Blood and Sorcery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 2)

by Candace Wondrak

  Tamlen frowned. “And what about when Gregain took her? What about when he hurt her? You weren’t there then.”

  “No, not physically. But I awoke her blackened blood. I gave her the tools she needed to free herself. I have always only given what she needed, never more. Never less. I will not coddle my future wife, but I will make sure she can defend herself against anyone who wishes her harm, be they friend, foe, or family.”

  “So you think you helped her by giving her power over blackfire,” Bastian said, shaking his head. He heaved a long sigh. “That night has haunted her for her entire life. Killing her own parents scarred her indefinitely. It did not help!”

  Valerius could only watch, slightly slack-jawed, as Bastian showed a range of emotions he’d never before revealed. At least, not to him and Tamlen. To Lena, perhaps. There was a thick vein in his forehead that bulged when he was angry. His thoughts drifted only a bit: he could see why Lena fancied him so. He was a handsome man, and a foreigner to boot.

  Zyssept watched Bastian’s outburst with interest, though he did not show interest on his face. It was in his eyes, those peculiar, strange eyes. Almost a metallic hue, reflective and shimmery. “Now I understand. You think I caused her to unleash that fire. You all believe me to be a god who gives a child power and does not teach her how to use it.”

  “You are mad,” Bastian whispered. “If you think helping her kill her parents saved her in any way.”

  “She was saved because of me. She was given a chance at a life she never would’ve had because of me. If she hadn’t set the fire, you never would’ve found her, Bastian LeFuer. Is that what you want?”

  Bastian was quiet for a minute. “If,” he spoke slowly, “she would’ve been happy with her family, then yes. That’s what I wish would’ve happened.”

  With a shake of his head, Zyssept said, “I gave them one chance. It is not my fault they failed to take it. Do not loathe me for the mistakes of others. You revile me for being a god, for spreading necromancy and blood magic across the mortal plane, but you do not yet realize how vile your kind is, how darkness spreads in your hearts like a disease. You are tainted so very easily. What begins as thoughts turn into actions. Humanity is the scourge upon the world. You should be grateful to me you are no longer in that number.”

  Valerius wasn’t certain that was something to be grateful for. “And Lena?”

  “She will stand by my side and become a goddess of death, the mother of the void. She is my beautiful, broken mortal. With me, she is whole.”

  “With us,” Tamlen growled out.

  Zyssept rolled his neck, cracking it with the gesture. “If you keep trying my patience, there will be no us. Now, unless you have further questions—”

  Bastian had one, for he spoke, “What do you mean, you gave them one chance?”

  The old god closed his eyes. It was a moment before he said, “I suppose it is time for you to learn the truth about Celena.”

  The truth about Celena? Valerius didn’t particularly like the sound of that.

  She was prettier than he anticipated. Honestly, Cailan hadn’t quite known what to expect, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had to check her out. And after seeing her, he could not stop thinking about her. Even in the darkness, the fire in her hair, the flames behind her eyes…he rather liked it. Liked her.

  And she was a mage. A mage in his father’s dungeon. A mage that his father probably hoped to execute in the upcoming days. The city was nervous about the College now, about mages. Philip had to show them he had everything under control. That Cailan knew, but it did not mean he liked it.

  Cailan was never a fan of his father, but he was pressed to admit the man had taught him well.

  It was one particularly dreary morning when Cailan found Henrik pacing the halls before his father’s bedchamber. A fluttering of feminine laughter came from inside, to which both Henrik and Cailan paid no heed. His father was a woman’s man.

  Henrik’s thin body wore a red velvet suit, his frame looking slimmer as the days wore on. All this stress wasn’t good for him, but Henrik would never leave his father’s side. They were a match made in the bleeding afterlife, a maniacal pair of lunatics who thought they were better than everyone else. Especially mages.

  Cailan, on the other hand, knew he was better than most, but not all. And he wasn’t better than a mage, for what could be better than holding magic in one’s hands? He’d give anything to become a mage, somehow. He’d read stories about heroes centuries ago who began their lives as non-magical, but through runes were able to acquire certain magics. Lightning, fire, even water.

