Rebirth (Lost Souls #1)

Chapter 27

I sit at the desk in the prison library, looking down at the two feathers: a dark-brown and a dark-gray one. The coin is gone, so I assume he took it back.

Thinking about the spell, I doodle a bit and come up with different possibilities for the circles. The part of the spell that he’s going to perform ends up being based on a transportation spell. The circle is a combination of a transportation circle and a healing circle, for good measure. A frown creeps up my face, because I have no idea how these two circles will end up reacting to each other when combined like this.

“Always a gamble,” I mumble, moving on to the actual spell.

The spell itself has me cursing at everything within the hour. I’m unable to get the wording right, at least not the way I want it to be. Then again, this whole thing makes me more nervous than I have ever been or expected to be.

I anxiously await the day that it’s possible for me to just freestyle these bigger spells, because all of these preparations are tedious and exhausting. But, for now, this is the way to go, no matter how repetitive it feels. After what happened with the time-stitching spell, I’m nervous, downright scared even, to attempt anything as big or bigger. Especially since I have a hard time grasping Eloghyll. Meaning I write the intention of the spell out with the hope of translating it afterward. But it makes it difficult to keep my mind from wandering to everything that might go wrong.

After another hour or so, I finally settle on the wording and put it all together. Once I’ve finished up the rough outlines, I copy everything to new pages. I have to make sure the circle is clear so he can construct it correctly. Even the smallest mistake can lead to a catastrophe.

In spirit of that, I add tons of notes and instructions telling what to do, when, and how.

“No margin for error, it seems.” He stands right behind me, leaning over to look at my writing.

Startled, my heart skips a beat. He seems to enjoy popping up at my back, going by how often he does it. “Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I snarl.

He only laughs at me while he sits himself down in one of the armchairs. “I thought you would have left by now, so seeing you still here, I couldn’t help myself.”

“If that’s supposed to be an apology, then you should try again,” I say coldly, returning my attention to my papers.

He doesn’t react, but he watches as I sort out everything for his part of the spell.

After putting the pages in a neat pile, I go back to my part of the spell. The circle is pretty much done, all that’s left is the spell itself. It’s my first time writing something of this complexity in Eloghyll and it’s a struggle to translate it. Is that why he’s sitting there with that smug look on his face? Because he likes to watch me suffer like this?

Another hour goes by, and I give up, throwing down my pen in frustration with my hands in the air. I look over at him, ready to toss it all out and give up. I’m not going to beg him for help.

“You’ll have to ask, love.”

He knows exactly what I’m thinking, what I need. “Will you please help me with Eloghyll?” I eventually ask with a sharp tone to my voice.

He immediately gets up and gestures for me to do the same. He sits down on the chair, then proceeds to pull me into his lap.

“It’s easiest if you start with translating it to Elomadh,” he says, picking up and handing me my pen back.

I take it from him and start writing. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me slightly closer while he keeps an eye on what I write down. Translating takes some time, but he waits patiently for me to finish, his chin resting on my shoulder. Once I’m done, he clicks his tongue softly and takes the pen from me.

“The thing you need to know,” he says as he starts to write, “is that those who created this language wanted to separate themselves from their roots, but they also didn’t want to make too much of an effort.”

“You do realize that you’re talking about yourself, right?”

“I’m very much aware.”

He copies the spell in Elomadh, then sets to rearranging and changing the symbols ever so slightly. The way he writes, the elaborate yet elegant curls and swirls he adds, remind me a bit of calligraphy. Knowing how exact every Elomadh symbol needs to be tells me that the same very much goes for Eloghyll.

“The symbols aren’t that unlike Elomadh if you know where to look.” He leans in closer, almost whispering in my ear. “The pronunciation, on the other hand, is vastly different. Especially for someone untrained.” Handing me the pen back, he gives me a soft kiss on my cheek. “Better get to practicing if you want to become fluent in Eloghyll.”

Eloghyll. Looking from the Elomadh translation to the one in Eloghyll, the similarities aren’t all that hard to catch. Especially now that I know.

“I just—why didn’t I notice it?” I say mostly to myself, the obvious embarrassment in my voice making me wince.

He shrugs against me. “Does it matter? You just learned a language that is only known to the two of us.”

Not knowing what to say to that, not even knowing how that makes me feel, I take the pen in hand and translate the rest of the spell.

He leans back in the chair, one hand on my hip while the other plays with my hair. Under his watchful eye, I keep working on the translation, and then on the rest of the spell.

