Page 18 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)

He knew it wouldn’t take long for Jessamine to summon him after that. She was a naturally curious little thing. That was what had brought her to this abandoned manor and what had led her to trust a rotting figure of a witch.

Soon enough, she would call upon him again. All he had to do was wait.

Thankfully, he had entertainment waiting for him. It took him a long time to find every remaining soul of previous gravesingers. They were particularly good at hiding in the ink, but he was particularly good at finding them.

Looping the chains around their necks had barely satisfied his need to see them punished. These souls were so weak, merely a hint of what they used to be. What he wanted was to punish the one who remained out there. The one who should have summoned him by now.

He’d waited, and then he’d succumbed to the darkness of his realm. The ink claimed him, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him into the shadows of his own power. This was where he would replenish himself. This was how he would gather his power, if only it didn’t drown him while he did so.

Then he heard her. The whispering need flowing through his realm and through that tiny thread of hatred that connected them.

For a moment, he forgot that he’d vowed to remain separate from this new gravesinger. He forgot that years of manipulation and pain should make his mind scream when he heard Jessamine’s voice. Instead, all he heard was the softness there. The begging.

“Deathless One.” Her voice filtered through all the memories.

He turned his face toward the sound of it, as though he was turning his face toward the moonlight. A cool breeze. A frigid kiss that burned away the fever in his body. The whispered promise of trust and perhaps a connection that would lead him out of this place.

Such dreams were fairy tales that would never come true.

She was like all the others, he reminded himself.

She was a witch, and a witch only knew power.

Even if she had no interest in it now, she would use him eventually.

There would come a time when power was more important than connection. It always ended up like that.

But he still wanted. He still dreamed.

Even the magic of this place could not hold him when a witch summoned him.

It was why he found his body dragged out of the black muck, coughing up obsidian blood that dripped down his chin and splattered upon the equally dark ground.

His ribs ached. His stomach rebelled at the pain as hands tried to drag him back into the abyss, leaving dark bruises behind.

He couldn’t stay away even if he wanted to. Jessamine’s voice pulled at him. Tugging deep in his body, forcing him to return to the realm of waking. Like a drop of ink in clear water, he manifested in the shadows of the altar room.

She’d chosen the same place to meet him. Though he ached and exhaustion crept into his vision, he knew this was by design.

Jessamine was far too intelligent. She knew how to choose a battlefield of wits, and for some reason, she had chosen this one again. To conquer him? To bury a memory?

No, he decided, looking at her as she knelt prim and proper before the altar. She had summoned him here to defeat a nightmare. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed her.

“Sleeping better?” he asked, trying to keep his voice unaffected. But even he could hear the hoarse crackle in the words.

Her head snapped in his direction, a disapproving scowl already on her face. “I could ask you the same.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Hmm.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him up and down. “You sound awful.”

“Being dead does that to a person.”

“Thank you for the cat,” she said. And there it was again. That softness that made her long lashes flicker against her cheeks as her gaze dropped. “It… helped. Even if I’m not certain it actually is a cat.”

No. He couldn’t suffer through this again.

Jessamine had bared that swanlike neck to him, and it made him need .

He wanted to bite down on it, to leave his mark even more than that scar that wrapped around her throat.

He wanted to mar that pretty skin until it was covered with bruises made not by his hands, but by his mouth.

The Deathless One needed to control this situation. He sat down on top of the altar before he fell down, staring down at her kneeling between his legs. “Pretty picture,” he murmured.

Her face turned bright red. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

Tsking, he leaned back on his hands. The altar felt a little more real today. He could almost feel the texture of the stone and how cold it was against his palms. That was strange. He usually couldn’t feel anything at all in this form.

Except her.

He curled his fingers around the stone so he didn’t touch her again.

It was hard to ignore the memory of her soft skin in his hands.

Or the way she’d swallowed against his palm, her heart beating rapidly against his scarred fingertips.

She’d been so fragile in his arms and yet didn’t struggle to free herself. Stupid girl. But brave, he’d admit.

