Chapter 22
~Sylas~
Well, this wasn’t good.
It took me major effort just to open my eyes fully.
Even then, as I managed it, an unnatural weariness permeated every part of me, willing me to slip back into sleep.
Willing me to be still.
A clear result of that Light Fae dust infused with Celestial power that I recalled Gregor infecting me with.
Somnoria as it was commonly known.
An incapacitant.
One very effective on the likes of me, wherein supreme concentration and focus were required in order to wield my power—both successfully and safely. Especially with the death energy aspect factored in.
And who would know that better than my psychopath of a father.
I had no doubt he’d had it formulated especially for me.
It wouldn’t be enough, though.
Not even close.
Neither would me finding myself tied to a wrought-iron chair with magical binds that were part chain, part rope, my hands confined to the arm rests.
I was in a dark room, just the chair barely visible from the lone lightbulb in the stone ceiling.
I couldn’t see beyond the heavy shadow, but I could feel how expansive the space actually was.
Along with the chill rolling through me from both the lack of heat, and the fact that I was shirtless and barefoot.
Lovely.
Straight out of a horror scene and quite the intimidating setting in which to wake up lone and bound in.
Well, to most.
I didn’t exactly operate within the norm.
And that had played to my advantage in a lot of cases—if not all.
I ground my jaw at the audacity of it. Them coming at me. The kidnapping. Restraining me now.
I’d fought through more pain, more offensive spells and attacks, more brutality and damage, than most beings alive—or fucking dead.
I went to call my power. I could call it through anything.
A lesson I learned long ago? Arm yourself first, assess the situation second, then react accordingly.
“I really wouldn’t advise that, boy.”
I stiffened, just a hair’s breadth away from calling my power as that nasally voice rang out.
The air rippled in front of me, the sign of an illusion being tampered with.
And then sparks of gray light erupted and Morien passed through, the rippling ceasing as the illusion was solidified.
With my magic not called and me also compromised by the mental acuity dulling of Somnoria, I couldn’t see through it.
Yet.
His red velvet cloak had the hood flipped down so I could see his full face and all the black veins and cavernous rot plaguing it, his sunken eyes that pulsed red.
His magic had once been that color too, like mine.
But years of intense black magic usage had turned it into that gray with black flecks state.
Gray as a color of magic was fine on its own, but not for a necromancer like him.
His dark straggly long hair hung brushed his black shirt beneath the open cloak.
There were bloodstains marring it, along with his ill-fitting pants. It even dripped from his boots.
Likely the result of either torture or black magic rites involving blood sacrifice.
If the latter was the case, he would be at a supremely heightened state of power. For a black magic user, that was much like a vampire who had just fed a great deal.
“Offering fatherly advice? At this stage of the game? I think we’re just a tad beyond that, don’t you?”
His lip curled. “Suit yourself. But before you do, at least let me inform you that the chair you’re bound to is one such device used by Puritas on their hybrid victims. A torture chair is the unflattering pedestrian term they use.”
“What?” I ground out, looking down at my hands bound to the arms of the thing.
Specifically, the binds themselves.
Flowing with magic, yes. But… not just in service of restraining me.
Fuck, they were seeking out magic usage. My magic usage in this specific case. And they were prepared to react to it the moment they registered a spark.
“These devices are rather ingenuous. The brainchild of Gregor himself. In essence, they turn a supernatural being’s magic and abilities against them.
In the most painful way imaginable. The effect varies depending on one’s abilities and, of particular note for you, their power levels.
For example, if a Celestial being attempted to invoke their power while attached to this device, agony akin to the flames of Hellfire would rage through their veins.
” He cocked his head to the side. “And let us use an actual hybrid as an example. Your lover, Lazriel Thaine.”
I growled low in my throat and he grinned at getting a reaction from me.
“If he dropped his fangs, the device would magically generate dozens of fangs that would drive into his flesh. The same with his claws and talons. If he started to rage while calling on his vampiric nature, magically-manufactured blood would fill his throat, his lungs, and drown him over and over. Being immortal, he would keep resuscitating and experiencing it repeatedly, until he ceased invoking said abilities.”
My fingers dug into the metal to the point of pain.