Unaware of how long it’s been, I shift in my seat and hear him groan behind me.

“Love,” he growls, his grip on my hip tightening until his fingers dig painfully into my skin. “I want to let you work, but I won’t be able to control myself if you keep wiggling.”

My breath hitches at what he’s implying, and the raw sound of his voice floods me with warmth. I was under the impression that I had been sitting fairly still. But going by how his hardness presses against my ass through the fabric of his slacks and my own clothing, it seems that I was very wrong. And yet, I can’t help but tease him, feeling bold.

“You do know how to control yourself.” I look at him over my shoulder, slightly pressing back into him.

“Love,” he warns, his voice dripping with dark desire.

It quickly makes me realize that perhaps antagonizing him wasn’t the best course of action. He isn’t the only one that’s close to being overtaken by lust. While I try not to move too much, I drag my attention back to the spell. It takes me a while to regain my focus. I’m certain he notices how distracted I am by his mere presence, but he keeps his word and lets me continue to work for as long as I need.

He puts his chin back on my shoulder, his breath soft in my ear as he tries not to disturb me. While he tries to restrain himself. His chest is pressed against my back, the feeling of closeness comforting. Comforting in a way that I didn’t realize I was missing.

My mind starts to wander, and he’s quick to pick up on it.

“If you don’t concentrate”—his hand moves to my thigh, gently caressing me through the fabric of my skirt—“I might forget how to control myself.”

I try not to think about how I want him to lose control, how I want him to take me right here and now.

He places a kiss on my neck, tempting me and daring me to give in. His hand parts my legs slightly, just enough for his fingers to be able to reach in between them. He makes it nearly impossible for me to keep on working. Shivers of desire run through me the longer he touches me.

Biting my lip, I shake my head and strengthen my grip on the pen in my hand. If I give in, I’ll never finish the spell, and I want to get this over with as soon as possible. He should want this to be over as soon as possible. Yet, I know very well that this is my own fault for teasing him earlier.

As he notices that I’m not going to give in to his teasing after all, he places his hand back on my thigh, unmoving. We remain like that, and I slowly calm down again. My heartbeat evens out, and my focus returns.

When I’m finally done with fine-tuning the spell and the circle, I put the pen down, and a sigh of relief escapes me.

“It looks good,” he says, his hands back on my waist.

“I’m going to let it rest for a while, just in case that I’ve forgotten something.”

He pulls me against him, and I finally allow myself to lean back in his embrace. I won’t admit to it out loud, but I’ve started to enjoy being this close to him.

“I’ve been wondering about something, though,” I start, then hesitate .

“Hmm,” he hums, nudging me on.

“Why haven’t you written these spells yourself in the time that you’ve been here?”

“Spells like this are most powerful when they’re cast by their creator. And spell writing on this scale is not my thing. I prefer improvising, which won’t end well in this case.”

A pleasant silence falls between us, one that I almost reluctantly break. “Thank you,” I tell him.

“What for?”

“For being honest.”

“Anything for you,” he says, his grip around me tightening.

This is nice, the two of us being close like this. It almost feels normal, and it makes me happy to know that we are able to have moments like these.

“I should probably get back to the house and get started on the curse,” I whisper, though I don’t think I really want to leave.

“Then you should go,” he whispers back. “After all, the sooner we can leave this place, the better.”

He’s right, of course, for I look forward to not having to return here.

“I know.” I sigh, and he shifts in the chair. I get up from his lap, not letting go of his hand. He gets up as well, giving my hand a squeeze while his eyes run over me.

“Go,” he says. “Make them pay for what he did to you.”

He lets go of my hand, and I speak the spell as I walk toward the circle, grabbing my cloak from where I left it earlier over the arm of a sofa as I go. Within seconds, I find myself in the other library and head to the desk. Draping the cloak over the back of the chair for now, I take a seat.

For the curse to reach its full potential, I need genetic material to help guide it—recent genetic material of their mixed blood, for only the teeth won’t suffice. I procure two glass vials from a cabinet and carefully put them inside my pocket. Next, I take a mortar and pestle and place it on the desk. I pick out two teeth and grind them down. Then I put a knife to my hand, cut my palm, and let the blood drip onto the dust.