  Alas, the art had been lost as the centuries wore on. Too dangerous, royalty deemed the practice, so it was halted almost as quickly as it began.

  The moment Henrik spotted him, he stopped pacing. “Prince Cailan.” His voice seemed…nervous. “What are you doing here?”

  Not quite the best greeting a seneschal should give his prince.

  Cailan tilted his head. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…”

  “Have you contacted any enchanters yet?”

  Henrik’s expression hardened. “Your father has decided to execute the mage in the square, tomorrow at midday. There is no hope for her, my Prince.”

  Not liking his reply, Cailan stepped closer to him, getting in his face. “Was it a request, Seneschal?” When Henrik remained silent, he said, “No, it was an order. You will go to the College and you will fetch me whatever is needed to give her the exam.”

  “But why? Her fate is already sealed—”

  Her fate was not already sealed, something inside Cailan whispered. It could be changed. It would be changed.

  “Have you forgotten who will be king should my father die before he remarries?” Cailan asked, cocking his head. “I would go now, if I were you. I want it done tonight. If you fail me, Henrik…” He let his threat trail off, allowing the man to use whatever pitiful imagination he had. “Do not fail me.”

  Henrik bowed shortly, hurriedly walking off. Cailan watched him go before he made his way to his bedchamber. A vast, giant room with a dome-like ceiling, its walls painted with murals of battles and war. A king must always prepare for war, even in times of peace.

  Cailan’s eyes drew him along his ornate, rich furniture, lingering on his bed. He wondered then, thoughts so strong he could not deny them, what it would feel like to have the mage—Lena—in his bed. Would she be as fiery as her hair would suggest, or would she be weak and compliant? What would she taste like, sound like? What would her face look like as she moaned his name and dragged her nails down his back?

  He stood in front of his full-length mirror, studying himself after finally drawing his gaze from the bed. He was a prince, wearing stately clothes, his nose turned upwards just a bit. Of course, his regality was slightly off-put by the black shadow hovering behind his body’s reflection.

  How long had it been there? When did it first appear? Cailan thought back.

  He’d been lying in bed one night, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. His body was too bruised. He’d sat up and reached for a match and the candle he kept on his nightstand. As soon as the flames flickered to life, illuminating the room in an earthly, dull orange, his eyes had been immediately drawn to the ceiling.

  It should’ve been just as orange as the rest of the room, if not a tad duller since it was so far away. But it hadn’t been. It was black as night, a starless sky in his room. Cailan had felt his skin crawl; the shadow watched him silently, regarding him with an almost quiet grace.

  Cailan, fascinated with anything involving magic, had whispered to himself, “What are you?” He thought he’d been dreaming, for there was no way there was something misty and foggy clouding around his bedroom’s ceiling. It just didn’t happen.

  But that was when it had answered him by falling from the ceiling, collapsing in a shapeless heap before his bed. It rose until it was the height of a man, and Cailan had quickly
leapt from his bed after tossing the sheets off his legs. A shadow, nothing more, but even though he held a plate with a candle on it, the shadow did not dissipate.

  It had been…amazing.

  “What,” he’d spoken again, slower this time, “are you?”

  The shadow morphed, taking the shape of a man. It had no lips, no face, no discernable features of any kind, and yet it had answered him: I am everything you desire, young Prince. Everything you want.

  “Are you a demon?” Cailan had whispered.

  Not a demon, but a spirit. A spirit who can help you claim everything you desire.

  Instead of asking where it came from, why it was here, Cailan only had one question. “What is your name, Spirit?” When it told him, he should’ve known, for he could feel the lust and desire seeping from the faceless shadow.

  And then it had told him how it could help him gain everything he ever wanted, how all it wanted in return was to sit inside and watch. Never would it take charge. It was not a demon; only a passenger. A willing passenger that could help him do more than Cailan could ever have done on his own.

