Rebirth (Lost Souls #1)

Chapter 28

T here’s the scent of apples and nutmeg again. It’s sickening, enough to make my stomach turn. Thankfully, the smell leaves me as quickly as it came. The feeling of a hardwood floor under me tells me that I made it back, and my mind pushes that scent to the background. I don’t know how long I was out for. I don’t know if I want to know. I need to do something about how frequently I lose consciousness, though; it’s becoming a bad habit.

In those few seconds it takes me to open my eyes, my body makes me aware of how wounded I really am. My breathing is quick and shallow, my hands tremble, and I’m nauseous. Sharp pain flares up literally everywhere, and I close my eyes again with a groan. I barely have enough strength to lift my hand to heal my wounds. One hand is on my stomach, healing the worst one, as the other holds on to my cloak for dear life.

The wound in my stomach is healing slowly, yet it does nothing to make me feel better. My fingers release the cloak, and it falls off my chest onto the ground with a muffled clinking from the glass vials. There is still something bothering me—a painful prodding. I open my eyes with another groan and carefully lift myself in a sitting position. That’s when I notice the dagger that sticks out of my shoulder. I have no idea how or when that happened. There is only a flash of a memory of her throwing it at me.

“Well, guess this is mine now,” I mumble and pull it free, a grimace on my face.

“What the…”

I look up and see him eye me with clear shock on his face. The look in his eyes has me fully realize what kind of state I’m in. Both my stays and my dress are ripped from the cut between my breasts, my blood darkening the fabric. A second, deeper cut starts at my right upper arm and ends above my right hip, still dripping. The one at my neck where she tried to behead me needs another lookover, and the big one in my stomach that I have healed sloppily. Last but not least, multiple cuts on my hands and the hole in my shoulder where I just pulled the dagger out.

I’m quite the sight to behold.

“What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” he asks while he kneels beside me, anger and concern lacing his voice.

“An inhuman, I assume,” I reply as I drop the dagger down on the cloak.

His eyes darken. “Once we get out of here, I’ll hunt them down and make them pay.” He carefully places his hands on me and heals my wounds, starting by gently putting his palm over the still-sore cut in my neck. I let out a pained wince as the last bits of skin are knitted back together.

“Don’t bother,” I say, my face twisting as the sloppily healed wound in my stomach starts to close up. “I’ll gladly go after her myself.”

“Her?” He seems surprised by this.

“Yeah. Dark hair, feathery wings. Real piece of work. Pretty eyes, though. A mix of gray and purple, very unique.”

He goes silent for a moment at my description of her, thinking, his hands moving to the cut between my breasts.

“Do you know her?”

“I know of her, yes. And if it’s really her, then I know who sent her after you.” He moves on to the gnarly cut that runs from my right upper arm to above my right hip.

“Sent?”

“She’s a bounty hunter that works exclusively for my brother.”

There’s anger in his eyes, anger like I haven’t seen in him before. It breaks his concentration, and I yelp when the hole in my shoulder snaps shut. He gives me an apologetic look, and I place my hand on his. I smile at him, and his eyes soften.

“I’ll get back at her, I will.” He returns my cruel smile. “And at least I learned that I need to change my magic to be more suitable when going against a non-magic user in close combat.”

He nods, still distracted as he finishes up healing me, the last cuts smoothing over.

“Is it possible,” I ask, changing the subject while he helps me limp to the sofa, “to cast spells without having to rely on the circles? They slow me down enormously in a fight.”

I sit down with a whimper, and he joins me. His hands softly touch my back and upper leg, and he sends just a little bit more magic though me. He looks at me while he does, and I see him thinking, weighing his words.

“Blood magic is draining. It can be dangerous even for someone who can’t die because prolonged use makes you weak.” He stares at me for a moment. “There is a way to cut out the manual construction of circles, but doing so means that every spell is granted free reign to take as much as it needs. Even though it allows you to tap into more power, it also makes it easy to forget how much a spell actually takes from you.”

“But it’s possible? ”

“It is, if you’re willing to pay the price. A spell will be placed on your arms, as they are closest to your hands—the usual exit point of your magic. They will be scarred, forever, allowing your blood to become permanently infused with your magic.” The hand on my leg moves to my arm, his thumb stroking my skin and making goosebumps break out. “Any spell will thus automatically take whatever it needs. You’ll only need to visualize the circles, and it will appear before you.”

He sounds sad as his fingers continue to caress my arm. “It would be a shame to scar them,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“Not if it makes me faster in a fight,” I retort. “I was lucky to get away with only these wounds. I might not be next time.”

He flinches at the idea that I was indeed lucky. As if the state I was in just earlier wasn’t enough indication of that. His reaction and his concern make my chest tighten. It shows me that he cares, which means more than I can ever tell him.