With the mortar in hand, I use the mixture to draw the circle on the wooden tabletop. When I speak the spell, the blood shimmers faintly before it evaporates. The spell reaches for the nearest couple that is about to have a child. Through images in my mind, it shows me their location. As if it’s meant to be, they live within walking distance. A grin forms on my lips.

I swiftly throw the cloak over my shoulders, buttoning it up before pocketing the knife while I leave the library. Outside of the house, standing in the dark of night, I take a moment to check my surroundings, but can’t sense a presence watching me. Licking my lips and smiling, I set course for my destination on foot, for I don’t want to risk a transportation spell being detected. Company is the last thing I need at the moment.

With a fast walk, I head toward the house the spell showed me. It turns out to be a beautiful two-story family home in orange-red bricks, with a dark-brown roof and white-framed windows. It has a front porch in brownish tiles and a front yard that wraps around the side and leads to a garden in the back. It reminds me a little of my old house.

The streetlights cast dark shadows in the night. My magic surges through me, and there is a fluttering in my stomach. I take a deep breath, then cast a simple spell to cause a power outage. It drenches the whole street in darkness on this moonless night.

A second spell opens the door for me, and I walk in with long strides, pulling down the hood of the cloak to cover my face. Even in the dark, the inside of the house is clearly lovely, with soft-colored walls and rustic furniture.

The wooden floor creaks under my steps, so I use another spell to suck the sound out of the house. No matter what happens, no matter how loud, not a single note will leave these rooms as long as I’m inside.

I take easy breaths while I go up the stairs, searching for the bedroom. The first door that I open is the nursery, and I linger in the doorway for a few moments. It’s decorated with an adorable white crib, a rocking chair with a fluffy blanket and pillows, and a changing table. There are boxes with toys and more stuffed animals than I’ve ever seen. A dresser has a series of wooden letters on top of it, spelling out the unborn child’s name. Turning away from the room, I pull the door shut behind me.

The room across the hallway is their bedroom. The couple is sleeping peacefully, unaware of the intruder in their home. She’s very pregnant, and I reckon it won’t be much longer. Gently, I place my hand on her to verify; my magic tells me she indeed has only a couple of days left before she will give birth, which means that I don’t have time to lose.

I crouch down next to the woman and mutter a sleeping spell to ensure she doesn’t wake up. Then, I take the knife out of my pocket, lift up her hand, and carefully cut her wrist. I catch the blood in the vial that then disappears back into my pocket once it is resealed. After healing the cut so she’ll never know what happened, I give her a final look over. Then, I round the bed to repeat the process with the man. Looking at his face, I find myself unable to tell whether he is Henry’s blood or if it’s the woman; time has diluted the bloodline too much to tell.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

She stirs in her sleep, turning onto her side just as I stand in the doorway, about to let them be. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll wake up despite the sleeping spell. I linger a moment longer and, when she settles back in her sleep, I turn and leave both of them behind me.

Without looking back, I descend the stairs and step out the front door. The cool night air makes me shudder for a moment, and I pull the hood further over my face. It takes only a single gesture to remove the silencing spell. I stand quietly on the sidewalk across the street from the house. My hand touches the vials in my pocket, and my shoulders sag just a little. A smile of relief plays on my lips, glad to have this part over and done with. I walk away, about to restore power to the street, when I notice it.

Someone is watching me.

But not the same someone as before.

A quick look over my shoulder shows me the street is still deserted, except for me. My posture turns rigid, and my hands won’t settle as my magic flows through me, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

My breathing is all that I hear as I stand there, waiting and peering around me from under the hood of my cloak. The hushed atmosphere feels unnatural, as if the silencing spell expanded instead of retracted. My gut feeling tells me to get out of here, but I’ve grown tired of being followed every time I leave the house. Something stirs in the air above me. I look up, barely managing to evade the sword that’s aimed at my face. My heart races as I jump out of the way, my fingers quickly casting a protection around me.

In a flurry of wings, a woman descends in front of me, her sword drawn and aimed at me. My mouth falls open slightly at the sight of her, at how beautiful yet lethal she looks. She has pale skin and raven-black hair that hangs in a braid over her right shoulder. Her body is lean and deadly, and her lilac-gray eyes glare at me. They display murderous intent, only made clearer by the snarl on her lips. If her earlier swing at me is anything to go by, I know death is what she has planned for me.

A pair of beautiful light–warm gray feathery wings grazes her back, disappearing as she grins at me. She’s clad in a pair of black pants, a bloodred blouse with a black corset over it, and black leather boots.