  What else could he have said to it? There was nothing else he could have said other than, “Yes.”

  The very instant he agreed, the spirit had flown at him, swirling towards him, seeping into his mouth, his nose, ears and eyes. Once it was entirely inside of him, Cailan hadn’t felt much different. The days had gone on without a hitch, and he had often wondered if he’d dreamt up the whole thing.

  Alas, when Cailan had made his way to the dungeon, the first second he’d seen Celena Locke in person…he’d felt the spirit then. The lust, the urges, the desire. It wasn’t because she was a pretty woman; there were dozens of pretty servants constantly hustling around the castle. It was because she was new, powerful, dangerous. Because she had the entire city wrapped around her delicate finger without even knowing it.

  He had to have her. He had to own her in more ways than one.

  As Cailan stood there, staring at his reflection in his room, he blinked. Just like that, the spirit’s reflection was gone. Perhaps it was all in his head. The spirit was inside of him anyway, so he doubted he’d be able to see it.

  Hunger, it said its name was.

  Cailan could definitely feel the new hunger that stirred within him. He wanted many things in that moment—to teach his father a lesson, to force Henrik and the other advisers to their knees before him, and perhaps most of all…he wanted Lena.

  Hunger would get its fill one way or another, he’d make sure of it. Lena, that poor, sweet, fragile flower; she’d learn to revel in the lust and the hunger, just like Cailan. Together, they’d turn this very kingdom on its head.

  Long live King Philip.

  Chapter Nine

  The grass below her feet tickled her toes. Lena wore no boots, no socks. She was barefoot as she walked to the pond. Her red hair was down and straight—an oddity she didn’t stop to ponder, for it was usually kinky and wavy and ridiculously unmanageable. Her body wore a white slip of a dress. Its fabric tied around her neck with a plunging neckline and a near-nonexistent back. A golden band cinched her waist, keeping her chest firmly inside the dress even though its fabric was flimsy and low cut. The ends of the dress met her ankles, swaying ever so slightly in the gentle, soft breeze.

  The sun was high over her head, but she did not sweat. There was nary a tree in sight as she walked, hugging a clay jar to her hip. She hummed a soft melody, a song that was both unfamiliar and known to her, as her feet drew her to the pond.

  A crystal-clear lake whose surface hadn’t a single ripple. A beautiful, serene sight, one that Lena stopped to take in before she bent to fill the jug. Her eyes scanned the lake, her lungs breathing in the clean, fresh air. Everything was perfect. It was all as it should be…until her peripheral vision spotted a figure standing on the other side of the lake. A man.

  Her skin immediately grew clammy, and she froze. Whatever calmness had settled upon her earlier vanished the moment she spotted his white hair. But the moment she flicked her eyes toward him, he vanished, almost as if he’d never been there in the first place. Almost as if she’d been imagining him the entire time.

  When Lena was certain he was gone and she was alone, she stepped closer to the large pond, dipping the mouth of the jug into the water, filling it. Once it was full, she straightened her back, set the full jug on her hip, and spun on her heel to go back the way she came. It was a bit odd though—she could hardly remember why she needed the water in the first place.

  Lena’s feet drew her through the grassy field, and she closed her eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the sweet respite. She couldn’t recall another time when she’d felt this tranquil, this at ease. If this was what life held, she could handle it.

  She opened her eyes.

  The field of green grass was far behind her. The sun overhead was now covered with clouds, a dull and gloomy grey that seemed to coat the area before her in melancholy. A farmhouse sat before her, burning with a fire so strangely colored—black. But the fire did not startle Lena. She anticipated it.

  Because she’d set it.

  The ceiling and roof of the farmhouse had started to collapse, caving in on itself due to the structural damage from the blackfire. She walked on splinters, on burning wood, entering the house. Lena did not feel the heat, her skin did not prickle with blisters or sear and burn. She was unaffected.

