Of Gold and Chains (Black Skull Chronicles #3)

Chapter 1

Elyse

The stars shone brilliantly overhead, casting a smattering of light across the moonless sky.

The crisp night air gave a gentle reprieve from the summer heat while crickets sang their endless melody, a quiet hymn in the darkness.

It might have been romantic for the two lovers entangled on the forest floor—had one of them not been dead.

Elyse clutched Killian’s body against her chest as she knelt in the dirt.

Tears streamed down her face, mingling with droplets of blood—blood that was not her own.

She could taste Jaime’s death as a coppery bitterness on her tongue, could feel the bile rising in her throat.

Her magic still roiled inside her veins, but vengeance had been replaced by a desperate, chaotic pleading.

Killian was dead. Gone. Stolen from her. Taken away by a monster, but not the monster she had been hunting.

She had blasted Jaime into a million, insignificant pieces.

Quick and ruthless, a surge of magic she hadn’t known she was capable of.

He should have suffered more. If Elyse could do it again, she would make him bleed out slowly, watching as his life drained away.

She would peel his flesh layer by layer as he begged for a mercy that would not come.

She would burn him, drown him, bury him, and dig him back up to do it all over again.

Such thoughts, however, brought her no pleasure. Flaying Jaime would do nothing to fix the true ache in her heart.

Ahead of her stood a simple cottage, a beacon of hope. Curtains covered the windows, but the soft pulse of candlelight penetrated the fabric, calling to Elyse in the dark.

“Grayson!”

Her cry erupted from her throat, raspy and pain-soaked. “Grayson!” she screamed again as her grip on Killian tightened. Her fingers coiled around his tunic, demanding both his body and soul to stay with her.

Hold on, she begged with clenched fists. I’m coming for you.

A small man emerged from the cottage, a flickering taper in his hand—Mr. Grayson, her oldest and kindest customer.

Though he was well over one hundred years old, he hurried toward her with a nimbleness so at odds with his age.

His shoulders were drawn with worry. His steps slowed to a halt as he neared Elyse.

“Oh,” he breathed as he stared down at her. “My dear.”

Grief etched his features, made haunting by the waning shadows cast by the single candle. Elyse saw her own anguish reflected there, a sight far too real for her to accept.

“Please help me,” she sobbed, not bothering to hide the tears staining her cheeks or the tremble in her voice. The time for dignity had long passed.

The old man’s brows drew together. Elyse waited for him to argue, to say there was nothing to be done. She held her breath and felt her power twisting in her stomach, yearning for a fight. But Mr. Grayson nodded and said, “Get him inside.”

Elyse tried to stand, tried to haul Killian up with her, but he was twice her size. He sagged in her grip, the weight of death pulling him toward the ground.

Mr. Grayson laid a frail hand on her shoulder. In a gentle tone devoid of his usual teasing, he reminded her, “Your magic, dear. Use it.”

She gaped at him, and then slowly nodded. Devil’s tail, her mind was a muddled mess. She’d been trying to carry Killian’s body with her mortal strength, completely forgetting that her magic could aid her.

She let go of Killian’s tunic with one hand. Her fingers twitched and flicked as she levitated his body—only enough to make him easier to move. She still gripped him fiercely with her other hand, terrified he might float away from her altogether, carried away on a breeze and never to be seen again.

Mr. Grayson rushed ahead of her and opened the door.

Elyse stumbled over the threshold, her eyes barely taking in the space.

The walls were a brilliant red, the furniture antiques.

Hundreds of books populated the room, spreading from neat rows on mahogany shelves to jumbled stacks on the floor.

In the corner sat an old cauldron, the remnants of a thousand potions coating its cast iron interior.

“Set him here,” Mr. Grayson called as he swept papers and a spellbook off the enormous kitchen table. Though the table was at least six feet long, there was only a single worn chair tucked beneath it.

Elyse guided Killian’s body to the table and laid it down carefully. Now that she was up and moving and thinking, a sort of detachment encapsulated her. Her mind shifted from grief to determination, distancing herself from her loss and instead focusing on the task at hand.

“Tell me what to do,” she demanded—though it sounded more like a plea.

