Page 39 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Lysithea

T he door clicks shut behind us all, and Verik takes my hand possessively again.

I should push him away, but I don’t really want to.

He is protecting me from… everything. They all are.

I don’t have to fade into oblivion now. But that just pisses me off.

They have affected my life in so many major ways, and it wasn’t their call to make.

My thoughts race as Verik walks me to my next class, Dark Magick Scripts.

The ancestors. She will come. Her or me? A prophecy or a threat? My bloodline is a mystery I’m starting to think I don’t want to solve.

The brand on my back is a low, simmering heat. A leash. A connection. The grimoire on my desk is a silent, sleeping god. A god that demands my submission, my intimacy. A god that uses my pain as a fucking bargaining chip.

Evren and Dathan leave us as Verik walks me into the east wing. This is the place where the dark is deepest. The surrounding forest trees are higher, denser, covering this area of the grounds in shadows from the dark sky.

The air here is colder, heavier. It tastes of old ink and secrets. We reach the classroom door, a heavy slab of ironwood carved with writhing sigils. Verik stops but doesn’t let go of my hand.

“Don’t go wandering off into any more haunted hallways,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my knuckles. It’s not a request.

“Don’t redesign any more faces,” I shoot back.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. “No promises.” He releases me, and I push the door open. The scent of ancient parchment and dark magic washes over me.

The classroom is a pit, the desks arranged in a descending spiral around a central lectern where Professor Malakor, a lich with glowing green points for eyes, stands waiting. I find an empty seat, the cold stone seeping through my dress.

Malakor’s voice is the dry rustle of bone on vellum as he begins the lecture. We’re studying a script that can bind souls. The irony is not lost on me. Perhaps this is where the guys learned about the Midnight Soul Scar last year.

I pick up my pen and open my notebook. My task is to copy a single, complex rune for containment. As the pen tip touches the paper, the ink flares, and my hand starts moving on its own. I gasp softly and try to fight it, but it is too strong. I try to let go of the pen, but my hand is welded to it.

Staring at the paper, I see the marking the guys etched onto my back, the same brand that is on their arms. My heart thumps louder when the pen stops, and then the page catches on fire. I scream as the mark on my back also ignites, hotter than it ever has been.

The chaos around me is absolute as my Nox Siren scream reverberates around the room, shaking the very foundations of the lecture pit.

The sound wave hits the stone walls, and they groan, hairline cracks crawl across the ancient runes carved into them.

Students are on the floor, clutching their heads, blood pouring from their noses and ears.

The air is solid, a wall of pure, destructive sound.

Professor Malakor doesn’t even flinch. The green points of his eyes just narrow, his skeletal jaw clicking in what might be annoyance or academic interest. “Contain it, Miss Lysithea.” His voice is a dry rasp, barely heard over the dying echo of my own power.

But I can’t. The pain in my back is a supernova, a star exploding under my skin. The Scar is rewriting me, burning its code into my soul. My vision blurs with tears of agony.

The classroom door blasts inwards, torn from its ironwood hinges.

Verik is there, a silhouette of fury against the hallway’s gloom. Dathan and Evren are right behind him. They don’t look at the carnage. They only look at me.

They feel it. My agony is their agony. My uncontrolled power is their problem.

Evren reaches me first, a blur of silent, chilling speed. He lifts me up, slings me over his shoulder, and strides out of the room without a backwards glance. Malakor doesn’t stop him.

The world stops screaming. My vision tunnels, the edges blurring to black. The last thing I see before Evren disappears into the shadows with me, is Dathan’s silver eyes, wide with a terrifying, beautiful hunger. He’s feeding on the chaos I just created. He’s feeding on me.

Moving through the shadows is a nauseating experience, but it’s over quickly, and Evren drops me lightly onto a throne made of bones. I look around, rubbing my forehead, the pounding ache in my head distracting me. “Where are we?”

“Crypts,” he whispers harshly.

“You don’t have to speak,” I say, shaking my head. “I would’ve figured it out.”

“You need me.”

We stare at each other for a few long moments before I reply. “I need you to be you. If that means you never utter another word, that’s more than okay to me.”

His expression melts into one of sheer gratitude. I don’t know if he will or won’t ever speak again, but he knows I don’t expect anything from him.

He doesn’t have to speak. The gratitude is a tangible thing in the cold air. A flicker of warmth in the tomb. He reaches out, his fingers hovering over my back. A silent question. I shake my head. “It’s okay now. Cool for the first time since you… gave it to me.”

