Still, despite her limited months studying, Chandra seemed pleased by her work, as did several other archmages. So perhaps it didn't matter how long she'd trained, and just how well she'd learned her lessons.
But most importantly, she believed in her heart she could actually do this.
“I accept the challenge.”
It took a keen eye to notice, but Edith saw Chandra's normally impassive expression slightly turn up a corner of her red lips in a smirk.
“Very well. Marcus, you may return to the Aeonic Well with your instructor. Edith, remain where you are.”
“I also believe this concludes our business for the day. Good luck, you two,” the gnomish wizard mentioned, and they started teleporting away one by one until only Edith and Chandra were left in the large chamber.
Still sitting in the parapet, the impassive sorceress stated, “For a very brief moment, Edith, I thought you'd decline.”
Uncertain, Edith quirked a brow. “Do you think I should have?”
At that, Chandra disappeared from her seat and reappeared before her apprentice, shaking her head. “It doesn't truly matter what I think.”
“Then why are you detaining me? I get the feeling there's something you're not saying.”
“And you'd be correct,” she admitted simply. “But it has nothing to do with your decision to accept the Final Calling.”
With that said, the sorceress took a few steps away, quietly looking up at the statues carved from the marble support columns in the chamber as if reminiscing.
“I've walked these halls for so long now I can barely remember where I came from. The Final Calling changes lives, as I'm certain you're well aware. But I don't believe you truly know what it is that awaits you.”
Edith canted her head, taking a few concerned steps toward the sorceress. “Why? You almost make it sound like I'm destined for something.”
“You are,” Chandra announced, turning around to regard her apprentice with a sentimentality Edith couldn't recall seeing before. “I've never considered myself the mothering type, Edith, nor patient enough to be an effective instructor. But I've found a … friendship with you that exceeds expectation. So, as your friend, I've information to pass on now that you've accepted your challenge.”
Coming from Chandra, Edith was both humbled, and concerned. The sorceress spent very little time on emotional displays, and when she did?
Things usually became intense.
“Well this sounds ominous.”
“It may well be,” she confirmed, wasting no time with her explanation. “Two hundred years ago, a prophecy was made stating I would bring about events that would inevitably liberate an empire from tyranny. These events involve you.”
“Me? How so?”
“It said that my first apprentice, an enchantress of unspoken ability, would usurp a tyrant, ultimately restoring order to an Empire. But what matters most is that this tyrant knows of the prophecy. So if anyone's learned I've taken my first apprentice, and that she's been released for her Final Calling, they'll send assassins.”
The color drained out of Edith's face, her eyes going wide. “What? Why didn't you tell me before?”
“And scare you off of your Calling for good? No, you were best left in the dark over this matter.”
Edith inhaled a deep breath in attempt to stay calm, as well as temper her anger over not knowing about this weird prophecy and the impact it could have on her Calling sooner.
Still, there wasn't any time to worry when Chandra took her shoulders in both hands and held her gaze with a very serious mien.
The movement captured Edith's complete attention.
“And now is the time to tell you what I think. You're one of very few mages to ever be offered the chance to accomplish their Calling before their first year of study was over, Edith, and of the three apprentices present today, you were the only one the entire Assembly agreed on challenging—not a common development.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and just between us,” she added conspiratorially, “the reason you and Arla waited so long was Marcus.”
All things considered, that did make Edith feel better. Chandra wasn't one to dispense praise everyday, a stern instructor who was bluntly honest, but insightful enough to give good direction when a mistake was made.
So hearing she'd been unanimously issued the challenge so early on gave Edith a rare sense of pride that overrode her worries. Assassins? I'll be a fucking enchantress. I could turn them all into roaches.
She also had to fight her amusement over the fact that the Assembly was so torn over Marcus' readiness, relating softly, “Do you know he actually suggested we're all necromancers due to the Well's source of energy?”
With the straightest face she'd ever seen, Chandra rolled her eyes. “Unless he wants his corpse passed onto the necromancy guild to be used as reanimation practice, I'd suggest he keep that opinion to himself. And here you are, worrying about a few pesky assassins.”
Grinning, Edith turned to accompany her instructor to the doors, more confident about her decision than she'd ever been over anything—not a sensation she took for granted.
Those years spent living with a negligent stepmother had Edith's mind constantly searching for reasons why she wasn't good enough, and getting ridiculed in high school on a daily basis hadn't helped matters. But being around Chandra, and seeing how she and the other archmages carried themselves had definitely rubbed off.
Endeavoring to be more like the confident sorceress, Edith had assumed her attitude solely in an attempt to fake it 'til I make it, and strangely, the tactic seemed to work. Other apprentices appreciated both her sass, and her approach to problem solving, sometimes even asking her advice on magic related issues.
So in Mystikkar, and for the first time in her adult life, she felt free to be herself and socialize without fear of judgment.
Only time would tell how well that newfound confidence might hold up once she returned home and possibly encountered someone from her past—with the exception of Charlotte. But thankfully, in stepping through the doors and descending the stairs to the Well, her doubts were blissfully silent.
