17 Dáinn
DáINN
Something is wrong. Impossibly, undeniably wrong.
I shouldn’t be here. By here I mean floating in the void, the liminal space between life and everything else.
Most magical beings simply pass through, treating the void as little more than a veil.
Demons from the underworld, spirits from the ghostly plane.
The void is not for staying. The void is for transition.
But I am a wraith. I could live in the void forever if I wished, floating in the endless nothing. It’s peaceful here. Dark and quiet. A place where a creature can really think.
I love the void, but I’m not supposed to be here.
This isn’t how the magic works. From the moment Ludmilla clapped this iron chain around my neck, I’ve been bound to her, a resentful ship tied to its wicked mooring.
It’s been one hundred and seventy-two years, six months, three days, one hour, and ten minutes .
. . not that I’m counting seconds too. The only taste of freedom I get is when she offers me a name.
The haunt buys me more time outside my cage, for the haunt requires patience and watchful eyes.
During a haunt, I get to live a little. I get to follow my marks to curious places.
Sometimes we even go to bookshops and cafés.
I love cafés. The Romans knew what they were doing with their thermopolia.
But modern cafés are nice too. I love the sound of coffee beans when they grind. And I love sprinkles on donuts.
Sometimes on a haunt I get to ride on trains and feel the rain.
With Jasper Prescott I got to breathe deep the scent of cherry wood as I watched him build furniture.
The witch has beautiful hands, devastating in their artistry.
I don’t know why he wastes his time making soap when it bores him so.
To watch his aura as he crafts wood is to know a soul at peace.
A haunt can last for days, weeks—whatever Ludmilla needs before deciding whether my mark lives or dies. She usually picks death.
And then my freedom ends.
Gods, I was such a fool. I wasted so much time.
As an immortal, I sometimes forget that time matters.
For weeks she had me haunting Jasper, watching his every move.
The witch is so precious, so stuck in his routines.
I know his taste in music now, his preference for tea.
Black in the mornings with a pinch of salt for purification and a dab of honey for sweetness.
Herbal teas at night. Never coffee. He shaves his face left to right.
How many times did I press in behind him at his mirror, watching each gentle stroke of the razor?
He keeps his boots by the back door, not the front.
He never uses his front door. My sweet witch. My clever, lonely one.
Then the one weekend Ludmilla pulls me away to haunt a few crooked policemen, something interesting finally happens!
Jasper changed his routine. He let a new human onto his island and into his shop, his precious inner sanctum.
A human with an aura more dazzling than any I’ve ever seen.
A human who can stop a wraith from devouring souls.
It’s impossible. This isn’t how the magic works. I’m not supposed to be here! When I finish a job, Ludmilla pulls on my chain and I’m jerked into the void, ripped through space and time, lured back to her side.
“Is it done?” she always asks in that imperious tone.
“Yes,” I reply with a subservient nod.
“Good.”
Then back in my cage I go, doomed to wait for my next assignment. I have no choice but to do her bidding. That is the magic of a forced bond. Yet here I wait, floating in the endless void. There is no tug on my chain. My mistress isn’t luring me back.
Holy fucking fuck.
Is she dead? I always thought I would feel something in the moment the wretched witch finally expired. After all my years of suffering, it’s rather anticlimactic to think she could be killed and I wouldn’t feel a thing, not even a shiver of discomfort, a single mewling yelp of pain.
Taking a deep, rattling breath, I focus on the only part of me that doesn’t feel empty. I reach for that weighted anchor chain that is our bond, thick with barnacles and slimy algae. I give the chain the slightest of tugs, testing the resistance. The iron collar at my throat instantly tightens.
Still alive then, rotten whore?
All at once I’m gasping, panic filling me as she tugs back.
Hard. This is the sensation I was waiting for.
I’m ripped through the void, tossed like a leaf on the churning rapids.
As soon as the feeling starts, it ends. My shadows pool around me, wrapping me up safe as I press myself from the void, appearing before my mistress.
I glance quickly around. We’re alone in the first-floor study of her manor at Raven Watch.
