Ritual of the Broken (Haunted Hearts)

Chapter 17

Chapter

Seventeen

A drian was not fine. They took an elevator down that felt to Adrian like a sauna, and he absently scratched at his chest. He leaned heavily against the wall of the elevator.

The elevator doors slid open with a muted ding, and he let himself sink against Ollie, forcing him to hold Adrian up with two hands. Ollie guided them to a bench in the lobby.

“Easy there, tough guy.” Ollie attempted a light tone, but concern lined his forehead.

Adrian grunted. Aches and pains twitched in his muscles. “I’m fine.”

But the words rang hollow even to his own ears. He raked a hand over his chest again, the fabric sticking to his skin with more than just sweat. He scented the familiar metallic tang. Glancing down, he saw the dark stain seeping through his shirt .

Blood. His blood.

Ollie followed his gaze, brow furrowing. “Let me take a look.”

Before Adrian could protest, deft fingers already undid the snap buttons of his shirt. Under different circumstances, he might have reveled in Ollie’s touch and imagined the mage’s hands roaming farther. But now, as the fabric of his shirt pulled apart and stinging against the wound, he felt only a gnawing dread.

The wound from the creature’s attack gaped angry and raw, black tendrils snaking out from the torn flesh like poisonous vines. Adrian swallowed hard, his throat constricting.

“Definitely not fine,” Ollie murmured, his expression grave.

Adrian opened his mouth, but the mage silenced him with a stern look.

“Don’t even try to bullshit me. This...” Ollie gestured at the festering wound. “This isn’t normal. It looks like—” Ollie stared at the wound. “The creature infected you with something.”

The word hung heavy between them, laced with implications Adrian didn’t want to consider. Werewolves didn’t get infections, not in the way humans did. He shook his head, but the motion made the room spin. “Can’t be...”

“I’m no healer, but we talked about curses in school. If I had to guess…” Ollie’s voice was gentle but firm. “From the pictures I’ve seen, this has all the signs. We need to get you to a Synod healer. Now. ”

Adrian wanted to argue, to insist he could tough it out. The last thing he wanted to do was subject himself to a mage he didn’t know. “I can’t,” Adrian said.

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Werewolves have our own healers.”

“Do you know anyone here? Can you call them?”

All his people, those he knew of anyway, were still down south, hours away in Elizabethtown. Not that he’d want to call them. He hadn’t spoken to many of them for too many years to count. Adrian shook his head.

“Okay, then. Synod it is.”

Something snarled in Adrian’s mind at the thought. He couldn’t let himself be put in that position again. He wouldn’t. His wolf even stirred enough that Ollie stiffened and slid away a few inches on the bench.

“Stay with me,” Ollie said. He closed the gap again. “You can trust me.”

He could trust Ollie. He sensed that much. Even that was something Adrian never thought he would feel for a mage.

But could he trust another mage, one he didn’t know? No, he couldn’t. Not after everything that happened to him.

Adrian stood. He opened his mouth to tell Ollie he would find another way. But even as the thought formed, a wave of dizziness washed over him, and his legs buckled. Ollie’s arms caught him before he could crumple to the floor, cradling him close.

Adrian gripped Ollie’s shirtfront. He looked up at him. “Promise you won’t leave me alone.”

Ollie met his gaze. He reached up and put a hand on Adrian’s face in a way that, even with how he felt, was still a warm comfort. “I’m not going to leave you. I’ll be right by your side.”

Then Adrian couldn’t focus so well anymore.

“Hang in there,” Ollie murmured, his breath warm against Adrian’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Despite the haze of pain, Adrian was still aware of Ollie’s proximity, the strength in his wiry frame as he supported Adrian’s weight. He could smell the faint traces of herbs and ozone that clung to the mage, mixed with the tang of exertion and concern.

Letting his head loll against Ollie’s shoulder, Adrian surrendered to the inevitable. He was in no condition to argue. With a long sigh that felt too much like a death rattle, he allowed the darkness to claim him, trusting Ollie to guide them through whatever lay ahead.

Ollie paced the lobby of the apartment building, phone clutched tightly in his hand as it rang. Adrian’s labored breathing on the bench behind him only made this worse.

Emmerich better pick up. Ollie had no other choice. Minutes ago, he couldn’t stomach the idea of even texting him. Now he needed for that asshole to pick up.

The elevator in the lobby dinged, signaling someone’s arrival. When the line clicked, Ollie lashed out with a shove of power. Before the doors to the elevator could open completely—showing two people standing inside—they closed again and the elevator started an ascent back to the top floor. With another wave of his hand, the glass doors leading out locked, and the light above the second elevator guttered then went dark. That should keep everything locked down for a bit. He needed privacy.

