Spells and Necromancy: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 1)

by Candace Wondrak

  Feeling all around, Tamlen knew he was in an enclosed space. How did he even have air? How was he alive? That blow should’ve killed him. It…did, didn’t it? Was he dead? Was this the afterlife? Nothing but black abyss all around, the feeling of cold stone encasing him like a tomb?

  Tamlen moved his hand before his face, reaching out as far as he could. His palm was flat against stone not even an arm’s distance before him. A small fire flickered to life, blazing against the stone. It was easy to call forth the element. Fire was his chosen magic, what he used more often than not.

  Fire was hot. Fire was home. Fire was him.

  And this fire would help him out of this dark, closed-off space.

  Chapter Two

  Lena didn’t want to die. Dying just seemed so, well, final. Plus, she hadn’t even really lived yet. Hadn’t had her first kiss, hadn’t gotten any flowers, hadn’t even spoken to any man who wasn’t a fellow College student in years. Her dating life was the epitome of bad. She had bad luck with magic and bad luck with men, apparently.

  That was probably just as well. When Lena was with Ingrid, men only had eyes for her friend. Ingrid was tall and thin and gorgeous in a way Lena wasn’t. And then there was the small fact that Lena set fire to her family’s farmhouse when she was eight. Yeah, that probably turned off most of her would-be suitors. Not that they knew her deepest, darkest regret.

  Still, what it would feel like to have skin touching hers? A warm, strong man, his arms surrounding her, holding her, caressing her this way and that. It must feel amazing, she thought, but she’d never know it herself.

  Because she was about to die. Because she accidentally rose a small army of skeletons from their graves. Because she read from a stupid fucking book.

  Who knew reading from a book could be so terrible? Lena was, until very recently, from the school of thought that believed no amount of knowledge could be bad. No book could be bad. Knowledge was power only in how one used it. She screwed that right up, didn’t she?

  She should open her eyes and fight them. Summon a wave of magic—just a quick one, one that wouldn’t overtake her completely—and toss them all back while she ran for the exit and used more force magic, even though the thought sickened her.

  A loud thump echoed behind her, and Lena knew it was the skeleton from the centermost tomb. It was only fitting that that one got to her first. Its tomb was the most decorated; it was the first skeleton she’d seen creaking to life. Swallowing what little amount of fear that she could, Lena lowered the book, no longer hiding behind its thick length, and stared up at the high ceiling.

  A dark black mist seeped to coat it, and she blinked once, trying to figure out if it was how the ceiling simply looked, or if there was something in the shadows watching her. Did it matter? It could be a Demon for all she knew—that she just unleashed—and it’d be too late. The skeletons were going to get her. They…

  …were all frozen around her, and the few that had their lower jaws looked shocked. As shocked as skeletons could be without skin and eyes. They stared at the one behind her. Which was great, because only something truly awful could frighten the undead.

  A bolt of white lightning erupted behind her, coating the group of skeletons—now numbering in the dozens. They were quite literally shocked apart, each skeleton collapsing in a heap, piles of useless, lifeless bones.

  Huh. Her fear of magic was drowned by curiosity. She’d never heard of a skeleton who could wield magic before. Runes were what held the magic; without skin, without the runes themselves, a skeleton shouldn’t have been able to use such magic.

  Her gaze flicked to the one behind her.

  That’s because it wasn’t a skeleton who wielded the lightning—it was a man. A man with tan skin, white runes inscribed in his flesh, lining his arms and his upper chest like deep, thick scars. Both his arms and his chest were quite impressive in their own right. A few hanging pieces of metal draped over his otherwise naked body. Again—a very nice body. But now wasn’t the time for staring.

  Lena suddenly recalled her dagger, and a shaking hand reached into her bag to find it while the other hand clutched the College’s tome to her chest. She was alone in the tomb before she read from the book, which only meant one thing…she rose this guy from his grave too, flesh and all. Magic and all.