“You see, this chair was first designed to recondition hybrids to being unable to invoke one side of their abilities, with only one remaining, so they would become pure beings once again. That was until Gregor learned of the growing comfort of the supernatural world with them, and culling became his modus operandi—along with torture to indulge his sadistic side and to punish them of course.”
I drew in a centering breath, masking the necessity as a sigh of exhaustion from the incapacitant running through my veins.
“You’ve gotten yourself in quite a bind, Father.” I smirked. “Pun intended.”
He started. “What are you talking about? I just explained the nature of that chair, you’re the one tied to a torture device and severely weakened. Helpless, Sylas.”
“You gave me a warning, meaning you can’t have me hurt. At least not to the degree that this device will deliver said hurt. At the same time, you need my power currently disabled. However, you also know me.” He thought he did. “So you’re duly concerned as to what I might do.”
His eyes lit up with what actually appeared to be some sort of twisted fatherly pride.
And that was almost more disturbing than the wretched sight of what he’d turned himself into.
Almost.
“Yes, you’re correct. In everything.”
For him to admit I was right would be seen as a failing, as him being wrong. So this didn’t track.
I braced myself, knowing well that something was coming. Something he had up his sleeve, something I couldn’t foresee or ascertain in my current state.
He took a sweeping step forward.
“However, my concerns as to what you might do are rather tempered.” He swept a glowing gray hand in front of me, dispelling the illusion just straight ahead, not around the other three sides. “By this.”
Adrenaline shot down my spine as I took in the cave-like space, the alcoves stained with dried blood, the skulls embedded in the stone itself and lining the floor. Bones scattered everywhere.
I knew this place.
“Corvin Morvain’s lair.”
“That’s right. Restored by his black magic users who were loyal to him even beyond his death, which you were largely responsible for.” He gestured slightly to the left. “Never mind that for now. This is what we’ll term my insurance against you doing something unadvisable.”
I looked to see an altar forged of bone and skulls, blood literally dripping from it.
And in the center of all that gore hovered a vibrant-blue flame within a cylindrical transparent containment cylinder. “Corvin’s magic.”
“Indeed.”
But that wasn’t what took my attention the most.
It was the shimmering dark-red gem blazing within another containment cylinder.
My necromantic core.
The portion that Corvin had taken from me three years ago.
I jolted and couldn’t hide my visceral reaction, even pulling at the binds.
After all this time… the desiccation, the pain, the withering away, then the necromantic core transplant as a temporary solution that had been the most agonizing fucking thing I’d ever experienced… here it was. The part of me that had been ripped from my own body. Right there with Corvin’s magic.
Both the keys to making me whole again.
To restoring me permanently.
“As you are aware, this is a subterranean crypt. Alas, if you were to unleash your power and manage to endure the horrific agony that the chair would respond with, the magical fallout would no doubt decimate that which you covet so dearly. That which you need to survive.”
“You sadistic motherfucker!” I roared, bucking in the chair.
His whole face lit up at my snap. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not the sadistic one.”
A flare of magic caught my attention, a moment before hands landed on my shoulder.
I jerked and managed to turn my head just enough to see that psychopathic leader of Puritas, Gregor, standing there.
He wasn’t concealed by his silver cape this time, so I was able to look upon him fully.
Pale blue eyes gleamed down at me. His hair was in a buzz cut that was half brown, half black. He looked to be in his mid-forties by human discernment, but known to be many centuries old in reality. He was decked out in regal silver robes.
“Get your hands off me,” I seethed.
His eyes flamed with peach-colored magic and then he started sliding his fingers down over my collarbone, over my pecs, even skating down to my abs.
I grunted as he brushed my belt.
“Gregor, this is not what we discussed,” Morien grumbled.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t care for it. But if you want me to break his mind, this is how I need to begin. Given who he is.”
Morien hesitated, before then giving a nod and averting his eyes.
Break my mind? So my father had discovered that he couldn’t take my power and basically become me without that additional step.
Hmm.
Revealing that in front of me had just become a dear fucking mistake.
“Lower,” I spoke.
Gregor’s hands stilled just as they were headed back up my chest.
“Excuse me?”