“Ollie? This is unexpected.” Emmerich’s sarcastic tone washed over him and made Ollie’s jaw tighten. “You’re early. You said you would give me until?—”

Ollie cut him off. “I need your help.”

“I’m already helping you. Isn’t that enough for one day?”

Ollie took a breath, fighting to keep his voice level. “Adrian’s been injured—cursed, I think. We were investigating a case, and he got slashed by some... thing. The wound isn’t healing like it should.”

“Adrian? The detective?” A pause. “The therianthrope?”

“Werewolf,” Ollie said. “Just say werewolf like a normal person.”

Emmerich’s sigh blew in over the phone. “Seems risky to insult me when you’re asking for my help.”

Ollie pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at the screen. If he could blast something through the airwaves right now to slap Emmerich upside his smug head, he would. But he wasn’t going to try. He put the phone back to his ear. “I’m sorry, Emmerich. Things are a bit… stressful at the moment. Look, I need you to arrange for a healer. Urgently.”

Emmerich made a thoughtful sound. “I don’t know, Ollie. Involving werewolves in Synod affairs?—”

“It’s already involved!” Ollie snapped, his patience fraying. “Isn’t it the Synod’s job to act as an arbiter of magical use and maintain order? Someone is summoning otherworldly entities to steal mortal souls. This is bigger than some territorial pissing match, Emmerich. Lives are at stake.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. Finally, Emmerich sighed. “Very well. But you’ll owe me an explanation. Bring him to the Forums, and I’ll have a healer standing by.”

Relief washed over Ollie, but he bristled at the implication of a debt owed. “Actually, you’ll owe me. We found another sigil—similar to the first crime scene, but a different symbol this time.”

He could almost hear Emmerich’s eyebrows raise. “Did you now? That’s... interesting. Yes, I’ll need to examine that right away.”

“I thought you might.” Ollie couldn’t resist a small, smug smile. Bargaining chips were in short supply when dealing with Emmerich. “We’ll be there soon.”

He ended the call without waiting for a response, turning his attention back to Adrian. The detective’s condition seemed to worsen by the minute; his pallor was ashen and he was drenched in a cold sweat. Dread coiled in Ollie’s gut as he crossed the lobby.

Kneeling beside the bench, he placed a gentle hand on Adrian’s arm and gave him a shake. “Hey, big guy. You still with me?” It took far too long to get a response.

Adrian’s eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain but tinged with an amber color he’d seen with the wolf. “Don’t have much choice, do I?” His words were little more than a ragged whisper, but a brief smile crawled across his lips before falling again.

“Not if you want to keep breathing.” Ollie managed a wan smile of his own. It was good there was still some levity between them. “I got us an appointment with a specialist. Think you can make it a little farther?”

A muscle twitched in Adrian’s jaw, but he gave a slight nod. Bracing himself, Ollie slipped an arm around the detective’s broad shoulders, hauling him upright with a grunt of effort. Adrian sagged against him, dead weight, and Ollie tightened his grip.

“Lean on me,” he murmured, guiding them toward the door to the lobby. “I’ve got you.” He felt in one of the pockets sewn into his jacket, hoping he hadn’t lost… yes, there it was. A goose-down feather.

Ollie held it up and blew on it, injecting his will into it. The feather floated up like it had just come from a pillow. Ollie plucked it back and tucked it into a pocket of Adrian’s jacket. That should do it. Once in place, the power pushed into the feather took over. Adrian’s weight lessened, and Ollie walked him to the car .

It took him a moment to locate everything in Adrian’s car. Ollie didn’t drive much. He was fine taking the bus or riding the train. A ride share if he needed to get someplace fast. But he at least knew how to get the car out of the parking space.

The drive downtown seemed like a lifetime and then some to Ollie. A lot of people honked at him on the way. Cabs and other drivers cut him off like they sensed he was easy prey. But that was pretty normal for Chicago traffic. Finally, he pulled into a parking garage near State Street, his grip tight on the steering wheel as he guided the car into a spot. In the passenger seat beside him, Adrian remained frighteningly still and silent, his complexion an ashen gray.

As soon as the engine cut off, Ollie fumbled for his phone, firing off a text to Emmerich to let him know they’d arrived and sent him their location. His fingers trembled. Urgency and apprehension coiled in his gut. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and reached over to give Adrian’s shoulder a gentle shake.

“Hey, we’re here,” he said, trying to keep his tone light despite the worry gnawing at him. “Time to get you some help.”

