Page 26 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)

“Cast the damn spell, Jessamine,” he snarled. He’d been gathering his magic to leave his realm for longer, and teaching her shouldn’t have taken so much effort. Yet here he was, trying to teach her without physically being around her. And failing.

Sybil’s teachings were getting her nowhere. She could barely cast a single spell, and he’d finally decided to take matters into his own hands. If the witch couldn’t teach her, then Jessamine needed a patron to push her over the edge.

“I can’t. It’s not working, and we both know why. I’m not a witch! I can follow the spells that are formulas, the ones that literally anyone could do. But the ones that come from actual magic? You know I can’t do them.”

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

“I’m trying plenty hard! Every time I try to do it, my mind just…” She lifted a shaking hand to run it over her mouth, before gently tipping the bowl in front of her. The liquid spilled out, certainly ruining the spell now. “You’re expecting the impossible.”

“Focus.” He paced in his realm, watching her through a mirror she’d placed on the altar. “Magic is not easy, Jessamine. It shouldn’t come to you naturally. It’s work and dedication and hours of pain.”

“I’ve been doing this for hours and I am tired.”

“Not tired enough,” he snapped.

Maybe he was pushing her too hard. She had been working on this for the better part of a day, but it was the most basic of spells!

She should be able to light a fire, and they’d tried every other easy spell he could think of.

This one was a ridiculously simple spell meant to spin her mind in the right direction for the magic to take flight.

Even the least talented of witches could cast it.

He tried to ease his voice a little, so maybe it wouldn’t sound like a whip cracking above her head. “This is a very easy spell, Jessamine. You should be able to do this.”

“I have told you time and time again, I am not a witch.”

“You are a witch,” he ground through his teeth. “Just not a very good one.”

She stiffened, gave him a scathing glare, before snapping back, “Then find yourself a better one.”

“Jessamine—”

She didn’t stop to listen to him. If anything, she stomped out of the room faster before slamming the door so hard the mirror rocked back and slipped onto the floor.

Bracing himself on the mirror’s frame, he bared his teeth in frustration. Why did she have to be so difficult? He was teaching her magic, just as he’d promised. This was the bare minimum for any witch.

He’d trained countless witches. Hundreds of them, all of whom had grown in power every day under his guidance.

He had never trained a witch who did not become a powerful creature, who then sacrificed him for even more influence.

It was his place in their world. He taught them, they killed him, the cycle continued.

Why did she have to break the mold?

She questioned herself too much. She had no confidence in the magic that brewed inside her. Every ounce of her ability to create magic was squandered because some inner voice in her head said she wasn’t good enough.

Or maybe she was afraid of it. There was meaning behind becoming a witch, and it used to mean something good. Perhaps all her weeks spent in this forgotten, forbidden, cursed place had changed her opinion.

Shoving himself away from the mirror’s frame, and away from the limited view of the ceiling, he stalked away into the darkness. Power boiled underneath his skin, more and more the longer he stayed with her. It was only a matter of time before he had to expel that energy.

It was boiling over. Already he could see it in this realm. The dark ink reached for him, arms outstretched with electric shocks running down them. It would hurt if they caught him, so perhaps it was time to see if his chains had loosened more as he and Jessamine grew even closer.

Bursting free from the realm that bound him, he slunk through the shadows of hers.

Without her, he felt nothing. No breeze, no frigid touch, no warmth either.

He could only make out a small portion of what was around him.

It was like living in constant shadows, darkness blanketing his eyes so that he could only see what was important—and most of everything was not.

His gravesinger was wasting his time. He needed to get her back on that throne so she could awaken him. That was the only purpose that mattered to the Deathless One, because he was losing his mind in his realm of ink and obsidian stone.

It had been far too long. He feared if he suffered much longer, then every part of him would splinter into a thousand pieces. Pieces that would funnel into those who still worshipped him, and then there would be nothing left of him at all.

