Malevolent Bones (Bones and Shadow #2)

Chapter 1

Beginnings

Twenty-Two Years Ago

Bones Estate, “The Black Tower,” Exmoor

“You should kill it. Now. While you still can.”

Rontu, Representative to the United Kingdom by order of the Obeah Regis, highest adept of his caste known to be living in England, and third in line to the Sanctum Occulus itself, aimed a cold stare at the tall, pale Magical in front of him.

“You know what this means.” Rontu’s voice was cold, immovable in the way of his caste, but held just the faintest trace of sympathy.

That faint flavour would be discernible only to one familiar with their ways. Malefic knew the small concession arose only as a nod to Malefic himself, an acknowledgement that he ranked well above the Representative’s usual audience.

Generally, the Obeah weren’t required to bow to the same hierarchies as regular, magic-wielding Magicals.

Their caste set them apart, in ways that put Obeah simultaneously above and below their Magical brethren, or perhaps on a different set of ladders entirely.

After all, no meaningful comparison existed between the Obeah and those who could use magic in the world, rather than simply see it.

Of course, no regular mage or witch, not even Malefic himself, could see magical frequencies at the refined level of detail of even the lowest acolyte from the Obeah caste.

It’s why the Obeah alone oversaw the most powerful magics in known existence.

All deadly spells and rituals, all unstable and potentially explosive branches of magical knowledge––at least of those known by Magical authorities––lived solely inside the fortress-like Sanctum Occulus.

No one else even knew the precise location of that hallowed and cursed place, and could only visit by protected mirrors accessible only via the Central Magical Authority, where the Obeah had dedicated offices in London, alongside the other castes.

Not even Malefic knew the Sanctum’s exact location, although he had visited those halls more than once, and knew more than most.

“…It cannot be allowed to live,” Rontu repeated, perhaps due to Malefic’s silence.

“You know our law, venerated cousin. I cannot fall on this any other way. The ruling in such cases, exceedingly rare though they be, is more than clear. Moreover, it is absolute. Unyielding. It is also utterly without exception.”

Malefic stared into the skeletal face of the elder being.

He towered over Rontu by at least four inches, and now he stepped closer to emphasize that difference. His lip curled as it dawned on him exactly how serious the arrogant Obeah worm was about his words.

How dare he?

How in the gods’ eternal madness dare this defective, half-Magical mutant say such a thing to him? How dare he think such words, much less speak them aloud?

“You are talking about my son,” he remarked.

His words came out deceptively calm.

If the wizened ape had known him better, or known him at all, he might have known what his callous remarks had evoked.

He might also have known to speak more carefully in any words that followed.

Rontu only stared blankly, no hint of any real apology in his eyes.

“He is our first,” Malefic added at the other’s silence.

His voice lilted into melody as he infused it with the magic from his familial primal, the bone dragon staring sightlessly at the smaller mage from its perch on his shoulder.

“…You are speaking of the heir to my family title,” Malefic continued coldly. “Of the oldest Magical family in England. Third eldest of Magique itself. That law is older than the one of which you speak. We come from before such laws.”

As if to channel some of Malefic’s inner disquiet, or possibly just to express it where Rontu might finally notice, the bone dragon on his shoulder flapped its long wings, clacking its jawbone as its eyes glowed red.

Rontu remained unmoved.

“Speak!” Malefic demanded. “Defend your sick appraisal, at least!”

The Obeah blinked, then inclined his head.

“I am describing the necessary outcome of a tragic accident of birth, cousin,” Rontu countered.

“You would not permit it to live if it had hooves and a tail.” He inclined his head a fraction more.

“You would not tolerate its living with any visible abomination, cousin, not if it could not be corrected. This, sadly, is no different than any incurable condition, even if it takes some few years to grow obvious. You must be practical, Malefic. This… creature… is a mistake. It is not your titled heir. It cannot be your titled heir––”

Malefic’s hand clasped viciously around Rontu’s throat.

He squeezed, cutting off the air to his filthy tongue.

Before the Representative knew to evade him, Malefic had his back against the purple and black wallpaper, feet off the floor. The further cinching of his muscular hand ended Rontu’s patronizing and overly-familiar breath altogether in a choked gasp.

That was soon followed by a swine-like squeal.