“I’m willing to pay the price. If you let me.”

He sighs. “Fine. I’ll give you a set that complements mine,” he says with a smile.

“You mean that you…”

He rolls up one of his sleeves, showing me his tattooed arm. “The scars are usually covered by the same glamor that covers the tattoos.” I smirk at how he refers to the marks as tattoos after all, and he replies with a roll of his eyes. “Though the tattoos themselves already manage to do a pretty good job at that.”

I take his arm in my hands and run my fingers up and down his skin. I see and feel thin scarring under the black symbols—the symbols of Eloghyll, carved on this arm and undoubtedly on the other as well. They were indeed scars that I felt, then.

Then it strikes me that he hasn’t covered his tattoos back up. Studying his arm, my attention is more on the tattoos than on the scars. I feel myself heat up as I come to realize that I like the way the black ink stands out against his red skin. My fingers softly trace over the outlines, and his muscles jump at the touch.

He growls deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull his arm away, instead letting me continue to touch. Even though I want to know why he didn’t reapply the glamor, I hold my tongue. I’m just glad he didn’t.

Knowing he’ll pick up on my thoughts in just a moment, I drive them out and force myself to focus back on the scars. “You did them yourself?”

“Yes, though I really can’t recommend it. Turns out that it’s quite difficult to maintain a steady hand when you carve your own flesh.”

“I can imagine,” I say, looking at my own arms. The image of the day I died flares up in my mind. For a moment, I’m back in that room, the shard of glass still in my hands.

Green eyes looking at me.

I suck in a breath, my head throbbing as I try to hold on to the memory. But just as quickly as it came, it vanishes again.

“Is it possible to”—I hesitate when I notice the tremble in my voice. So, I take a deep breath—“cover them up with a glamor?”

“Of course. And even with the markings, you can still choose to cast your spells the traditional way.”

I nod, and he goes to pick up the dagger I brought back. He puts it to my skin, the blade cold to the touch. “You’re sure?”

“Just get this over with.”

He gives me a soft kiss on my cheek, then he starts to carve up my arm.

The cuts need to be deep enough that they will scar. It means they also immediately start to bleed. The blood colors my arm and stains my already ruined clothes. I dig my nails in the fabric of my dress while I try to block out the pain.

It seems never ending as he carefully, slowly, carves symbol after symbol into my flesh .

I bite the inside of my cheek as I try to keep still, and I soon taste my own blood in my mouth again, the taste becoming so very familiar. Tangy and coppery. Focusing on it is all that allows me to hold back my pained whimpers. The pain is agonizing, and I have to avert my gaze because watching makes me feel faint.

By the time he’s halfway done with my lower arm, I thankfully only feel a slight sting of the blade. I keep my gaze averted, though, leaning back against the sofa and looking up at the ceiling.

He works meticulously, from my wrist to my shoulder, until my skin is a carved-up, bloody mess. He eventually puts the dagger down and uses his hands to spread the blood from the wounds over my whole arm, smearing it out until my pale skin is completely painted red.

Then he gets up and moves to my other side, where he repeats the process.

I’m unaware of how long it takes him to complete both arms, the pain remaining a tingling sensation as long as I don’t look at it. Nevertheless, I feel weak. Weak for not having completely recovered from the fight, from the blood loss, both then and now. My head feels light, even as I let it fall back against the back of the sofa.

When he puts the dagger down for a second time and starts to smear the blood, a small moan of relief escapes me. His touch is warm and soothing, and I close my eyes for a moment. The remaining pain flows out of me, and my body relaxes slightly. Gratitude that this is over and done with takes the place of the stinging pain. My chest expands with every slow breath I take. His hand touches my cheek, caressing me softly.

When I open my eyes again, I find him looking at me with a sad smile.

“They’re done,” he says, and I look at my arms. Even through all the blood, I still see the symbols, the still-bleeding lines carved in my flesh. “I hope they’ll at least heal nicely,” I say in a weak, slightly trembling voice.

“They will, don’t worry.” He chuckles. “I’ve experimented enough on myself and on others to know what I’m doing.”

I don’t know what disturbs me more: that he did this to himself, multiple times, or something similar to others. Others that probably weren’t willing subjects.

“Repeat after me.” He throws me a short look. “P a i o od culfisait vivmuletco rotuz rip hag oaa lia pev novph ibtph incal danapr lethoa pah ig ig sro.”

My voice breaks when I repeat the words in Eloghyll, but I slowly manage to get them out.

The symbols light up and make my arms sting as they absorb the blood. It only takes a few seconds until it’s all gone, taking the feeling of magic with it. The cuts have healed and turned into fine, thin scars on my flesh. The symbols are almost mesmerizing to look at.

“Give it a try.”

