Chapter 28 #2
And then he signaled to his twenty agents of The Shadowed, calling them in from their fanned out state.
Within split-seconds they were flanking us as we stood just a foot back from Sylas, while he called forth Ketheron’s magic.
It was a literal key, a glimmering golden ornate thing that Ketheron had fashioned into that shape very aptly.
Sylas held it out toward the concealed entrance and made a turning motion.
Ketheron’s gold power sparked, then a translucent film materialized into being, before a gap formed, creating a makeshift door.
With Sylas and my dad leading the way, we all passed through.
The peaceful trickling sound of running water was the first thing I took note of, and I looked to see a shallow river stretched out before us in a curving, kind of jagged line. Stepping stones formed a path to the other side, up the bank where the mansion was located.
And what a fucking mansion it was. Yeah, it could definitely hold five hundred beings.
The towers stretched high into the night sky, all sturdy stone and high arches. It was lit by magical fire from within—green of Ryker’s magic and silver of either Ariana’s or Cornelius’.
Tiny lights in the form of glowing orbs floated in the grass giving faint but sufficient illumination for any beings who weren’t vampire or shifter.
Through it all, as I took everything in rapid-fire, just like I saw my dad and The Shadowed doing, while Sylas was narrowing his eyes through the dark night, focusing on the surrounding forest, the fucking eeriness stood out the most.
This was supposed to be a place of sanctuary.
My dad had his magic-wielders force open the mansion doors and windows with coordinated flicks of their magic. They couldn’t get across the threshold, though. Not without being invited. Or not without having Celestial power that could overcome the threshold protection in place against all beings.
His voice boomed across the river and the hundred foot distance between us and the mansion, calling the protected hybrids forward.
Moments passed, but there was no movement.
My gut twisted.
Had Morien—fuck, had he massacred them all?
Arriving on the scene at that CRS facility after he’d murdered fifty seeking sanctuary there had been horrific enough. But this? This many? And coming at a safe haven once again too? It was beyond sick and twisted.
“I can’t hear anything beyond the stream. Not even the whisper of the wind through the trees,” my dad told me. “Can you?” he asked, knowing I had both my vampire and my wolf in play to draw from.
I listened carefully, straining. “No. Shit.”
The magic-wielders choked then, and Sylas grunted, just before a multicolored lightshow lit up the area—the sudden surge of power that had caused those reactions.
And then I saw something.
And heard some growling, groaning, and… struggling.
I was able to zone in on it in the next second.
No. It couldn’t be. He hadn’t… he hadn’t done it.
Yet, it became undeniable in the next few moments as hundreds of beings emerged from around either side of the mansion, dragging their bodies along, many skewed at awkward angles, limbs not working properly.
Unfocused eyes. All of them moving together under a thrall.
Rot hadn’t properly set in yet, but the start of the stench reached me, making me gag.
There was no flesh peeling from their bodies, but there was a shitload of blood and dirt staining their clothes.
I’d learned about this from my studies at Wraeven Academy, and in more detail from Sylas.
“Animated Fleshwork,” I breathed.
Re-animated corpses.
The way that black magic users raised the dead and then had them do their bidding, because their return to the land of the living in this form came without their minds intact, and had their will compromised and beholden to their raiser.
As they passed by some of the magical lighting orbs in the grass, they cut out as the black magic in play that was both controlling them and keeping them here on this plane poisoned what they touched.
“Usually this is only used on beings who have been long dead, right?” I asked Sylas who was a few feet away, sweeping his glowing crimson palms back and forth—taking readings?
“Fueled by black magic, they have the means to pass through this pocket dimension and out into the wider world,” Dad warned. “They cannot be allowed to move beyond us.”
“That won’t be happening,” Sylas seethed. “Especially when they are, in fact, Morien’s acolytes.”
“Excuse me?” Dad questioned.
“Sylas?”
He growled low in his throat, then bellowed out into the forest where he’d been staring into the distance just off to the left of us, “Motherfucker! You think you can use death to fool the Master of Death Magic?” he sneered. “Those days are long past!”