All the gods would finally be dead. And then the world would end.

With the weight of expectation and responsibility on his shoulders, he focused his magic and power on the young man he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. The boy who had held the gates open, and who he had a gut feeling was the key to the beginning of their journey.

“Benji,” he whispered, his thread of connection to Jessamine tightening as he siphoned magic from her.

He hadn’t realized he could connect with her so easily.

Her power tasted like ashes on his tongue, but he swore there was a floral aftertaste when he used her as his anchor in this realm.

He could stay here just a bit longer with that connection, and he intended to use every minute to haunt the pageboy.

He could abuse this power. Maybe even summon her to his side, puppet her to do whatever he wished. But their connection was still blooming, and it felt more like a violation than a fun game.

So instead, he used her mind only to find out more about this “Benji.”

Her thoughts were rather scattered around the young man. He had been a pageboy, just like she’d said. Someone who inhabited mostly the lowest parts of the castle, but when he was on the more opulent levels, he’d been quite dedicated to his job.

Jessamine had regularly seen the young man, and when she had, he’d always been polite.

He took his time to do every job right, and he always loved the coins she pressed into his hands when he’d done something special for her.

But of course he had. The boy was little more than a street urchin who had found himself a safe place to rest.

Flicking through her memories, he found the one he was looking for.

Benji had claimed to have been from the Factory District, a rather rough-and-tumble area of the kingdom.

The Deathless One turned his attention to that part of the city, expecting to waste a considerable amount of time aimlessly wandering until he stumbled upon the young man.

Leon Bishop of Orenda wouldn’t keep the boy working at the castle, that much was certain. The new king would want a clean sweep, making sure there were no surprises lingering in the shadows to stab him, just as he had stabbed everyone else. So why had the boy been allowed to go home?

Surprisingly, as he glided through the moonlit streets, barely moving his feet as he stepped from shadow to shadow, he realized there was a magical signature in this part of the city.

At first, he thought perhaps he was sensing another power source.

Impossible, though, considering none of his other siblings were alive to give their supplicants gifts.

Was it possible someone had been smart about their magic and still had some measure of power, even this long after the death of the gods?

But no, the closer he got, the more he recognized the magic. It was his magic. It was his magical signature still lingering somewhere in this part of the city.

Which made no sense. As someone opened a storefront, light spilled out into the street, and his form fractured into spectral shards. Every single one of them wondered the same thing. There had never been a sector of his coven in the Factory District, so what felt like his own magic?

All the shadows came together in one undulating mass of rage. He did not know who dared to steal magic from him, but they would not survive the night.

At least, that was what he intended. He still didn’t have his body, so the most he could do was an illusion that made him seem very real.

Unless it was a witch from his own coven, which he was almost certain was not the case.

It would be easier if it were some defector from his coven who thought to use his magic without summoning the god himself. Perhaps Sybil would know.

She had been a good witch thus far. He hated it when they did that.

He didn’t want her to be good. He wanted her to be manipulative and to try to sway his attention from Jessamine to herself.

She should covet the power he offered, because she certainly could do more with it than a cast-off princess who couldn’t even cast a simple flame spell.

Maybe she was just lying in wait until he was reborn.

Then she would ask him for his sacrifice.

And who was he to deny her?

Hating the way his thoughts had turned, he focused instead on tracking down the magical signature. Strangely enough, it wasn’t in some patched-together shack or even in a dark hovel where the witches might be hiding. It came from above.

Frowning, he peered up through the buildings and spotted a very old sign. It hung from only one hinge, so he had to turn his head to the side to read the words “Owl’s Nest.”

An abandoned tavern? That was what it seemed like—a haunt for people who wished to forget themselves for a little while.

He could see the downstairs had been somewhat of a bar and meeting place, while the upstairs windows revealed what might have once been rooms to rent for the night.

It was starting to look more and more like one of his old coven members had fled their home and remained unaware that he had returned. But why would they end up here?