I visualize a protective circle in my head and, upon speaking the first word, the circle forms in front of my hands, charged and ready. The process makes my arms tingle slightly, and I look at him, the question apparent from my gaze.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says. “Small spells don’t drain that much, so they’ll only tingle. It’s the big ones that you will have to be careful with.”

I withdraw the spell, and the circle evaporates. “I don’t need to speak the spell anymore?”

“Thinking about it is enough to make it happen.”

“That’s even more of a convenience.”

He grins at me. “You really do go hard when it comes to revenge, don’t you.”

I shrug. “I just want to get better, stronger, so I’m able to protect myself from whatever crosses my path, be it a bounty hunter or you.”

He starts to laugh at this. “You don’t need to protect yourself from me, love. You have to accept me and how I want you.”

“I could do that if you stopped being such an asshole,” I retort, my eyes narrowing.

He gets up, not bothered in the least by my words. “Looks like we’ll need to fight it out again sometime soon.”

“Gladly.”

His lips curl up in a smile while he picks up my cloak that is still bundled on the floor. The glass vials clink, and he takes them out of the pocket. “At least you got what you needed.”

“I did. I’ll prepare the blood in a bit and, as soon as I’m able to return, I’ll cast the curse.”

“Will it be long before it’s going to be activated?”

“She was due in a handful of days.”

The most evil smile appears on his face, and it makes my heart skip a beat. “I better finish up packing, then.”

I hesitate for a moment. “Thank you for these,” I say with a nod at the scars.

“Just don’t think that I’ll be going easy on you from now on,” he teases with a cocky smile.

“I’d be worried if you did,” I scoff as I cross my arms in front of my chest.

He chuckles, his yellow eyes glistening. Without saying another word, he leaves the library.

After a few moments of silence, I look down at myself and crinkle my nose at the sorry state I’m in. I wanted to start preparing the blood, but then realize the teeth are still in the other library, meaning that’s not an option for now. And I shouldn’t walk around looking like a murder victim.

When I stand up from the sofa, my legs wobble under me and I have to steady myself for a few seconds. Once I’m confident my legs aren’t going to give out on me, I return to my room to shower and change my clothes.

I t takes longer than I expected to wash all the blood from my skin and out of my hair. The bar of soap is almost gone by the time that I’m done, the water finally running clear at my feet. The fresh scars on my arms sting slightly from the abuse, but they’ve healed nicely despite it. It will take some time to get used to them, though it appears time is something that I’ll have in abundance.

Seeing how I don’t have anything to do here at the moment and I still have a little bit of cooldown time left, I make my way to his study to see if there is anything I can help with. In my hand, I hold the cloak with the vials of blood, the glass clinking with every step I take.

With a knock on the door, I let myself into his study. He’s folding a cardboard box shut and adding it to a pile.

“I left the teeth at the house”—the corners of his lips tip up at this—“so I came to see if there is anything I can do to help.”

“You can, actually. These boxes need to get to the house, and, seeing your little arson stunt a while back?—”

“Yes, yes,” I say, already annoyed at the tone he’s taking with me. “I need to make it up to you.”

I look at the boxes, thinking. “Is this all of them?”

He nods.

“I had expected more, to be honest.”

“You underestimate how much you’ve destroyed since you got here.” His voice is cold, telling me that he’s never going to fully forgive me .

“Still,” I continue, choosing to ignore his tone, “five boxes isn’t all that much. Six if you count the one that is already at the house.”

He looks at me, his face blank. “Did you really think I was going to have you touch the most important items? I moved those immediately after what you did to the library.”

I stand there, baffled. “So, all this talk about me having to repay you was just that—talk?”

He shrugs. “You can’t blame me for being paranoid about it. Consider us even.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” He approaches me with anger in his eyes.

“You gave me hell for the library and now, just like that, we’re even? No, I won’t accept it.”

He stands in front of me, our bodies almost touching as he looks down on me. I jerk my head back to look at him, my face reddening with anger.

His eyes search mine, but I don’t know what for. If he wants me to stand down, then he’ll be disappointed. “Fine,” he snarls. “Then we’re not. I’ll burn something of yours down, something you care about, sooner or later.”

“I don’t have anything I care about.”

He smiles at me then, baring his teeth. “Oh, at some point there will be something. I’ll take that from you when the time comes.”

The fire that burns in his eyes burns in mine as well. Neither one of us is about to let this go.

“Now get those boxes to the house and work the curse. I grow tired of waiting.”

He turns on his heels and leaves me with the boxes to figure it out on my own. I roll my eyes with a huff, then start to draw a circle in the study, uncaring that doing this damages the hardwood floor even more. I refuse to carry all five boxes to the library .

It takes a lot out of me to suppress the urge to throw the boxes into the circle, but that will only prove his point about me and my actions. Instead, I exaggerate the action of carefully putting the boxes in place before activating the spell, the cloak with the vials on top of the pile.

