Page 35 of As Above, So Below

And here comes her lie. I smirk.

“But I have bartered with her before,” she follows with a short, nervous laugh as if she’s just admitted to something embarrassing.

I admit, it’s not the lie I was expecting.

“I won’t ask what for, or why, or when, or even how often. But I will tell you Nethariswillfind out, and when he does, you can expect both you and Sunshine to spend time in obsidian,” I say in a firm tone, and she gives me a tight nod.

He’d lock them in obsidian after bursting into hellfire with his rage. Knowing Netharis, I’ll be blamed for Ylara’s involvement with a shadow hag too—after all, he left her in my care as my ward. Nine hundred years span between us in age, and sometimes I feel she’s older than I.

As we turn a corner, a series of flickering, red orbs outside the sphere of light come into view.

Souls.

Weak ones at that.

Narrowing my eyes against the magelight to see beyond it, the souls are bound to one another, their red glow highlights a thin tendril of black wrapped around them, stringing them together.

They’re being herded.

My eyes shoot wide with the realization.

“Necromancer,” I breathe, stopping my feet. Ylara follows suit, freezing beside me.

While certain necromancers are welcome in the Tower to collect souls, being spotted by one is exactly what I don’t need. There’s a high chance this necromancer is a House patriarch of Cerwiden, the sister continent of Eldoterra. And if so, he’ll hold a contract with Netharis.

Netharis cannot learn Ylara and I have been down here.

With a nervous glance, my sister looks over her shoulder. “Should we go around another way?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“No.” I shake my head.

Crooking my fingers with the needed runes to command the magelight, it vanishes, and darkness swallows us.

“We wait,” I whisper, and Ylara’s hand grabs mine.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the only light in the hall coming from the weak glow of the souls ahead. With feet firmly planted, every muscle in my body tenses as I prepare for the possibility of being discovered.

I may have to kill a necromancer.

I fixate on the chain of souls, watching them closely. For the time being, the orbs are oblivious to the two Death Bringers standing twenty feet away in the shadows. An eternity passes before the sound of shuffling feet and clinking glass through the muck and grime echoes down the corridor. Finally, the necromancer emerges from the hall on the left, just beyond the souls, their red light washing over him.

He pitches at the waist, picking up the loose end of the tether and straightens himself, giving me a clear view of his face.

A dark fae.

Undoubtedly a Cerwiden House patriarch.

His face is blackened by an abundance of Malbolge runes, and his eyes glow red as they search the hall. Silver hair cascades over his shoulder, pulled into a single thick braid decorated with tiny gold trinkets. Matching gold omen charms hang around his neck. They rest against his exposed chest where his House brand lies inked over his heart.

Lord of Blood, it reads.

He wears deep crimson robes, held at the waist with a wide leather belt from which several small glass jars hang on his left. Each containing some kind of herb or poison, I’m sure. Perhaps even dried fingers, a necessary item for entry into the hells.

His eyes narrow as they sweep the hall, sweep over me, and despite being well hidden in the dark, outside of the light of the souls, I feel seen. Ylara’s grip tightens; she feels it too.

If I had a beating heart, it would be thundering wildly right now.

“Make yourself known, demon,” he demands, his voice deep and full of a resonating power that dances along my spine. His hand falls to the dagger at his waist. “These souls are claimed,” he adds firmly.