He nods and gestures around.

“It’s this place, yes?”

He nods slowly.

“Then this is my new room,” I mutter. If it dumbs down the heat, I’m all for it.

The crypt doors burst open. Dathan and Verik stride in, bringing magic and fury with them.

“What the fuck was that?” Verik demands. His eyes sweep over me, assessing the damage.

“The book,” I say. My voice is a raw rasp. “It made me draw the Scar. Then it burned me.”

Dathan’s silver eyes glow. He’s high on the terror from the lecture hall. “It’s escalating,” he says. “It’s testing your control. Our control.”

“It’s not a test,” I grit out. “It’s a demonstration. It’s showing us who’s in charge.”

Verik’s jaw tightens. “No book tells me how to use my designs.”

“This one does,” I snap back and lift my hand to rub my shoulder. It’s itching like crazy. Frowning, I pluck the fabric of my dress away and then grunt.

“What is it?” Dathan asks.

“It’s spreading.”

“What is? The brand?” He moves closer.

“No,” I gulp. “The contagion. The virus that is seeping deeper into my flesh, into my blood, my bones. Soon it will consume me.” The words tumble from my lips as if this was something I always knew but didn’t want to speak out loud.

The truth is, I had no idea. Something is forcing this information into my mind.

I look around as a chill descends. Through a second sight that I know I don’t possess, I see I’m surrounded by ghosts, whispering to me.

“Evren,” I murmur.

He looks up in question.

“Your magic. I can see the ghosts, they’re talking to me, telling me things, telling me I’m going to die unless we do as the book says.”

“What?” Verik snaps, marching up to me. “Where are these fuckers?”

“They’re everywhere,” I say, my voice a strained whisper.

My gaze darts around the crypt, but it’s like trying to see the air.

They’re not solid. They’re a pressure, a chill, a whisper that bypasses my ears and goes straight to my brain.

“It’s your power,” I say, looking at Evren.

“It’s bleeding into me. I can feel them. ”

Evren’s eyes widen. He takes a step back, a flicker of something that looks like horror on his face. He didn’t just give me his cold. He gave me a piece of his curse.

“What exactly are they saying?” Dathan asks.

“That the Scar is a curse,” I say, the words feeling foreign in my mouth, spoken for me by the dead. “It’s rewriting my blood. When it’s finished, there won’t be anything left of me to save.”

“Bullshit,” Verik snarls, his frustration boiling over. “It’s a power transfer, not a fucking death sentence.”

“Tell them,” I hiss, looking at Evren.

He shakes his head, his expression grim. He can’t hear them. They’re talking only to me. A private, chilling prophecy delivered through a borrowed power I never asked for.

The ghosts swirl around me, their whispers a chorus of doom. Tenebris Vinculum needs completing. You will die if time runs out.

“We have to go back down,” I say, my voice gaining a hard, desperate edge. “Now. My time is running out. If we don’t complete the grimoire, I’m dead.”

“Fuck that,” Verik snaps. “No fucking book has that much power.”

“Wanna bet?” Dathan asks. “Because I’m not willing to risk her life for it. What does it want us to do?” His gaze turns to me.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. But we have to find the Blood Court, this forge place, it’s all linked.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, dropping to his knees at my feet.

“For now, but I can feel it poisoning me.”

“They’ve put that in your head,” Verik says.

“No,” Dathan says, pulling the neckline of my dress down. “Look.”

We all look down. Black veins are spreading right under my skin, poisoned, cursed. They will grow more extensive, deeper, until there is nothing left of me.

Verik’s face goes hard. He reaches out a hand, his fingers hovering over the spiderweb of black veins on my chest, not daring to touch.

“It’s a corruption,” Dathan states quietly. “How much time?”

“I don’t know. We have to complete the Tenebris Vinculum. Whatever that means.”

“Then we find out what that means. We bring the grimoire with us, and we go down again. Starting here as originally planned. These ghosts know something. We are going to find out what,” Verik says.

I nod and rise from the throne. Dathan rises with me, reaching tentatively for my hand, almost as if he is seeking reassurance.

I take it, squeezing it. I want to scream at them, blame them, accuse them of putting a ticking time bomb on my body, but somewhere, deep, deep down, I know this was fate.

The Tenebris Vinculum chose us to complete it, and it will do whatever it has to, to ensure we comply.