Adrian gave no response, not even a flutter of his eyelids. Ollie’s jaw tightened. He’d known Adrian’s condition was dire, but seeing the man so utterly unresponsive made his chest constrict.

Ollie stepped out of the car, craning his neck to scan the dim concrete surroundings. Where the hell was this healer Emmerich had promised? Just as his impatience started to spike, the sound of footsteps echoed through the garage.

Four figures emerged from the shadows, three men led by a woman with a stern, no-nonsense air. She brushed past Ollie without a word, the passenger door to the car opening by itself at her approach. Leaning in, she pulled aside Adrian’s shirt to assess the wound on his chest with a critical gaze.

After a moment, she gave a grim sound and turned to Ollie. “Warden Sentinel Nyla Lawson,” she said by way of introduction. “I’ll need a full account of how he was injured.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but Nyla held up a hand, silencing him. Clearly, she didn’t mean now. He didn’t even get a chance to introduce himself. She turned her attention instead to the three men accompanying her.

“Get him out of the car and inside. Quickly now.”

One of the men began a series of practiced gestures, lips moving in a silent incantation. A shimmering field of energy encased Adrian, lifting him effortlessly from the car seat. The second man cast another spell, a subtle shimmer passing over the group.

“Cloaking veil,” Nyla said, her tone clipped. “Can’t have mortals stumbling upon this.”

The third man did nothing except stare hard at Ollie, and Ollie wondered what his purpose was.

Ollie trailed after them, feeling distinctly like a third, or, well, fifth wheel as the procession made its way down to the ground level and across busy State Street. Mortals seemed to step out of the way of their own accord as the five of them passed with Adrian floating in the middle. There was something in the magic that suggested they should move aside. They wouldn’t even know why.

The group headed toward a discreet doorway tucked in an alcove, seemingly an entrance Ollie wasn’t aware of. As they neared it, the door swung open, revealing a small, utilitarian room with another door at the far end.

“Stay close,” Nyla said.

The wards, as they passed through, tickled over Ollie’s skin. There was a reason he didn’t know about this door, and that was because it was meant only for certain members of the Synod. And he certainly wasn’t one of them. If he wasn’t with Warden Sentinel Nyla Lawson, there was a very good chance he wouldn’t have made it through this particular door alive.

Nyla brought up the rear after he passed through, shooting Ollie a pointed look over her shoulder. “Well? Out with it, Hartley. What happened?”

She said his name so it landed like a slap, and Ollie felt the weight of disapproval from the three men, their eyes flickering to him with naked disdain. The Hartley legacy, it seemed, still cast its long shadow. He lifted his chin, refusing to let it shake him.

“We were investigating a series of murders,” he began, keeping his tone measured. “Some kind of dark entity, preying on souls. Adrian was attacked—slashed by its claws or tendrils or whatever they were.”

Nyla’s expression was unreadable as she processed this. “Repairing damage caused by such a nefarious force won’t be easy on a therianthrope,” she said, her voice holding a warning edge. “Especially one as... magically wayward as a werewolf.”

Ollie’s jaw clenched at her tone, but he refused to take the bait by arguing semantics. “Can you heal him or not?”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Nyla’s lips, but her gaze remained as intense as ever. “Of course I can heal him,” she said, as if the question itself was insulting. “But it may require... unorthodox methods. I trust you’re prepared for that, Hartley? Your family has a history with the unorthodox, does it not?”

There was a glint in her eye that made the hairs on the back of Ollie’s neck prickle, and Ollie wanted to lash out. But now was not the time. He’d made a promise to Adrian—he wasn’t going to leave his side. He met her stare and gave a resolute nod. “Whatever it takes.”

Ollie followed Nyla through the doorway, emerging into a cavernous space that felt distinctly out of place even for the Aetherium Forums beneath the city streets. The room was constructed of rough-hewn stone, illuminated by flickering candles and a faint haze of incense. A large ritual circle dominated the center, its intricate designs etched into the floor itself.

As the other mages carried Adrian’s levitating form to a table within the circle’s bounds, Ollie took in the archaic surroundings. He’d seen plenty of magical spaces in school. But this one felt out of step with time. Nyla went to a smaller table beside the circle, laden with an assortment of ritual components—herbs, stones, ritual knives, small carved figurines—and set about preparations.

With a wave, Nyla dismissed the three men. They filed out. Ollie made to follow them, at least to the outside of the circle. He didn’t want to contaminate the ritual inside...

“No, Hartley,” Nyla said.

Ollie stopped.

“You were present when this wound happened, correct?” Nyla’s voice cut through the heavy atmosphere.

Ollie faced her. “I was.”