She glared up at him, all regal indignation, as if he owed her something.

“What?” he finally asked, exasperated with her already. “What do you want now?”

“I’m the one controlling this meeting, not you.” She tilted her nose up, looking all the more like the princess she was. It made him want to ruffle her again, if only to see this mask break.

He had thought this would be easier. The Deathless One had spent a long time dreaming about what the next gravesinger would be like.

In his experience, witches were easy to control.

They all wanted the same thing: power. They enjoyed toying with him, but in the end, he always won until it was time for them to sacrifice him.

This one didn’t seem to be all that interested in power. In fact, he had yet to figure out what she did want. Other than her throne back, of course. But that would not happen anytime soon.

The girl had been betrayed by everyone she’d held dear. Soon enough, she would realize that in the worst way possible.

“Then control the meeting.” He waved a hand in the air. “So far, all I’ve heard is bickering and childish snipes. You do remember I am a god? I am busy.”

“You’re a dead god. What could you possibly have to do?”

“Stare into the everlasting eternal darkness and dream about a time when I wasn’t dead,” he snarled, leaning forward as anger flashed through him. “And I’m late for that appointment, witch.”

“Stop calling me that.” Jessamine glared at him with obvious hatred. “I am not a witch.”

“Do you prefer ‘princess’?”

“Not when you say it like that!” She almost shouted the words, so angry with him that all her years of decorum flew out the window.

Oh, that was satisfying. He liked the way her cheeks flushed with anger, and how she tried to keep her tiny hands fisted so he wouldn’t know how badly they trembled.

Tempting. She really was a pretty little thing, and even in her anger, he wanted to prod her. Make her even angrier. He wanted to see what it would take to make her explode, and just how glorious she would be when she did.

Jessamine lurched away from him, perhaps so she didn’t have to look at him. If she couldn’t see him, maybe there was less for her to be infuriated with.

“How’s that working for you?” he asked, leaning forward even more to watch what happened next.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re clearly not looking at me to get your emotions under control. I want to know how that is working for you.”

Tilting her head up to the ceiling, she muttered a short prayer. He wondered what god she still prayed to before she turned around to glare at him.

She raised a finger and jabbed it in his direction. “Is this your plan? Annoy me to no end and eventually I’ll forget why I summoned you in the first place?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Well, it’s not going to work.” She visibly pulled herself back together before sinking into the same position before the altar. Between his legs. Her hands folded in her lap. So pretty, yet a few erratic strands of hair now stood out, freed by her wild pacing before she’d returned to him.

Ah, he had gotten to her. Now all he wanted to do was loosen a few more of those strands, to see what she looked like completely wild.

He was unable to stop himself. He’d never had the ability to deny himself soft things.

The Deathless One leaned forward and snagged a strand of her hair between his fingers.

He marveled at the texture. It caught on the calluses and scars on his fingertips, still somehow silken even when it snapped in his grip. So fragile.

Just like her.

“I want to know my future,” she said, her voice a low rasp. “And you’re the only one who can help me. I’ve talked with Sybil. Both of us agree that if I am to continue forward and get my throne back, the only person who can help me is you.”

“You’ve already gotten my help. I gave you life, and now you will do with it as you wish.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” She tugged her hair from his grip, forcing his attention back to her. “You know something that you aren’t telling me.”

“What could I possibly know?”

“I have researched you and the other gods for years. I’ve read countless books that cover your powers, the people who worshipped you, everything I should need to know.

” Crossing her arms over her chest, she bit her lip before begrudgingly adding, “And I still know nothing, clearly. That book claimed you can sneak into someone’s mind.

You can see what they saw at any point. You can break into their memories and find details in there that tell you everything you need to know about them. Is that true?”

Again, he shrugged, just because he knew it annoyed her. “Perhaps.”

What could she want from him? He would not give her the easy answer. If she wanted to know more, she would need to beg. He wouldn’t make anything easy for her—she hadn’t earned that.