Page 29 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)

The witches and their god all prepared to journey together to the Owl’s Nest. Unfortunately, that meant that the Deathless One was relegated to a small hand mirror perched over Jessamine’s shoulder, the better to preserve his power for when it was most needed.

When he looked through the mirror, its handle strapped to her pack, his view swayed with her as she walked, and he found himself nauseous almost immediately.

Why wouldn’t Jessamine just summon him? It was an argument they’d had for hours before the two women finally persuaded him that they weren’t going to do it. Neither of them trusted him in any sort of physical form.

He supposed he couldn’t blame them, but he’d forgotten what it felt like to be disappointed. He wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling. It made him uncomfortable, and a little itchy. Of course, he blamed them for this feeling.

Witches.

“Ready?” Jessamine asked for the last time. Her hand came into view as she straightened her pack.

A thread of nerves coiled through her voice, as though she wasn’t all that ready herself. She had been more than prepared only a few hours ago to go on her own, and yet, this required all three of them.

He’d needed to spend time convincing Sybil. The usually stoic woman had nearly crumpled into a panic attack at the thought of leaving the manor. The last time he’d sent her on an errand, he hadn’t stayed to see how she had reacted.

The Deathless One had thought to push her until she pointed a gnarled finger in the direction of the blooming statues, a reminder of how witches worshipped the dead.

Her meaning was clear. Even the gods had died in this realm, and she feared what that meant for a mortal like her.

He had so easily forgotten that mortals feared death.

So he’d threatened to kill her if she stayed in the manor. That had gotten her moving.

“If we’d left hours ago, we would have already been there,” he grumbled.

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say.

Jessamine tapped the mirror hard enough that he felt the impact echo through his realm, and Sybil stepped in front of the mirror to give him a long stare.

At least it was the practiced witch who responded, “Times have changed since you last died, Deathless One. It is not safe for us to wander the streets whenever we wish.”

“Yes, yes. You are connected to the only god left alive. Surely that gives you some sort of protection.”

Though even he knew that was currently weak protection at best. Too bad the only woman who could summon him into a physical form had decided she didn’t want to do that. Because she needed to trust him before she resurrected an ancient god and allowed him to rampage across her kingdom.

Smart, probably. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Relaxing back in his conjured chair, he watched through his own version of her tiny mirror as they started up a path that led them away from the sea.

This hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here.

The light yellow grass still waved in a breeze he could not feel.

But he could hear the crunching of stones underneath their feet, and he could see the ocean every time Jessamine turned to see how far they had come.

The sound of her ragged breath filled his lungs with the same sensation, as though he remembered what it felt like to actually exert himself. It had been hundreds of years since he’d felt that way, though. His body remembered, perhaps. If he let it.

Sybil walked ahead of them, her strong back never once hesitating, though they clambered over more stone than he had expected.

When was the last time he’d traveled this way from the manor?

He was quite certain it had been right before he died, but the memories just weren’t there. At least, not like they used to be.

Eventually, the sparse grass gave way to mud pits the closer they got to the city. And it was right on the outskirts of the Factory District where they stopped. Sybil hesitated in front of them as she held her coat a little tighter to her form.

“Jessamine,” she said very quietly. “Take a few steps to your right slowly. We’ll have to go the other way.”

Now what? What could possibly delay these ladies even further?

As he leaned forward to have a closer look, Jessamine did the same, giving him a very clear view of exactly what was the problem.

A man stood in the center of the road. His shoulders heaved up and down with gulps, as though he’d been running for miles.

Except… he wasn’t covered in sweat, but instead fluid oozed from the pustules riddling his body.

Lank, greasy hair stuck to his neck and face, and his clothing was torn from misuse.

A small bundle huddled on the ground in front of the man, shivering so slightly it was almost impossible to tell it was a child. Fear, he expected. Fear that had frozen the little beast right in the worst place.

“Is this your infected?” he asked, amused. “The man looks like he can hardly walk.”

At the sound of his voice, the infected’s head jerked toward them.

His face was so covered in bumps that it must have been unrecognizable to anyone who had known him before.