“Then you stay.” It wasn’t a request. “Come into the circle, and once the ritual begins, do not cross the boundary no matter what you see, what you hear,” she gave him a pointed look, “or what comes for you.”

Cold lanced at the base of Ollie’s neck and fingered down his spine, but he forced himself to meet Nyla’s intense stare. Adrian lay unnaturally still and pale on the table. Whatever reservations he had, he wouldn’t abandon him.

Squaring his shoulders, Ollie stepped over the circle’s threshold. Instinctively, he reached for his magic, calling up the beginnings of a defensive ward—only to have Nyla’s voice slice through his concentration.

“No. I won’t allow any outside magical interference. You are to follow every command I give you.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Ollie shifted his weight. Nyla’s no-nonsense demeanor made him feel like a student called before the school principal. He resisted the urge to fidget, keeping his expression neutral.

Nyla continued her preparations. “Why don’t you tell me about your family?”

The question caught Ollie off guard. “Why do you need to know about my family?” he asked.

Nyla’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “The Hartley name is still whispered about within certain circles of the Synod.”

Of course, he was aware. “It’s all ancient history, I assure you.”

“Is it?” Nyla arched an eyebrow. “From what I understand, the full details were never disclosed. Sealed records, family members who disappeared...” She let the implication hang in the air. “Those who have died because of it, some recently.”

Ollie felt his jaw tighten. He knew better than to take the bait, to let her goad him into revealing more than intended. Still, it stung.

“If you’re asking whether my mother had anything to do with whatever happened back then, the answer is no.”

“I’m not accusing you or your mother of anything, Hartley.” Nyla’s tone remained even. “But you can’t deny your lineage carries... baggage. I need to know if there are any familial entanglements that could compromise this investigation.”

The words hung between them. Ollie considered his response carefully. Part of him wanted to lash out, to defend his family’s tarnished honor. But pragmatism won.

“Look, I don’t know the full story any more than you do,” he said finally. “My father had nothing to do with it, and my mother didn’t speak of it...” He trailed off, realizing he was treading into deeply personal territory.

Nyla seemed to sense his hesitation. “I understand this is a sensitive subject. But you must see how, even with the eleventh-hour agreement between the Synod authority and your mother, your family’s past could cast doubt on your motivations and allegiances.”

Ollie exhaled slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I give you my word, I’m not beholden to any ancient Hartley agenda. I’m just trying to stop these murders and get to the bottom of whatever’s going on. And right now, I’m here to save my friend.”

For a long moment, Nyla simply studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she gave a curt nod. “Very well. I’ll take you at your word... for now.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and laid out the last of the items required for the ritual circle. Ollie watched her work, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. Her questions… He hadn’t expected an interrogation, especially not about that particular subject. He couldn’t sh ake the sense that Nyla’s scrutiny was just the beginning.

Nyla’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “Take your position on the other side of the table, Hartley. And remember: Do exactly as I say, and otherwise do not interfere, no matter what happens.”

This moment had a sense of the charged air before a severe storm. But he obeyed, stepping to the other side of the table where Adrian lay. As soon as Nyla’s voice carried through the cavern in an ancient tongue, the air rippled with power, and the candles flickered, causing shadows to flit across the stone walls.

“Lend your power,” Nyla ordered.

Ollie called up his own strength, pulling it from the space around him. It carried a primordial sense, power pulled out of some timeless place. He focused that power to weave with hers. His mind’s eye visualized the scene like a topsy-turvy tornado curling up into the darkness above. The candles flared, and the walls seemed to push outward as their combined magic filled the space. Somewhere in the dark ceiling of the cavern, stone cracked against stone.

For a moment, Nyla seemed almost surprised. She watched Ollie for too long before finally giving a curt nod of acknowledgment. “That will do quite nicely,” she said.

He wasn’t sure if he was simply misreading her, but it felt like she paid him a compliment.

Then she turned her attention to the circle. She began a slow, measured circuit around its perimeter, murmuring in a guttural tongue as she traced symbols that lingered in the air. The charge built in the atmosphere, raising the fine hairs on Ollie’s arms.

As the last syllable fell from Nyla’s lips, the runes flared to life. Ollie squinted, and when the brilliance faded, he could feel the thrum of power contained within the circle’s bounds. It pressed against him with a nearly physical force, both comforting and deeply unsettling.

“That should keep whatever that is inside,” Nyla said, her voice low as she pointed to the ugly, festering wound on Adrian’s chest.

“What is it?”

Nyla shot him a hard glance, but she answered anyway. “A piece of whatever darkness he came into contact with broke off inside him. Now we have to extract it before it burrows too deep.”

