Chapter 57 Lucian
Lucian
The device waits where it always does.
Hidden behind wards and silence, in the innermost chamber of my office, it rests upon a pedestal of black stone—ancient, patient, and hungry.
I produce the communication device I use to contact and speak with other Dons of the Shadow Realm—a shallow silver basin, etched with sigils of binding so old they predate the Syndicates themselves.
The metal is cold beneath my fingers—colder than steel—colder than bone.
The runes along its rim pulse faintly, responding to my presence, to the power that coils inside me like a living thing.
Into it I pour the black water, drawn from the Wells of Night.
The liquid smokes as it hits the metal, shadows writhing like snakes. The air thickens immediately, heavy with ozone and grave-dust and the copper tang of blood magic forced awake. The chamber dims, the walls seeming to recede as if reality itself is stepping back to make room.
I step forward, pressing my hand to the rim.
Power surges through me—sharp and burning—mingling with the magical tether that bridges the Syndicates. It is not a gentle thing—just like the Crimson Eye, it claws through my veins, stoking the embers of my Blood Lust and reminding me of everything I am and everything I must keep leashed.
The water ripples and darkens until a skull-faced visage rises to the surface.
Bone-white, antlered, and hollow-eyed, Don Malthus appears.
I do not waste time.
“What in the Underworld do you think you’re doing, sending one of your fiends to Soul-mark a guest under my roof?” I demand, my voice cold with fury.
The skull tilts slightly. When he shrugs, it is accompanied by the soft sound of bones clacking together.
“I am simply claiming my own Curvy Queen.” His deep, quiet voice holds no remorse.
Rage detonates inside me, hot and violent enough that the basin trembles.
“How dare you send an emissary into the territory of another Don to take what is not rightfully yours?” I growl.
“And how is what I did any different from the way you took your own Curvy Queen?” Don Malthus asks coolly. “You didn’t ask permission to bring the lovely Julia over, did you? No—you simply saw her and took her. Exactly as I plan to take Hanna.”
The words strike where I am weakest. He’s right—I did take Julia against her will without so much as a by-your-leave. But I did not violate another Don’s territory to do it!
I bare my fangs at his skull-masked visage.
“This is grounds for war between our Syndicates!” I tell him.
“Yes, and then the Magistrate will want to know what the war is over and why it started in the first place. And then we’ll all suffer,” Don Malthus says, with maddening logic.
“And I will still get my queen—every minute she remains here in the Shadow Realm, more of her soul is siphoned away to my lands. I have only to wait a few days and she will be mine forever.”
Red floods my vision. I may not care for Hanna in the way I care for Julia, but I cannot stand the thought of her friend being pulled apart piece by piece.
“How can you do this to me?” I snarl. “I thought we were—if not friends, then at least allies. Can you really so easily burn all ties between us?”
For a moment, the skeletal mask looks almost sorry.
“Believe me, I would not do this if it was not a last resort,” Don Malthus says. “But I saw Hanna and knew she was my Fated Mate. Do you know how long I have been waiting for her? Searching for her? For me, there is no choice—I would burn my whole world—and yours too—to make her mine.”
The words land with uncomfortable familiarity.
Wouldn’t I do the same for Julia?
The thought twists in my chest, sharp and unwelcome—but it does not weaken my resolve.
“If Hanna wanted to be with you, I would have no problem with you taking her,” I say. “But she does not—she fears you greatly and I don’t blame her. Not many human women wish to be married to a male with a skull for a face.”
“This is not my true face, and you know it,” Don Malthus says. “Once I show her who I am, she will come to me willingly.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I say, frowning. “But whatever you think, I cannot allow you to take her.”
“You cannot stop me, either,” Don Malthus says. “I have only to wait and in a matter of days, she will be mine.”
The skull mask seems to frown.
“Truly, though—the process of soul-siphoning is difficult and tiring. It would be easier if you would simply bring her to me—I can be waiting at the Bone Gates within an hour.”
The audacity of his request makes me angry all over again. How dare he suggest such a thing? How dare he impugn my honor?
“Never,” I growl. “I will never give you a guest I have sworn to protect!”
Don Malthus shrugs again, bones whispering together like dry leaves.
“Very well, then I will collect her the hard way… bit by bit.”
The water in the basin churns violently, then boils away, the skull mask dissolving into shadow and smoke.
Silence slams down around me. So, I have my answer. Malthus will not remove the Soul-mark on Hanna and there doesn’t seem to be anything besides all-out war that I can do about it. And war will bring the Magistrate down on all of us.
I stand there, hands braced on the rim of the basin, chest heaving, fangs aching with the need to punch something—anything.
Malthus thinks he can wait me out. He thinks I will choose the easy path and simply hand Hanna over to him.
He is wrong.
I straighten slowly, fire hardening into iron resolve. Hanna will go home. Julia’s friend will not be consumed by the Hollow Necropolis.
And if stopping Don Malthus costs me blood, power, or alliances—even if it costs me what is most dear to me, then so be it.