  She scrambled to stand, moving away from him, tripping over the bones behind her. She fell onto her backside, but she held the dagger steady between them as she whispered, “Don’t move.” A wisp of purple hair had fallen from the bun, sticking to her lips. It bugged her, but her imminent death drew all of her attention.

  The man stopped, staring at her strangely, as if she were the one who just rose from the dead.

  Wait.

  Runes? This could be perfect, provided he didn’t try to attack again. If he tried to kill her, she’d be too frozen in fear to stop him.

  “Who are you?” she asked, remembering how they were in a tomb of ancient heroes. Perhaps he was someone she knew, someone she would recognize. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her after all, since he had his faculties mostly intact, unlike the skeletons. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Tell me.”

  He begrudgingly spoke, “I am Valerius. Who are you?”

  Valerius. Valerius. Why did he sound vaguely familiar? Lena’s history lessons failed her. She slowly replied, “My name’s Celena. Lena, I mean.” Gods, she sounded stupid. She probably looked stupid too, sprawled out on the bones, clutching a book and a dagger as if they’d save her life.

  His eyes, even in the dim light, were a bright blue. Their irises narrowed on her. “Which is it—Celena or Lena?” He asked the question as if he thought she was lying, like he didn’t believe her.

  Lena blinked. Hadn’t he ever heard of a nickname before?

  She could see, beneath the remnants of armor he wore, that his skin practically crackled. “Are you going to kill me, Valerius?” She wasn’t sure why she asked; maybe it’d be better if she didn’t see it coming. What she should do was fight him, show him that she was a mage by blood, that she could command the elements just as easily as him without any non-magical aids.

  If only.

  “Will you give me reason to?” He cocked his head, his blonde hair dirty, his beard a short, scraggly mess. What death did, clearly.

  “Um…no?” Lena wanted to smack herself. She definitely wasn’t going to give him a reason to kill her.

  “Did Midas send you here to check on me?” Valerius watched as she slowly got to her feet, stepping between the bone piles. If she slipped now, she’d impale herself on the dagger Ingrid told her she shouldn’t have brought.

  And here she was, using it. Take that, Ingrid.

  When she didn’t answer, he took it as an affirmative. “Well, you can crawl back to your King and tell him that—”

  That got her to cut in easily, as if she interrupted half-naked, handsome, rune-inscribed men all the time. Maybe in her dreams, but not real life. Never in real life.

  Not even in her dreams, really.

  “Whoa. King Midas? That’s…a lot of kings ago. There hasn’t been a King Midas in three hundred years.” Give or take.

  “You lie,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “I remember the poison. I—”

  Poison? What in all of Rivaini was the poor fool talking about?

  Before he could continue, another quake erupted below them. For a moment, all Lena could think was: Great. More skeletons. But it was so much worse. A giant, towering wall of flames erupted beneath the tomb that Valerius used to call home, punching through stone effortlessly.

  A powerful spell from a powerful mage. It was not a rune-enhanced spell, not like Valerius’s lightning. Lena could smell the difference. It was faint, but the distinction was there. This day just kept getting worse and worse, didn’t it?

  She glanced upward, seeking to stare at the black ceiling, but the ceiling was black no longer. Lit by the fire, it was an unearthly reddish orange. No black to be seen.

&nbs
p; Valerius stood in front of her, turning to face the tomb that rocked back and forth, as if he was protecting her. A switch, definitely. His skin cackled before her, and Lena could see the hard lines on his back. Whatever cloth was under the armor he was buried in had decayed over time. Most of him was visible, and it was a nice sight. She wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers down him, touch him and—

  What had gotten into her? Lena flushed with embarrassment, almost forgetting about the flames. Something about this place lowered her inhibitions.

  A new figure rose from the flames, another man. This one completely and utterly nude.

  “Oh, my…” Lena couldn’t even say Gods, even though it was clear the Gods had everything to do with that body. It was…impressive, to say the least. Very impressive. So impressive it nearly made her forget the precarious situation she was in and the magical power the new man possessed.