Mr. Grayson peered down at Killian’s waxy skin, studying him. “How long has it been?”

“I…” she began, but her voice faltered. She didn’t know. It might have been minutes that she’d spent clinging to Killian’s body in the creek. It might have been half the night. “Less than an hour?” she guessed.

Mr. Grayson’s throat bobbed as he nodded. “The longer it’s been, the more difficult it becomes.” He let out a long, steady breath, the same determination Elyse held written on his face, but still mixed with the sorrow. “Let’s hope we’re not too late.”

He glanced toward a door off the kitchen, a subtle, unconscious movement.

Elyse nearly shivered with grievous realization.

That had to be where he kept her—his belated wife.

Elyse pictured a young woman, skin pale and eyes closed, perfectly curled hair resting on a pillow, waiting for her husband to either succeed or give up.

All at once, she hated herself for every moment she’d spent drowning in sorrow. Every wasted second that might cost Killian his only chance at revival.

Instinctively, she grasped Killian’s hand only to find limp fingers. She held tight, wishing she had done something differently. Wishing it was her lying on the table, and not him. Wishing she’d never even met him and brought all this misfortune to his now-ended life.

“Don’t think like that, deary,” Mr. Grayson said, a knowing look in his eyes. His voice was soft, but it cut through the silence of the room and the roaring of Elyse’s mind. She met his gaze and found strength there. His hazy, wrinkled eyes shared her grief, but beneath that was hope.

With a nod, she surrendered herself to that belief.

Mr. Grayson left the room and returned with a rag, a bowl of water, and some bandages. “Clean his wound as best you can,” he instructed gently. “I’ll gather the components for the spell.”

Elyse didn’t hesitate. With the help of her magic, she set to work.

She removed Killian’s shirt and rolled him onto his side so she could examine his wound.

The gouge was only a few inches long, but it was deep, a cavity that penetrated his organs.

Watery blood seeped from the cut, along with a putrid green liquid—the poison that had kept him from healing.

It oozed down his back and pooled on the table in a sickening mixture.

Elyse steeled herself with an inhale. Her fingers moved carefully, lovingly, as she cleaned and dressed the wound, like she was arranging flowers in a bouquet.

Not that she had much experience arranging flowers.

She promised herself that if Killian returned to her, she would fill their lives with beautiful things: fresh flowers, home-cooked meals, and stolen kisses in the night.

Her focus remained on Killian, even as Mr. Grayson began parceling ingredients into a bowl.

The soft sound of the mortar and pestle was a steady backdrop while she dressed Killian’s wound.

She had to wrap linens around his torso to keep the bandage in place, a feat she never would have been able to do without her magic.

Finally, she laid his body back down on the table and gently rested his arms at his sides.

She stared at him for a moment, trying to imagine that he was merely sleeping, but it was impossible.

The pallid skin, the rigidness of his body and the flat expression on his face—he didn’t even look like himself.

This was nothing more than a husk, and the real Killian, her Killian, was somewhere in the aether, begging her to bring him back.

Mr. Grayson handed her a jar. Through the clear glass, she could see a powdery gray substance—ash.

“Spread this around the body,” he instructed.

In other circumstances, Elyse might have asked where the ashes had come from. Yet as she uncapped the jar and began to outline Killian’s body, she didn’t care who or what had burned to make the ashes, so long as they did their job.

One by one, Mr. Grayson spaced five heavy black crystals around the table. Each crystal was jagged and seemed to swallow the light completely. They looked to be hewn from the dungeons of Hell.

“Ready?” he asked as he studied their handiwork.

Elyse felt as though she might be ill. While they were preparing, she could cling to the hope in her heart that Killian would return. Once they began the spell, though, that hope would be replaced by action—action that had an outcome, a success or a failure.

She would not accept failure.

She nodded her reply, too frightened by what might escape her mouth if she opened it.

Mr. Grayson moved a large bowl and its ingredients to the floor.

The bowl was as black as the crystals, with symbols etched into its shallow basin.

Elyse recognized the symbols as demonic, though she didn’t know their meaning.

She stepped closer to the old man and watched over his shoulder as he carefully mixed and measured tonics and herbs into the bowl.