Marcus and Nishalla were already gone, and the pair stopped at the edge of the black pool to gaze down at the energy flowing through it, rippling like water. Most of the substance was translucent, but shimmers of various colors could sometimes be spotted in the waves.
To begin her quest, Edith would drink from it, causing the apprentice sigil on her left shoulder to disappear. Once this happened, she wouldn't technically be Chandra's student any longer, and the sorceress wouldn't be able to aid her in the Final Calling without nullifying it.
So, with the thought in mind, she asked, “Anymore last minute advice for me?”
Chandra took the question to heart, and seemed to recall something specific. “Oh yes, I nearly forgot. You should prepare to deal with a demon who'll be hounding you.”
Edith blinked in confusion. “Hounding me for what?”
The sorceress actually seemed amused when she replied, “You'll see. Now, to give you my last gift as your official instructor.”
Lifting her hand, a white light gleamed in her palm that soon darted toward Edith, ramming into her body and disappearing—her magical cache for storing the components to craft her staff.
As soon as the mystical light faded, Chandra lowered her arm and directed, “Drink from the well, Edith, and I'll send you back home.”
Nodding, Edith turned and settled on her knees at the edge of the pool. She'd yet to touch the waters of the well—doing so without proper knowledge of its contents could be lethal—but found as she cupped her hands to draw some of it up, it was like lifting air.
The same sensation was experienced upon swallowing the substance—it wasn't wet, and had no taste. It simply went down like literally nothing.
But Edith soon felt … rejuvenated, as if a power was within her that no one could touch. It was heady, even enjoyable, and if t
his was the way an archmage felt on a typical day, she knew for certain the path she'd chosen was the right one.
So, lifting her gaze back up to Chandra, she announced, “I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”
Nodding, she did as promised, teleporting her apprentice home to Summerton, North Carolina.
Just before she disappeared, the sorceress sincerely bid her, “Good luck, Edith.”
Two
• • •
Summerton, North Carolina
“Isaac! Mmm, so good!”
Isaac groaned, arching his back up to the feel of his mate's body over him, wrenching another cry from her throat as a reward.
“Please! I'm so close!” she begged desperately.
“Let me see you come,” he growled back, her face obscured by darkness just like the rest of her body. Still, he drove his hips up again, seeking her, trying to fill her—but somehow, he couldn't quite accomplish the endeavor.
Not that she was complaining. Despite the darkness, he could feel her hands groping his body, hear her whimpers as she trembled over him, and flipped her onto her back, ready to pound her until the bed broke.
“Let me see it!” he growled in demand.
“Isaac, please, come in me!”
Her plea had a shiver of pleasure washing over him as he tried to take her harder than he'd ever taken any woman. But she felt so far away, her voice somehow distant, and despite being able to feel her body flush against his, he couldn't get anything to work the way he wanted it to.
“Oh, I'm coming!” she suddenly cried, writhing beneath him.
“No! Not yet!” he yelled, his demands to watch her come unmet just as Isaac woke from the erotic dream.
Panting, he sat forward on the cot where he'd slept, ready to turn over and grab the woman haunting his dreams to do things right—just before recalling that she wouldn't be there.
Instead, he'd end up cuddling several empty beer bottles.
With the realization came the same heavy yearning and disappointment he'd been experiencing for two and a half years. Initially, those occurrences had paced themselves enough to be manageable, but the ache of longing had grown so strong over the past ten months he thought he'd go crazy. Or, well, crazier. And the bender continues.
An empty bottle suddenly shattered against the cinder block wall after Isaac threw it in anger. This was the first time he'd slept in nearly two months, and of course, those dreams were still haunting him like a damned wraith.
Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed a full beer from the half-empty pack sitting on the floor of the run-down basement. His temporary abode smelled like mold and dirt, but as far as Isaac was concerned, it was fitting for his current state of being.
Cracking the bottle open, he turned it up with the neck at his lips and began guzzling. Simultaneously, he detected a long line of Spanish swearing from his current landlady upstairs, a spirited middle aged woman named Ida who never let her two sons get away with anything.
Isaac found her rants amusing, but the fact that he was actually paying attention only proved one thing. Not drunk enough.
He downed the rest of the beer at the thought and threw it against the wall to join the rest of the shattered glass littering the floor, wondering all the while if he would ever be drunk enough. Hasn't happened yet, but that's not from a lack of trying.
His head fell back against the wall, groaning at the thought. Isaac didn't know how much more of this waiting bullshit he could take without snapping and causing some real trouble for the hell of it, especially when the only reason he'd tried to behave at all in recent months was warnings about how his mate might frown on his usual misconduct.
But really, how uptight could Edith be? So Isaac liked to cause a little mayhem from time to time—watching mortals flail was hilarious.
A creak sounded from the top of the wooden steps leading to the main floor, and the door opened with Ida asking his name followed by questioning his desire for dinner. Indeed, he could smell the meal she'd prepared wafting down into the basement, though the scent of fried beef and fresh salsa didn't overwrite that of the mold so much as mix with it, blunting any reaction his stomach might've offered.