This was no ordinary healing ritual—they were dealing with something far darker, more malevolent.

“And now for the unorthodox,” Nyla said. Still focused on Adrian lying in front of her, she pointed to the table. “Bring me the wooden box with the Ulfr rune on it.”

Ollie went to the table and examined the components. Finally, he found the box. The rune on it looked like a simple A, only it had an extra bar in the space between its legs. From his studies, he recalled it meant wolf. He wasn’t sure what the box contained, but he picked it up and brought it to her.

“This will allow us to better commune with your friend’s lycanthropic nature,” she said. She turned a hand over and held it above Adrian. “Open the box and pour the contents into the palm of my hand.”

Ollie opened the box. Inside, there was a gray powdery substance. “And this is…?”

Nyla gave Ollie another frustrated stare, but she answered anyway. “The ground bones of a werewolf alpha.”

It was a good thing Adrian was passed out. But if it would help him, Ollie had no choice. He poured the powder into Nyla’s hand. It spilled over the sides and onto Adrian’s stomach. Nyla spoke more words of power, and the bone dust swirled and seemed to settle over Adrian’s form. Then Nyla brushed her hands together to rid it of any lingering powder.

“This could take some time,” Nyla warned, already moving to the component table and selecting a handful of pungent herbs. “Be ready.”

As the next syllables of the ritual intonation spilled from her lips, Ollie continued to feed his strength into the ritual. For Adrian’s sake, he would see this through to the end.

Nyla’s chanting intensified, the ancient words rolling from her tongue with practiced ease. Magic gathered in shimmering coils around Adrian’s prone form, drawn to the livid slash marring his chest. As the tendrils of the spellwork brushed against the wound, Ollie stifled a gasp.

Rather than knitting together, the flesh seemed to spread farther apart, the edges curling outward in a grotesque mockery of healing. A cold sweat broke out on Ollie’s brow as he fought the urge to intervene.

“I thought you were going to heal him,” he said, unable to keep the alarm from his voice.

Nyla’s eyes snapped open. She gave Ollie a glare that said this was the last straw. “Shh!”

She held up a hand, continuing the rhythmic intonations without breaking cadence. “It’s a curse. I have to remove it before the wound can be tended to.”

Swallowing hard, Ollie gave a jerky nod. Of course; they were dealing with something far more insidious than a simple injury.

Nyla beckoned him over with an impatient wave. “Components. On the table. The bone ash. Bring it to me, quickly!”

What was it with this ritual and ground-up bones? He hurried to obey, searching through the bowls and vials containing various powders, dust, and herbs set out on the table. He picked one up that was a fine gray powder in a bowl. It didn’t seem right as he examined it. Too fine, so he put it back down and grabbed another. This one had what he assumed were fragments of bone, and when he sniffed, he caught a hint of burn. This, he took over to Nyla. No sooner had he returned than Nyla’s voice swelled in a crescendo of arcane power.

Ollie could feel the force of her magic like a physical blow. A tendril of inky blackness unspooled from Adrian’s ravaged flesh. It coiled outward with agonizing slowness, carrying an unmistakable reek of corruption. And still, a confusing hint of the woodsy frankincense and citrus.

She grabbed the bone ash and threw it at the black mass. It seemed to recoil and shudder.

“The carved box,” Nyla barked, extending her free hand.

Ollie scrambled to pass her the requested item, watching in horrified fascination as the shadowy miasma bled from Adrian’s body into the proffered vessel. Its darkness seemed to drink in the candlelight, leaving the room’s shadows to deepen and stretch.

And the stomach-churning sweet scent filled the cavern, frankincense and citrus.

With a final, guttural invocation, Nyla slammed her palm against the box’s edge. The inky tendrils lashed wildly for a heartbeat before collapsing inward with a sound like a thousand anguished whispers. When the echoes faded, the shadows had receded, leaving only a small, warded box on the table.

“There,” Nyla said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. She turned to face Ollie, sweat beading her brow.

“What is that scent?”

Nyla took in the air through her nose. She lifted her chin. “That is the essence of entropy. It comes from the Boundary weakening as whatever caused your friend’s injury slipped through.”

That gave the scent a whole new meaning. Ollie wanted to ask more questions, but before he could speak, she lifted a hand .

“We’ve only just begun. Whatever you came across really left its mark.” She peered down at Adrian, who still showed no signs of waking up. “Now we must dig deeper.”

As her hands began tracing new gestures through the air, the weight of Nyla’s words sank in. This was only the beginning. Ollie settled in, girding himself for whatever nightmarish trial lay ahead. It was going to be a long night.