “You must be Vaelyn’s twin.”
I shouldn’t be surprised he knows Vaelyn, but I fight to keep the surprise from my face. Vaelyn has a way of networking with powerful figures, and it seems this necromancer is important enough to know. And clearly, they’re familiar enough for Vaelyn to share about his twin.
“Do not forget who you’re addressing, mortal,” I reply, my voice cold as our eyes meet.
The necromancer immediately lowers his eyes and sweeps into a deep bow. “Forgive me, Vessel of Death. I meant no offense. I am honored to meet yet another within House Netharis.”
He straightens himself, a warm smile on his face. “Cenviri Shadowspire of House Cenviri.”
My brows raise slightly. Not simply a House patriarch, but the dominating House Patriarch.
I hesitate in giving him my name. There’s a lot of power in knowing a demon’s name, especially for a dark fae House Patriarch.
Not wanting to raise further suspicion, I reluctantly return his greeting. “Vestaris Moonshadow of House Netharis.” I say but do not bow.
Demons don’t bow to mortals.
Perhaps now isn’t an appropriate time to test the use of my fae family name. At the same time, what harm could it possibly bring?