After dropping the final ingredient into the concoction, Mr. Grayson muttered something sharp and foreign, and the bowl was set ablaze. Vicious orange flames burned steadily, even as the ingredients festered into oblivion.

Mr. Grayson rose, abandoning the fire for a nearby cabinet.

Elyse watched as he opened a small antiquated chest and procured something black and leather from within.

As he turned back toward the firelight, she realized what it was: the gloves he had won at the auction.

The ones that supposedly belonged to Death.

All of Elyse’s determination vanished instantly. Those gloves were his bargaining tool, his one opportunity to resurrect his wife.

She grasped his frail wrist. “The gloves—if you use them now, will you be able to later?” Her voice was hoarse, stricken with fear. She swallowed as she searched his face, awaiting his answer.

Mr. Grayson stared back at her with silvery, sorrow-filled eyes. She already knew what he was going to say.

“No,” he replied. “But it’s okay.” He offered a smile, one that masked his grief.

Elyse tightened her grip on his wrist. “No,” she breathed. “I can’t let you.”

As she spoke, it felt as though hands were clawing their way up her throat, trying their damnedest to grasp at her words and rein them back in.

Mr. Grayson had waited so long—nearly a hundred years—to be reunited with his wife. He deserved to see his prayers and hard work answered. And yet Elyse held her breath, hoping that the widower would insist on helping her, on giving up on his own dream of bringing his wife back to life.

She hated herself for it.

Mr. Grayson shifted, freeing his wrist from Elyse’s grasp.

“Ms. Crenshaw,” he said, and there was no sadness in his voice, only golden determination.

“For years, I have researched. I have studied and sacrificed and scavenged. I have made great progress—enough that I am confident I can bring your Killian back.” Again, his eyes flitted toward the door at the back of the room.

“But I am still unable to bring back my Cordelia, and I fear that I may never be able to. She is too far gone, her thread to this world too frayed.”

Elyse parted her lips to protest, but Mr. Grayson continued.

“I believe that all my searching was not for Cordelia, but for him,” he said, nodding toward Killian’s lifeless body. “I believe I was meant to reach this point, to assist you. Whatever it is you are doing, your story is not yet over. You are meant to do more, and to do it together.”

Elyse closed her eyes to fight the sting of tears. Killian’s last words played in her mind. Bonded souls have a way of finding each other.

Mr. Grayson’s words felt true, and yet so cruel. Cruel that fate would bring her and Killian together, only to tear them apart again. Cruel that Mr. Grayson would spend decades chasing after something, never to see it through. Cruel that her happiness would come at the expense of another’s.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t accept his grace, yet couldn’t deny it either.

Mr. Grayson spoke for her. “I made my choice the second I saw him in your arms,” he told her, simple and decided. “And you know what a stubborn old coot I can be.”

Elyse squeezed her eyes tight, holding in the tears. Her lips twisted into something reminiscent of a smile. She let her gratitude wash over her for a long moment, let it soothe her weary heart. Then she opened her eyes and nodded to Mr. Grayson.

The old man walked to the fire and dropped the gloves. He chanted something, an unfamiliar phrase, repeating it again and again. But Elyse didn’t hear it. All her energy was focused on Killian, on praying this wasn’t a mistake.

A loud crack stole Elyse’s attention and rendered Mr. Grayson silent. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive. Elyse and Mr. Grayson stared at one another, waiting. The entire house was silent aside from the crackling fire. A wicked chill settled over the room.

The doorknob rattled. Elyse wrenched her eyes toward it, unable to breathe. Her skin pebbled as the knob slowly twisted. The door slid open to reveal a shadowy figure, silhouetted by a cloak.

The figure slithered into the room, its cloak dragging against the floor in whispers. Its face was hidden by its hood, but a pale, slender hand emerged from the dark sleeves to push the door shut.

“Hello,” sang a voice—a voice that made Elyse’s breath hitch.

It was not raspy or haunting, as she had expected.

It was sultry. Delicate hands lifted to pull back the hood.

Luscious red curls framed an ivory face with full crimson lips and cunning gray eyes.

Dark lashes shadowed those eyes as the figure looked up at them.

Death was a woman.