This woman is clearly inhuman—my first inhuman encounter, not including him. A small voice inside my head wonders if they’re all this gorgeous or if it’s just a coincidence. I shake my head and focus on the real question: Can she be killed?

“I’ve come for your head, witch,” she snarls, her voice sharp and fire burning in those cold eyes.

Witch, huh? Well, she’s not wrong. Not really.

She launches herself at me with a shriek. Her wings shoot back out of her shoulders and add to her speed. The heels of her boots click loudly against the asphalt of the street, the speed at which she charges making me dizzy. It barely gives me time to send a counter spell her way. It collides with her sword and, even though it stops her in her tracks, she manages to deflect it with the blade.

My eyes grow wide at this before noticing the symbols carved in the metal.

“You’ve got to be joking,” I mumble with raised eyebrows upon recognizing them.

Her sword is blessed with Elomadh, making it able to resist magic. Or, at least, it’s able to resist this magic. Which means I have to reassess the situation.

With a quick flick of my hand, my cloak is on the ground next to me. The vials will be safe there for the moment; I won’t risk them getting caught in the crossfire. Distracted by this momentarily, she comes at me again. This time, I’m not fast enough to evade her, so instead I catch the blade in my hands. It cuts my flesh, and I flinch at the sting of the metal, a pained grimace on my face.

At least my action startles her, catching her off guard for a moment. Her eyes widen in shock, but she quickly recovers and pushes the blade deeper into my skin.

It’s my turn to grin at her then, as my blood coats the metal and drips onto the ground. A single word, and my blue flames are infused with blood magic, running down to her hands. She screams as the fire burns her, and she throws the sword aside, ripping it out of my hands. It lands in some shrubbery that immediately ignites, the blue flames quickly devouring it. I snap my fingers to extinguish the fire, not wanting to cause even more of it to break out.

“How…” She doesn’t finish her sentence as she reaches behind her back and pulls out a short sword, the same symbols running over them.

While she does this, I dip my fingers in the cuts on my palms, quickly improvising. I breathe through the pain, swaying lightly and trying to ignore the way my skin tingles in discomfort.

The kind of magic I’m used to isn’t made to battle against a non-magic user. Especially not one with magic-resistant weapons. Constructing circles takes too much time, so I make a mental note to find a solution to that, just in case this ends up being a reoccurring thing. I desperately don’t want that to be the case.

For now, though, I use magic to draw circles on my arms, powered by my blood. It better be enough to get me out of this. My advantage only lasts as long as I’m able to keep her at a distance. If she manages to gain enough ground on me, she can potentially cut me open before I have the chance to defend myself. It’s not like it will kill me, but it will hurt like hell to be gutted and that’s something I’d rather not experience.

She comes at me again, and I use blood magic to send an attack spell her way. Her sword attempts to cut through the spell but is unable to completely stop it. She folds her wings in front of her, fast enough to block most of the impact, but some of my magic still slips through and hits her with the force of a thousand knives. It severely cuts up her legs, as I hoped it would. She stumbles, almost tripping over the side of the curb, and I quickly go for a second attack now that the blood on my hands is still wet.

Swirls of ice-blue magic wrap themselves around her wings and drive them away from her body. A flash of pain mixed with anger fills her face, and it forces her to retract her wings. The moment they are gone, my magic returns to me and I dash forward. I kick her legs out from under her before she has time to react. No longer supported by her wings, she falls against one of the cars parked by the side of the road, yet she still manages to swing her sword at me. The weapon makes contact, cutting my arm and my side with a single motion.

Pain runs through me, and I gasp for breath. She uses this chance the same way I did with her. Her wings are back instantly, lifting her up, and she tackles me. I’m smashed face-first to the ground, and my head collides with the sidewalk. She pins me down with her knee on my back and grabs my wrists in both of her hands. She pulls my arms away from my body, causing the most agonizing stretch as my wounds expand.

A guttural groan escapes me, pain making my body tingle all over. Even after I use magic to heal this, I know I’m going to be sore for days.

She pulls my wrists together to hold them in one hand against her chest. She then bends over, using her free hand to angle the blade against my neck, clearly having no clue that making me bleed works more to my advantage than hers.

“Not so tough when you can’t use your hands, are you?”

The metal presses against my neck, then breaks my skin. “Who said anything about hands?” I grin at her through the pain.