  The newcomer was the dark to Valerius’s light. His hair was on the longer side, pitch black, and his eyes were colorless. His irises blended in with his pupils. A deep scar lined his face, down his left eyebrow and cheek. His body, thick and solid and strong, housed numerous scars, though none were as bad as the one marring his face. His hands flickered with fire, their light putting her torch’s—which still laid on the ground near the shattered coffin—to shame.

  Both men were untrustworthy, she knew, because they were both dead. Supposed to be dead, anyway. Lena couldn’t help but wonder why they were buried like that. Surely they did not share the stone sarcophagus; was Valerius buried atop the newcomer? Did the dark-haired man even have his own tomb, or was he just thrown in with the stone beneath Valerius’s? How undignified. No way to honor heroes of old, though neither of them looked very heroic.

  “You,” the newcomer said in a bare whisper. The flames on his hands grew, engulfing both his arms. He wasn’t talking to her, Lena realized; he spoke to Valerius. They knew each other?

  “You,” Valerius muttered, unhappy. Sparks danced across his skin, and he lifted his arms, matching the other man’s pose. They both inhaled, ready to fight each other to oblivion, and Lena was far too close.

  Not wanting to witness such magic up close, not while outside the College and away from the enchanters who could dull the lightning and simmer the flames should they get out of hand, Lena shouted, “Stop!”

  To her surprise, both men halted instantaneously.

  “What kind of witch are you?” the newcomer asked, tossing her a curious expression. His fiery arms died down until they were nothing but well-built muscles.

  “I’m no witch,” Lena huffed, offended. “I’m…” A mage, but that wasn’t much better, was it? Witches were deformed women who’d given themselves up to magic, and the magic twisted and changed their appearance until they looked more like animals. Gods, did she truly look so terrible? She glared at the fully naked man. Sure, his body might’ve been drool-worthy, but his attitude sucked.

  “If you are no witch,” he continued, “let me move so that I can smite the fool in front of you.”

  Let him move? As if she were the one ordering them around? What a—wait a second. They did both stop when she told them to. What if she could control them? Maybe she could do the opposite of raising the dead.

  The phrase killing the dead didn’t seem to have enough oomph.

  “Both of you, turn around,” Lena said, taking on her best authoritative voice. She could overlook the magic use and the skeletons at her feet, due in part to the two attractive men before her. Men that, as she watched them both spin once, followed her every order it seemed. Hmm. The things she could do with them…

  No. Those thoughts were not hers. Lena wasn’t like that. It was this place, digging into her brain, filling her with bad thoughts and ideas.

  “Raise your right hand and jump on your left foot.” Lena giggled when both men, built like warriors, did as she told.

  “Just wait until your spell weakens on me,” the dark-haired man said. “I shall—”

  “Clearly,” Lena said dryly, “you won’t be doing anything to me, because I could just tell you to stop, and you’d stop. And I don’t think it works like that, anyway. It’s not a spell…though I might’ve accidentally risen you from the dead.”

  The blonde one stared silently at her, while the dark-haired one shouted, “Your words are useless, pointless. If you are a mage, you should know necromancy is not an accident—in any capacity. You did this on purpose. You merely don’t know why because you’re untrained.”

  Lena was about to argue, but her mouth snapped shut, for it was true. She couldn’t argue against the truth, could she? She was a firm believer in logic; still, the fact that she was untrained should have meant that it would be impossible for her to raise the dead. Necromancy of any sort was higher-level stuff, and it was strictly forbidden. Anyone caught using necromancy, or even suspected of it, was dealt with severely.

  Her heart sped up. What was the tome doing in the College’s library, if inside it held spells that could raise the dead? Was it overlooked when the College took up its ruling about necromancy ages ago, or did someone put it there? Lena held back a gasp. Perhaps someone in the College was tampering with spells they had no right to. She should take the tome straight away to the High Enchanter, now that she knew what secrets it held.

  Ingrid was going to kill her.

  Valerius was not sure what had the woman’s tongue, but she paled, looking as though she were going to be sick. If what Tamlen said was true—and he doubted it was, because he was fairly certain he would remember his death—then the girl had raw magical power; too much, if she could resort to necromancy without realizing it.