In the next moment, Sylas thrust his hands forward and I was staring in fucking awe as his crimson power surged over the river, racing along the ground and rising in a towering wave ten feet high, rolling forward until it engulfed every single one of the five hundred Animated Fleshwork staggering over to us.
His power surged in vibrancy, then he jerked his wrists to the sides and a gray film with black flecks—the mark of Morien’s corrupted power—came into view a moment before it wavered violently then shattered into fractured pieces like glass that rained down everywhere as it happened all over where Sylas had his red power enveloping.
As it all fell down, the Animated Fleshwork began dissipating, then fading away in smoke and whisps on the wind. Not ripped apart, not peeling away—because they hadn’t been real.
It had all been an illusion.
Sylas growled and pushed harder, speeding up the process, the shattering and collapsing of the illusion revealing what was beneath, bit by bit.
Groans, cries, and whimpering filled my ears.
Blood from so many wounds infused my senses.
As more and more Animated Fleshwork dissipated, more of what was real came into being.
And then we were looking upon them as the smoke, sparks, and Sylas’ magic cleared as he pulled it back.
Five hundred hybrids gathered just feet from the mansion on the grass, many bloodied and beaten, all of them bound—either by Inhibitor cuffs to prevent their magic usage, or with Dark Fae chains that had the power to even restrain most Ancients.
“Shit,” I choked.
They hadn’t been killed. Oh, fuck. They were here, still alive.
But that relief was deeply overshadowed by what they were enduring—the dominance, the pain, the degradation.
What Puritas wanted to bring down upon all those like me.
I clenched my fists, hissing, and my fangs dropped as the vehemence of my conviction to end this shitshow burned through me like empowering flame.
Around them, enforcing their torment and captivity stood fifty Dark Fae acolytes of Morien Morgrave, palms flaming with gold and white Celestial power tinged with black flecks that were the marks of black magic usage.
It was why that illusion had been so powerful that even The Shadowed and my dad hadn’t been able to sense the falsity, let alone what was beneath it.
“Stay your hand,” my dad rumbled.
I turned my head, about to protest—until I saw the look in his eyes.
He was as pained as me.
And he was taking it personally.
Because these beings were just like his son, being persecuted like I had been, like Velra and Nyx had been, like too many of us had been.
My claws dropped, another hiss escaping me.
And then my talons even came along for the ride as well.
My dad’s hand landed on my shoulder and he spoke at my ear. “Just for now. We must wait for the opportune moment.” He gestured with his eyes and I looked to see Sylas signaling behind his back, making a chatterbox hand gesture.
Of course.
He was gonna use that glorious mouth of his.
Jeez. I caught myself. All this intensity… it called to the other sort of physicality that soothed me. Even in these circumstances it rose to the surface. At least I had the control to check it really damn fast.
Sylas was gonna use his sharp tongue, mouth off to Morien, mentally and emotionally destabilize him like he’d done before at the CRS facility.
We needed a distraction against the Celestial and black magic that the too many Dark Fae were wielding, or we’d be cut down before we even snatched away a single hostage, let alone all five hundred of them.
And Sylas Morgrave… well, he definitely had the whole distraction thing in the bag.
“Show yourself, washed up one!” he called out then, stalking up and down along the bank in front of us.
He was doing more than that—he was shielding us in case Morien burst from his hiding place where he was no doubt reveling in the turmoil and torment he’d created here, and invoked something like Risen Reckoning in a shit, underhanded move.
My dad flinched.
He’d picked up on movement—ahead of everyone as usual being the absolute badass that he was.
I concentrated, not feeling anything.
I didn’t see any signs of the fifteen vampire agents registering movement either as they stood flanking us, along with the five magic-wielders, hoods hanging low, masks on.
Then Morien’s voice rang out, but it echoed all around, bouncing off the trees and hell knew what else, so it was impossible to track it to a location.
“Impressive, boy,” his snide tone sounded. “I allotted it a 70-30 chance that you’d see through my deception.”
His gray power erupted in front of the bound hostages and he teleported into the fray, that straggly long, dark hair coming into view, the sight of warped death and toxicity all over him, his hooded red robe sweeping behind him.
He took note of my dad, staring at him for several tense moments before turning his attention to Sylas. “I hoped you would.”
“What are you talking about?”