Her eyes widen, realization hitting her too late. She curses at me and starts to pull away, but she’s too slow. Magic runs through me, burning her fingers where she holds my wrists. The pain shows on her face, even as she refuses to voice it, and the grip on her weapon loosens. I kick against her legs once more, and she stumbles, dropping the blade.

I scurry to get away from her, panting heavily and placing my hand against a light post for support. Despite wanting to come off as strong and confident, my heart is almost beating out of my chest. I’m sweating out all of my fear and insecurities, and I’m surprised she hasn’t noticed yet. My hand goes to my neck in an instant, closing up the cut just enough to make sure it doesn’t become a problem.

My tough-girl act is only going to last so long. The blood loss is already starting to make me feel dizzy, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this up. My breathing is heavy and ragged, my magic sending painful stings through my whole body while it slowly heals me. My fingers move to heal the other wounds, but she’s already regaining her footing.

“Can we just… not?” I groan when she pulls out a dagger from her boot.

She looks at me with her eyebrows squished together. “What?”

“I don’t even know why you want my head,” I say. “I mean, I haven’t even been in this time long enough to watch my first movie. How the hell do you want me dead already? I’ve never met you before five minutes ago.”

She gives me a blank look. “Your first… movie? What the fuck are you talking about?” Her lips pull back in disgust, her grip around the hilt of the dagger tightening.

I throw a quick glance at my cloak, deciding that I need to get over there and away from this fight. The problem is that I need time to cast a transportation spell; if I just run, she will catch up with me in seconds. There is no way that I’ll be able to outrun someone with wings. I also don’t know how much longer I have until I’ll be pulled back automatically, so I’m not taking the risk of waiting for that to happen.

“At least tell me why?”

“Fuck off,” she barks, then proceeds to come at me.

I jump out of the way a fraction of a second too slow, and she manages to cut me right between my breasts. The sting makes me hiss as blood wells up, which in turn makes me cringe. I have to incapacitate her in order to cast the transportation spell, or I will have to wing it and hope for the best.

My eyes go to her wings, then to her discarded short sword. She swings the dagger at me, and I put up a protective spell. The impact of the blade against my spell reverberates around us. It creates a high-pitched sound wave that shatters the windows of the surrounding houses. How no one has come out to see what the hell is happening, I don’t know. But I most definitely don’t have the time, nor the patience, to question it further.

She’s startled by the sudden commotion of broken glass, and I take the opportunity to go for the short sword. My hands close around the hilt, and I quickly move toward my cloak.

She recovers about as fast as I expected. She sees me holding her weapon in my hand and laughs at the sight of it. “You’re a hundred years too early to beat me with my own weapons.”

She’s on top of me in the blink of an eye, her dagger planted deep in my stomach and her face twisted in the most vicious snarl. The pain is horrible, even worse when she twists the blade in my abdomen. Blood wells up in my mouth, and I turn my head so it can drip out instead of causing me to choke. The taste and smell of it is so strong, so overwhelming, that it almost blocks out all my other senses.

She starts to say something, but I cut her off by trapping her feet to the ground with a spell. It isn’t supposed to last long, just long enough for what I need. I hurry away from her, almost tripping over my own feet with the dagger still impaled in my torso. She yells and thrashes in an attempt to free her feet, and the distraction is enough for me to get back on my own.

I tighten my grip around the hilt of the short sword, stepping around her and burying the blade in her back, right at the point where her wings emerge. The weapon is at such an angle that she’ll need a minute to get it out once she overcomes the paralyzing nature of the injury. She screams, and I smile, blood flowing freely out of my mouth now.

Slowly, with a strained grimace, I step away from her while I pull the dagger from my body. It makes me flinch, and I bite my tongue to swallow down the pain while I throw the weapon on the ground. Giving her another look, I notice that the spell at her feet is already starting to deteriorate.

My strength is leaving me too fast, so the blood already dripping from the multiple wounds will have to suffice. Mumbled words leave my lips as I stumble to my cloak, picking it up off the street. She frees herself from the spell, then her arms reach behind her, struggling to reach the blade and cursing in the process. She pulls the short sword free from her back, gasping, the agony clear on her face. I turn to her with the cloak in my arms and smile.

It takes too much out of me, but I manage to construct a transportation circle. The words for the spell leave my mouth, and the circle shines brightly. Every pulse of magic takes more and more of my consciousness in exchange.

She picks up and then throws the dagger at me. The next moment, I hit a hardwood floor.