It’s a sumptuously furnished room, with leather armchairs and a deep sofa.
A handsomely carved desk rests between two velvet-curtained windows along the far wall, while a fire crackles in the hearth to my left.
It’s a warm summer evening for such a blaze, but Ludmilla has always liked to watch things burn.
An antique gramophone sits on a stand in the corner, playing soft music.
My mistress stands before the hearth, a glass of willow water in her hand.
Her aura dances around her like shadows in the depths of a forest, all deep green, and brown, and grey.
It always puts me in mind of a wolf watching me from between the trees, ready to strike.
Swirling the ice in her cocktail glass with her olive stick, she looks to me, her warm brown eyes tracing the outline of my cowled face.
Ludmilla Latchko is a beautiful witch. Well, I should say she has the appearance of beauty.
Immortal beings don’t feel the effects of time, but Ludmilla only grasps for immortality.
She clings to me like a parasite, draining my life force.
That is what this bond truly means for her.
It’s a way to prolong her wretched life.
That she can use me as an assassin is simply a bonus.
It’s my immortality she wants most. Without it, she ages.
You’d never know it to look at her now. Her concealment spells are almost as good as her illusion charms. The face she shows the world is one of a sophisticated woman in her mid-thirties.
Deepest loathing boils in the pit of my empty chest as I take in her long, chestnut hair.
Tonight, it’s swept into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck.
Her shapely back and shoulders are exposed by her revealing dress.
The French cream silk drapes around her neck, flowing down her body like liquid, ending in soft folds at her feet.
A pair of emerald earrings glow at her ears, catching the flickering of the dancing fire.
The matching pendant at her neck has an emerald the size of a chicken egg.
It’s cushioned by rubies and black diamonds.
“Is it done?” she asks, her voice soft as a bell.
Panic fills me. As much as I hate her, I’ve never lied to her.
I’ve never needed to before tonight. But then, I’ve never failed before either.
Jasper Lyons Prescott still lives. If I say yes, she’ll send me back to my iron cage.
Who knows when she’ll let me out again? How long can I bear to go without seeing them again? Without tasting their beautiful souls?
But if I say no, she’ll punish me. She’ll investigate. She’ll make me tell her about the human. There’s no way Ludmilla will let her live. And Jasper, my sweet, lonely witch . . . will she send me back to finish him?
No. She won’t trust me with it. Ludmilla never gives second chances. She’ll handle them both herself. My anger bristles as I stare her down. Jasper and the human are mine. Their souls belong to me. Ludmilla cannot have them.
She arches a brow, plucking a gin-soaked olive from the end of her little cocktail skewer with her teeth. “Well, wraith? Is he dead?”
“Yes,” I rasp, lowering my gaze to the richly woven rug. I wait, soft jazz filling the room.
“Good.”
I wait another agonizing minute but . . . nothing. No fire and brimstone. No pain. No torture. I just lied to my mistress. I can lie. Jasper Lyons Prescott isn’t dead.
She waves her hand dismissively and I let myself be brushed away.
Fading back into the void, I reappear inside my iron cage.
Locked deep within the vaults of Raven Watch, my only company are the teetering piles of antique furniture and crated paintings that clutter this storage room.
My cage is perched in the corner farthest from the door.
I can’t even see it from here, not with all the piles of stuff.
The only creature comfort in my cage is a solitary bookshelf.
Every decade or so, Ludmilla lets me change out the books.
“Hello, my darlings,” I rasp, brushing a bony finger over the spines of each tome on the middle shelf.
History and mystery, as well as a few outrageous works of science fiction. My only friends, my one escape.
This will be fine. She’ll let me out again soon, I can feel it. When she does, I’ll go back to them. I’ll find them and claim them.
I look to the bars that surround me. In the first years of my captivity, I did everything to test them. Futile. There is no escape.
But this is a night of extraordinary firsts . . .
I thought I couldn’t stop devouring a soul once a name was given. Tonight, I stopped. I thought I would be pulled back to my mistress when the job was done but I wasn’t. I had to be the one to tug on the bond first.