“Gracias, pero no tengo hambre,” he declined.
“Okay,” Ida answered, reluctantly shutting the door, and Isaac knew her hesitation was caused by Ulric and Charlotte.
The couple had taken it upon themselves to make sure he was eating, and directed Ida to bug him about it. So she always asked, and rarely gave up when he said no.
But his friends were right to be concerned—Isaac hadn't eaten in weeks.
Typically, he could go for quite a while without a meal, but the mute made it impossible to stave off for long without feeling weak, even ill. Still, tomorrow would be soon enough to visit Ulric at his new home and let the draconian talk him into putting something on his stomach.
He just hoped Charlotte wasn't around—unlike Ida, she never gave up until he'd eaten a full meal.
For a fae, she could be irritatingly stubborn. Ulric's a lucky bastard.
Isaac's eyes opened with the thought, his gaze drifting out of the ground level window at the quarter moon, wondering when he'd become so shiftless. But he knew who to blame for his lousy condition. Fucking Chandra.
He didn't even want to think of the sorceress, what she was currently doing, or just how long it would take her to finish. He'd rather sit in that basement, lazing around in a drunken stupor and listen to the Latin music coming from the speakers upstairs than consider the reason he was doing so.
The circumstances almost made him grateful his time in the Pit. Five centuries of contending with bloodthirsty monsters, criminals, and an environment that could be lethal if you took a wrong step had worn Isaac down, stripping him of his fears and leaving him completely uncivilized once he was freed.
So no matter how tiresome waiting for Edith became, it was nowhere near as bad as it could've been.
Still, a pang of disappointment stabbed at his chest whenever he thought of her absence, and Isaac sat up, grabbing the remainder of his beer to throw at the wall in a burst of anger. The two bottles pitched forward and shattered as he stood from the cot, deciding it was time to find something to do. Could always scout Summerton for spies again.
Yet, before he had a chance to consider the merits of that plan, a familiar voice mentioned, “If the homeowner hired you to renovate their basement, I hope they're getting a refund.”
Isaac stopped at the bottom of the steps, rolling his eyes over the comment as he looked back. Surely enough, in the corner of the basement stood a tall figure clad in dark robes with a high collar, his skin so pale it was nearly snow white, contrasting a long mane of silken black hair.
Jutting from his crown were two thick, black horns curving back across his head, proving he was a Perosian demon of the Shadow Caste. But Isaac knew more about him than that—his name was Arias, an Ancient who claimed to have known Isaac since before he'd actually become Isaac.
And he had a bad habit of showing up unannounced.
“What are you doing here? Need something?”
“Not in so many words,” Arias returned, stepping out of the shadows with broken glass crunching beneath his boots. “I wanted to check on you, strange as that may sound. Ever since Chandra took an apprentice, you've been oh so melancholy waiting for her training to be completed.”
“Aw, how sweet,” Isaac drew out sarcastically. “So what do you really want?”
“Isaac, you wound me,” the Ancient chided, dramatically placing a hand to his chest. “Here I am, trying to practice showing concern, and you throw it back in my face.” The moment he was done speaking, his countenance returned to a neutral state as he added flatly, “No really. I'm hurt.”
“Well, if it's so important, then I'm fine. No, really.” Impatient, he added, “What else?”
Arias smirked—and there was something ominous about the expression. “Fine, I also wanted to ask why you never told me wh
ere the curse box was. You knew I sought it, and that draconian friend of yours was chasing it down as well, but you just let it slip through my fingers.”
Most people would've been intimidated by an Ancient and how they'd retaliate against a transgression. But Isaac wasn't most people, and casually replied, “You never asked. Besides, Ulric found his mate on that job, and guess who her best friend is? My mate. So all things considered, I'm glad it worked out this way.” Well, sorta.
Arias eyed him quietly, a halo of light around his pupils giving a luminous glint to his black irises. Yet his gaze was inscrutable as he stated, “You know, I've never commented before, but you're so much more entertaining now that you're Isaac and not the playboy prince of Perosia with hordes of women flinging scads of panties at you.”
Isaac raised a brow. “Who says they stopped?”
Arias conceded the point by inclining his head. “Still, it makes me curious. I could tell you much, but you've never inquired over what type of person Alder was. Why is that?”
Grumbling under his breath, Isaac answered simply, “Because I don't give a fuck.”
The only thing he'd ever wanted to know about Alder was how he'd wound up in the Pit without a name, and Arias had answered that long ago.
Everything else was moot.
Sure, he thought about it on the rare occasion, wondered if some shit from his former life might crop up one day and blindside him. But in seven centuries, Isaac had never felt as if he'd known someone, or looked at an object and thought I've seen this before. Such a lack of familiarity proved one thing; the prince was indeed gone, and whoever the guy might've been, he wasn't Isaac.
But sometimes people pushed as if it would've been better to match his forgotten counterpart's demeanor, and it always grated. I spent five hundred years in the Pit because of Alder. I've earned the right to be myself.
So, unwilling to say more on the subject, he asked, “Is that all?”
The Final Calling Page 3