“Call my son it one more time, you magic-less pretender,” Malefic warned coldly. “Call him abomination. Creature. Monster. And you will know exactly how practical I can be, you urine-sucking mealworm.”

It had long been a rumor the Obeah drank urine inside their Sanctum.

Malefic didn’t necessarily believe it.

Nor did he care.

They stood just outside his wife’s birthing chamber.

The door to her sat on one side of an adjoined sitting room, one which stretched to cavernous heights in one of the oldest structures still owned and occupied by a single family in any Communion of the Ancient Race, much less the United Kingdom.

England’s largest and grandest castle, including of those no longer standing, and better protected than that of the current King, Roland the III, or that of The Ethnarch himself, the Bones ancestral home, dubbed “The Black Tower” by one of Malefic’s forebears, Raughloch Jorich Moreland Bones, some seven hundred years previous, had no equal.

Family mythology told that Raughloch was drunk when he dubbed it thus.

That same mythology also claimed the name arose partly from some quarrel with his wife.

Whatever its roots, the Black Tower had been known, by rumor and reputation, throughout civilized Magique, for longer than it had carried the name.

Malefic knew what was said about the Tower, and the family who lived inside it. He knew of every whisper about what these walls had seen and overheard.

He also knew which of those whispers were true.

Malefic Nox Anguis Bones II, direct descendant to Eustacia Morwormer Ava Bones, Raughlock Jorich Bones before her, High Sorcerer Huntah-keh Mak Reknat before them, current Lord of the Black Tower, and most powerful mage among those dubbed “the Royals,” mostly by commoners, did not take kindly to being questioned in his family home.

Mirrors reflected and amplified the torchlight, as did the tall, night-darkened windows, but the guttering flames did little to penetrate the high-ceilinged gloom.

Malefic could hear his wife panting under the sleeping inhalants she’d been given, still in pain despite the work of the mephysicians, their attendants, and the many potions, serums, and spelled foodstuffs they’d used to try and ease her suffering.

He had known there was something different about the whelp, of course.

He wasn’t blind.

He had seen the effect the pregnancy had on his wife.

He’d seen her try to hide those things from him, until the pregnancy nearly ended her, wasting her down to less than half her previous size. That didn’t even get into the odd “occurrences” that had taken place once the fetus became more fully formed.

“It…” Rontu began in a gasp. At the sharp dig of Malefic’s talon-like fingers, he immediately amended his words.

“…He. He. He cannot be cured, Malefic!” he rasped.

“Do you understand me? There is no way to fix this, old friend! I seek only to protect you… a-a-and your family. You would be seen as responsible, Malefic. If it were to come out, and it assuredly would come out, cousin, there would be legal repercussions, not to mention––”

“You think I need a lecture from you on the law? Or my familial responsibilities?” Malefic’s stare turned glacial. “Are you really offering me help in protecting those whose hearts and veins are given life by my and my ancestors’ blood?”

Rontu continued to sputter out words as if he hadn’t heard him.

“––once the Council of Ancients knows, they’ll be forced to report it to the Federation Europa, brother Malefic, and then to the Authority of Magical Enforcement. There is no possible way to hide such a thing––”

“You think they would force me to murder my own son?” Malefic sneered. “That band of sniveling bureaucrats who dare to pretend to rule the Ancients of our Isle? As well as that of all of Europe? Not all of us are so cowed by your pretend authority, cousin––”

“It is an old law,” Rontu gasped.

His feet once more rested on the stone floor, but Malefic’s fingers still gripped him enough that his voice struggled.

“It predates them. It predates all but our earliest forefathers’ original magical codes.

It is still on the books, Malefic. Wyverm Ignis has not been seen in either of our lifetimes…

or even in our grandfathers’ or great-grandfathers’ or great-great grandfathers’ lifetimes.

But I can tell you, the authorities would not balk at the remedy, given what is known.

The fear of this affliction is visceral, truly.

It is nearly animal in its intensity. Moreover, it is existential.

Particularly if he has the gift of phasing, which is written of in those accounts.

Given the needs of our holy society, it cannot be permitted to––”

Malefic’s fingers tightened viciously.

“He! He cannot be permitted!” Rontu squealed. “And it wouldn’t only be his death! It would be yours too, cousin, if it came out you tried to hide it!”