His eyes were nearly swollen shut, and his lips were permanently forced open, so drool spilled down his chin in a long strand.

It was a horrible sight to behold, especially when the man took a step toward them. His muscles bunched, his legs suddenly appearing far more powerful than they had moments before.

“Run!” Sybil said, before she threw up her arms.

Dark magic coiled around her wrists and spread up into her hands.

He knew where it came from. That well of magic that split through her chest, the same well he’d replenished the first time he’d been at the manor.

Only desperate witches pulled from that place.

It was the source of all their magic, the source of who they were.

“Sybil,” he warned just moments before she let her spell fly free.

Jessamine should have run in the opposite direction when Sybil told her to. But she didn’t. His foolish princess bolted toward the child in front of the infected man. Slavering and moaning, the man pounded against the opaque shield that Sybil had conjured mere inches from the child on the ground.

He didn’t look at the man. He didn’t look at the child now huddled in Jessamine’s arms. No, he stared at the witch holding on to the power with her fingers spread wide and her face creased in an impressive snarl.

Here he was, thinking Sybil was just as weak as she had claimed to be. The weakest of her coven, she’d said.

And yet, she wielded his power easily. She twisted it with her hands, slowly wrapping that shield around the infected man as she warped her spell into a cage.

“Sybil,” he said again, his voice a sharp crack in the air. “Summon your patron.”

“I don’t need to,” she said, her voice strained with effort. “I can do this.”

“Summon me, witch.”

Jessamine’s voice fractured through the conversation, quiet as a summer breeze. “I thought you couldn’t do anything if you were dead.”

“Illusion has its uses, nightmare. But she has to call upon me first. As her patron, I can protect her.”

This was what he had been created for. It was what he was good at. The witches used to bring him here for protection. He knew how to fight for them. It was all he’d ever done.

Until they decided they would rather protect themselves.

The child whimpered in Jessamine’s arms, its arms and legs pinwheeling until it tore out of Jessamine’s grip and bolted away. Small and ragged like a mouse, the child disappeared faster than he could blink.

“Wait!” Jessamine shouted, only to freeze as she realized she was right in front of the infected man now.

“I can do this,” Sybil grunted, forming her hands into a circle as the black magic closed. “I can… I can…”

There was a strange thud from inside her chest, the knocking of a fist against a door and the echo of something empty beneath it. With an enraged cry, she threw out her hands, and suddenly the dark cage around the infected contracted.

Jessamine whirled away from the sight, so he couldn’t see what happened to the man, but he knew the sound of an implosion.

Sybil had destroyed the man, completely and utterly, as though he were a bug to be squashed.

When Jessamine finally turned back to the grisly sight, he was glad to see Sybil had the wherewithal to keep the magic blanketing the infected body in a dark shroud.

Breathing hard, Sybil gestured to the wet pile. “See? No problem at all. I don’t know what I was so worried about.”

“Other than the dead man currently trapped in a spell?” he asked sarcastically.

“Oh, no one will notice. If they do, they won’t know it was either of us. There’s no easy way to track magical signatures anymore, not without a witch at their side. And there’s so few of us left!”

He didn’t think there was any confidence in her voice at all. He’d known Sybil to be proud, but this… she almost sounded nervous. Or exhausted.

With a narrowed gaze, he watched the witch attempt to straighten before she nearly tripped over her own feet. Breathing hard, she pressed a hand to her chest, and that was when he knew. She was weakened from just that attack? What little power did she have left?

“What kind of spell was that?” Jessamine breathed.

“Old magic,” the other witch replied, but it wasn’t entirely the truth.

He knew why Sybil didn’t want Jessamine to have the answer. Apparently, they were still keeping secrets from each other. But he wanted his gravesinger to know what kind of magic that was. It would only entice her to his side even more.

“That was the magic only a patron can give a witch,” he rasped.

“The kind of magic that is stolen or gifted from the gods themselves, and can be tapped only in small amounts. The spells you have cast thus far are magic any witch can cast. But the power she just used comes only from true worship of a god.”