Emerging on the other side of the spell, I leave the boxes where they appear alongside me. Taking the vials out of the cloak, I hold them carefully in my hand as I go over to the desk and gently put them down again. My hand is reaching over the table to the mortar and pestle when something glitters out of the corner of my eye.

I return to the boxes, lifting my cloak to get to the other pocket and pulling out the dagger that was embedded in my shoulder not too long ago. It still has my blood on it, but I barely notice it as I ponder when he put it in there. Does he want me to keep it?

A weapon can come in handy at times, especially one that can withstand magic.

Something pulls at me, nudging me to open the box on top. In doing so, I find a leather belt with a sheath attached to it. He definitely means for me to keep it.

I put the dagger in the sheath, then place it aside on the desk. The weapon feels nice in my hand, and I want to try it out, but I have other things to do first.

Picking up where I left off, I gather most of the teeth into the mortar, only saving three of each set, and grind them down with the pestle. After transferring the dust to a different bowl, I add in the two vials of blood, mixing it all into a thick paste. I divide the paste into three portions, two of which go into separate jars for both parts of the summoning spell.

I hold the bowl with the remainder in my hand while cleaning the surface of the desk. Once the surface is clear, I place the mortar down once more on the corner of my workspace and my hand goes to the dagger, using it to carefully cut my palm before placing it back in the sheath. Blood wells up, and I use it to draw three connected circles on the tabletop. Despite my fresh markings, I’m more comfortable casting this curse with manual circles. It seems like too big a spell and too great a risk to cast it any other way, which will most likely remain true for the summoning spell as well.

Next, I use the paste to draw the connecting circle around it, making sure that they are securely joined together. Once done, I take a step back to look everything over, making sure that I didn’t miss anything. Nervously biting the inside of my cheek, I decide that it looks perfect.

The words linger on my lips, but my mouth is dry and a small headache forms behind my eyes. It’s my first curse, and it gives me a pit in my stomach when I think back to my other big spells. Most recently, the time-stitching spell that destroyed the red room, and then the one that I was going to use to escape—the one that almost pulverized me because the sacrificial city was gone. Then there’s the spell I used to get revenge on Henry and my sister, which turned my hair white. Something has gone wrong every time.

I rub the back of my neck, doubting every single magical decision I’ve made up until now. Shaking out my hands, I tell myself that I really can’t start with that. If I don’t do this, then we can’t do the summoning and transportation spells. Not doing those means that we’ll be stuck in that prison forever, and that’s something I definitely can’t have happening. I have a possibly immortal life now, and I’m not going to waste it withering away between those walls.

Part of me also wonders if perhaps this curse is too impersonal, too detached. I know that it’s the best course of action to achieve what I want, but it feels weird. It’s impossible to single-handedly kill each and every one of them; it would drain me—and not only magically.

I need to have faith the curse will work, that it will do what I need it to .

Despite the difficulties with my previous spells, none of them have actually failed me—except for the escape one, but that’s different. I shake my head, and a heavy sigh escapes me. In an attempt to clear all doubt from my mind, I close my eyes for a moment.

While my eyes are closed, my magic pulls at me to do what I know needs to be done. With a deep breath in, I recite the spell. It’s power surges through me and forces my eyes open again.

“Dor pha iao pi oi as momar nor od pasb mo lap yolcam cnila.”

The circle starts to twist and turn, hissing as though alive. The blood bubbles while the circle coils around itself. It reminds me of a snake eating its own tail.

“Pi nor od pasb mo lap yolcan salman teloch.”

The cut on the palm stings and starts to drip blood. The drops land on the table, being pulled toward the circle. As soon as they make contact, they are absorbed by the magic. A part of myself merges with the spell, and in return the spell with me.

“Iad ip uran baltoh od yolcan cnila teloch rylna.”

A sour taste fills my mouth, and my limbs shake ever so slightly. In this moment, I know I’m doing something truly heinous. If my soul was still salvageable before, then now it would truly be condemned for all eternity. There is a pinch of regret, a faint dullness in my chest. It whispers to me that maybe, just maybe, this is too much. That I should have let it go.

But there is no turning back now.

“Inoas coalg mators od eors.”

The final words are whisked away from my lips, and the silence that follows them makes it as though they weren’t spoken at all.

The circle on the desktop breaks free from the wood with a loud crack. The symbols light up, burning so bright they hurt my eyes, and I raise my arm to shield them. Then, with a deafening shriek, the circle expands beyond control. It explodes into a shockwave that knocks me off my feet. I land flat on my ass, both arms raised in front of my face for protection.

The magic lingers in the air for a moment before it fades away completely. I almost doubt it was successful, but I know it was—I can feel it. Now, there is nothing left to do but wait.