by Kevan Dale
Fitting, then, that he should be bound for a place shrouded in precisely the kind of ignorance, fear, and pious certainty that his worst detractors had marshaled against him. Maybe they wouldn’t have been surprised, had they known.
Still, Swaine knew in that moment, as clear as the sunrise glinting off of the waters trailing the Dorset as it made its way to the open sea, that his future lay in Salem. Perhaps the future of civilization lay there as well. Another peak, waiting for the right individuals, hearts brimming with courage, to reach it.
18
A Dark Key
The book sat on the table, untouched, as dawn fell through the cracks in the curtains. A mouse, busy sniffing the floor beneath the table for crumbs, lifted its head and stilled its whiskers. As the air grew cold, the mouse flinched and fell over, lifeless. Moments later, the hinges of the door shattered, and the door fell in with a bang. The woman with the crooked neck stepped over the threshold and across the fallen door, graceful in spite of her injury.
She sniffed the air.
Gone. He hadn’t even been there since she’d delivered the key for him. Wisps of magic clung to the corners, glows and stains and echoes that shone as clear as the daylight itself.
No matter. She would find him—and deliver the key.
She stepped to the table, lithe, her beauty grown even more ruinous in death. She grasped the book, holding the tattered covers together with reverence, feeling it vibrate with barely checked energies. With a sigh, she cradled it to her chest. Her gaze turned westward. She sensed him as she sensed the rising sun.
She spun and turned back to the doorway, footsteps light as she crossed out into the hallway and down the stairs. Those still sleeping in the adjacent rooms had their dreams turn sour. Down the stairs she went. As she neared the bottom, a group of soldiers burst in from the street, scarlet uniforms dragging in the chill of dawn with them. They passed her with nary a glance as they rushed up the stairs. Two of the twelve would be dead by nightfall. The rest would have curious and disturbing thoughts they wouldn’t be able to get out of their minds—a touch of death that four of them would carry forward within the fortnight while the others would bury them down deep to fester.
All things in time.
The woman with the crooked neck walked out into the bustle of early morning London, ignoring the soldiers out on the street, avoiding the wagons and carriages just setting out on a cold winter’s morn. The air was crisp, and thin clouds wore the gold and orange of sunrise. Snow softened the harsh edges, all around. She held the book tightly to her chest. As she watched the morning sunlight chase away the last scraps of night, she wound down the lanes, a sad smile on her face—a smile which lingered long in the minds of those she passed, some of whom thereafter possessed a dark key, a dark key that might slip into the shadowy locks within their hearts.
A Word From Kevan
Thanks for reading this novella—you rock!
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August Swaine’s story continues in The Books of Conjury: The Complete Trilogy, available now.
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Also, you can get the free ebook A Spark of Will: The Trans-Atlantic Diary of August Swaine, an exclusive novelette you can’t get anywhere else, by joining my private newsletter. The monthly newsletter features updates on upcoming books, along with exclusive offers and bonus materials. It’s cool, you’ll like it.
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If you enjoyed Sorcery of the Stony Heart, it would mean the world to me if you would leave a rating or brief review. Even a sentence or two would be amazing.
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Kevan
Also By Kevan Dale
The Books of Conjury Series:
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The Magic of Unkindness
The Grave Raven
The Halls of Midnight
The Books of Conjury: The Complete Trilogy
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Horror:
Revolutionary Dead
The Devil’s Key
Ghost at Dusk
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Horror Box Set:
The Demons of New England: A Horror Collection
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Find out more at www.kevandale.com