  But, he looked to Tamlen, who stood ready, fists clenched, unabashedly nude and angry, Valerius was also certain that he’d done his duty and slain the mage before him. He specifically recalled stabbing him with his blade after bringing down a lightning storm no kingdom had ever before seen.

  Yes. Right in the gut, and then…then he was buried.

  It was now Valerius’s turn to feel sick. He knew he’d killed Tamlen. Did that mean that what Tamlen said was true? The woman mage used a spell of necromancy on them both? Midas…had succeeded in poisoning him? He’d have no revenge because Midas was long dead. Deader than he and Tamlen were, at the moment.

  As the woman shook her head slowly, she asked, “So, you’re both not-so-dead men. You’re Valerius and you…” She looked to Tamlen. “Who are you?”

  Tamlen’s mouth thinned, and he refused to answer.

  The woman mage could simply compel it out of him, but Valerius did not want to waste any more time here. He wanted, strange as it was, to see daylight. To feel the sun on his skin. It felt like ages since he’d last felt the rays of the sun—now he understood that was because he’d been dead. No wonder his body felt a little rusty.

  “His name is Tamlen Grey,” Valerius spoke, watching as recognition dawned on her face.

  “Tamlen…Grey?” Her eyes, a lovely and yet peculiar shade of violet, widened.

  Valerius scoffed. History always remembered the villains. Good deeds meant nothing as time went on, while atrocities never aged. He crossed his arms, feeling the need to shoot a few bolts of lightning at Tamlen, but the woman mage was not letting him use any of his unnatural magic.

  Tamlen gave her a wicked smile. “Know of me, love?”

  “Do not call me that,” she said firmly, not having any of Tamlen’s so-called charm. “And of course I know you. You brought the whole eastern empire to its knees during the Grey Revolt. You wanted mages to rule.”

  His dark eyes traveled to her feet, sluggishly moving upward, devouring her appearance. In those tight leather pants and belted shirt, with her hair—also an odd purple—pulled back into a bun, little stray wisps flying out around her face, Valerius had to agree that she was a looker. A pretty woman, no scars on what skin he could see. She looked soft and supple, and her mouth was—Valerius should not think about her mouth, for numerous reasons
.

  “And I suspect my idealism was lost as time went on?” Tamlen asked, cocking a single brow. “A mage who can enact necromancy without even trying, surely you must have a high station.”

  “I’m…an initiate. In the College.”

  College? Neither Valerius nor Tamlen knew what this College was; the woman mage noticed both their confused expressions, so she quickly explained it. A school of sorts for mages. Mages were practically forced to go; if they wanted a better lot in life, they had to. Parents often gave their young children to the College in hopes that the College could tutor the children, teach them how to wield their magic without harming others. Those in the College received better protection if one of their spells went awry; if a mage who’d never been to the College caused a non-mage injury, the price was steep.

  Death.

  Seemed like a terrible fate. Even in Valerius’s time, mages were allowed to be free, to some extent. They were still watched more heavily than their non-mage peers, but to force them to attend some College? What a ludicrous idea.

  Tamlen was quick to say, “I can help you escape your College. Together we can tear it down. With your skill, you are capable of much—” He was trying to entice her to his side. The side of chaos.

  She held up a hand. “First off, I’m not looking to escape. It’s—” Something flashed behind her eyes, hurt, regret, and something else Valerius could not name. “—it’s a better home than I had. It’s where I belong. And secondly, I don’t want to tear anything down. Before you ask, no, I don’t want you to teach me anything, either. I might be a mage, but I don’t like using magic.” Her left arm clutched a thick book to her body, a bag slung over her shoulder. She still held a dagger tightly in her other hand, though it was no longer pointed at either of them. “This was an accident.”

  An accident.

  “Perhaps,” Tamlen spoke, sounding utterly convincing and charming—two things he usually wasn’t, “we can discuss this outside. Apparently it’s been years since I’ve seen the sun.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I’d like to change that.” His demeanor was a switch from moments earlier; he must’ve realized that he could not control the woman with his tough attitude.