Is it possible? Do I dare hope?
Taking a deep, rattling breath, I slowly extend my hand, pushing it against the wall of my cage. I should meet resistance right about . . . here.
I choke on a gasp as my hand passes right between the iron bars. No resistance. Surging forward, I slip my whole body through. My shadows swirl with excitement, curling about me as I turn, looking back at the empty cage.
Chaos on a cracker, I’m free. The cage can’t hold me.
How is this happening?
My mind races as I piece it together as best I can, this night of incredible firsts.
Ludmilla sent me to devour Jasper Prescott .
. . but I didn’t. I was stopped by his human.
Jasper Prescott is supposed to be dead. That was the job, the magical contract forged between me and my mistress when she gave me his name.
When a job is finished, I go back inside my cage to wait for the next job.
But the job isn’t finished. Jasper Prescott still lives.
Oh, Holy Hera, that’s it!
Jasper lives. Which means the job isn’t done.
And as long as the job isn’t done, I’m still technically on it.
The cage can’t hold me while I’m on a job.
Nothing can. Wraiths are meant to be limitless.
No magic can constrain us, no wards. We go where we want, roaming any realm.
How can we complete a job if there are limitations?
Jasper Lyons Prescott lives, so I’m free. As long as he stays living, I get to stay free.
That’s it, I’m fucking dancing. I may not have legs, but that won’t stop me. Raising both hands above my head, I wave my arms, swaying with abandon next to the cage that has long been my prison.
What will I do with my newfound freedom?
I drop my arms to my sides, staring intently at the bars of my cage. Rage churns within me, but there is a new emotion there. It’s fragile, like the soft bud of a flower blooming too early in spring. Hope is the wrong word. I’m calling this anticipation.
There’s only one thing I want: Ludmilla Latchko dead.
Free of my cage, I’m finally free to act. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for these last one hundred and seventy-two years. I’ve had a long time to plot Ludmilla’s demise. I can’t kill her myself, of course. The magic of the bond won’t allow it. I can’t harm her in any way. I can’t even try.
But I can help someone else do it . . .
And sweet gods of vengeance, do I have plans. All I need is a willing champion, the one who will bring me my justice at last.
Jasper.
I sigh with longing. It’s so obvious to me now. This truly is a night of glorious firsts. A rare night. A fated night. And fate doesn’t make mistakes. The stars all shine in perfect alignment, pointing me to my destiny, to the sweetest, loneliest witch with the golden delicious aura.
Jasper could do it. He offered to help me tonight. As I ate his soul, he said he would free me of the ties that bind. Did he mean it? He’s a powerful witch, his magic deep-rooted and ancient. He’s strong. Determined. Yes, it must be him.
I’ll go to him directly and plead my case.
Never mind that all I can think about is tasting him again, devouring his soul until he’s nothing but an empty husk.
I will resist. I must. Hunger doesn’t have to make me a glutton.
A wraith can be hungry and not eat. I’ve done it before.
This is far more important than hunger. This is my freedom at stake.
After nearly two hundred years of misery, I could live to see Ludmilla die.
But I have to think this through. Who knows how long this freedom will last?
Ludmilla is bound to notice Jasper isn’t dead, right?
Whatever she wants on Burr Island, she’ll get it.
Jasper and his coven are clearly in her way.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she sends me to kill off every member.
With them all dead, perhaps the wards protecting the island will finally fall. Then Ludmilla can take what she wants.
No, Jasper Prescott needs to be dead . . . even while he still lives. That’s the puzzle I must solve. Tonight. Now.
And I can’t do this alone. There’s only one being I can trust to help me. After all these years, he might not be too happy to see me again. But I have no choice. Any minute of this freedom could be my last. I can’t waste it.
Ludmilla Latchko is finally going to die. Perhaps not by my hand, but I intend to be there when it happens. And I intend to help my avenger every step of the way. With one last look at my iron cage, resolve burns within me as I let myself fade into the void.