  She moved through the house, ignoring the weeping girl on the burning rug in the front room. Her yellow-blonde curls clung to her face, her eyes a bright, vibrant blue. Almost startling compared to the muted colors around her. Lena headed into the kitchen area, standing before two charred people.

  What used to be a man and a woman.

  Their clothes were entirely singed off, their skin red and black with ash. Eyelids burned off to reveal unblinking, red-eyed stares. Their lips were gone too, mouths full of teeth and charred gums. They’d looked better, certainly.

  They were on the floor, clinging to each other. Both were motionless until Lena moved within a foot of them. The sound of cracking bone, of dried ligaments attempting to move, entered her ears. A terrible noise, one that made her want to be sick. But she held it in, gazing steadily down at the figure closest to her. Though they looked similar with their skin and appendages mostly burned off, she knew it was her father.

  He turned his head toward her, reddened eyes unblinking as he slowly, steadily lifted a hand. His skin peeled with the movement, its blackened outer shell cracking to show a still-burning underlayer. His fingers jerked and stiffened as they extended, almost like his bones were breaking. Though he had no lips, no hair and nearly no face, she heard him whisper, “Water.”

  Lena glanced to the jug she held against her hip. The water sitting inside the clay jar glittered, reflecting light that was not there. Had she gotten the water to give to him? Had she made the long trek just for him? Her eyes darted back to the misshapen and disfigured man, who was no more than a moving, cracking corpse. Then she gazed at the other body, her mother.

  Her mother’s eyes, a flaming red color, were melting as blackfire danced around her. She did not attempt to reach for Lena, not like him. She only watched until she could watch no longer.

  The gruesome sight was…not as horrid as it was when she first came. Lena grew used to it, used to the smell of burning flesh and the sounds of bone rubbing against bone. Her face was emotionless as she stood there, watching her parents die.

  Lena was slow to shake her head, whispering a single word to her father: “No.” She took the jug, dumping it out beside her. The water fell from the clay jar in an arc that was anything but merciful, colliding with the burning floor, though it did not extinguish the blackfire. Blackfire was too strong a magic to be controlled with water. Too powerful.

  Besides, she didn’t want to stop the fire. She wanted to watch it burn. Lena wanted to watch them burn. Was that why she’d gotten the water—to make them suffer even more? To force them to watch
as it fell, just out of her father’s grasp?

  Holding the clay jar on her hip once more, Lena stared at them, at her parents, at their charred and singed flesh. They were hideous things, already dead. They were dead inside long before the blackfire took them. She felt a small, soft hand slip into her own, the one that didn’t hold the jug. She looked down, seeing the girl who’d been weeping in the front room.

  Her yellow curls had turned a fiery red, and when the little girl lifted her stare to Lena, she found her blue gaze was a similar red color. Just like hers. She was crying still, but it was there—the spark that had started this. The desire to watch it all crumble down.

  Lena squeezed her hand, giving the girl a small smile. The child did the same, and together they watched the world around them burn.

  Lena was jerked away by someone working on her chains. The jail guard, she recognized the beady eyes beneath his helmet instantly, even though she was recovering from a strange, bizarre dream.

  Because that’s all it was, right? A dream. A dream that might’ve held some roots in reality, but a dream that bore no implications for her life. As much as Lena wanted to believe it…she knew there was more to it. Why would she walk all that way, retrieve a heavy cask full of water, only to dump it out before her dying parents’ eyes? It seemed rather malicious, and Lena wasn’t a malicious or vengeful sort.

  The guard did not release her wrists from the anti-magical cuffs, but he did unlatch her from the wall. She nearly fell the moment she was free, and the guard shoved her back, not wanting her to touch him. He gestured toward the open cell door, glowering as he commanded, “Walk.”

  Seeing as how she had little else she could do, she walked.

  She turned where he told her to, walked up a set of winding stairs when he instructed her to…wherever the guard led her, she hoped it wouldn’t be to her execution. Would Zyssept let her die? She wondered. She had denied him again and again. Surely the old god could find another bride-to-be. It wouldn’t be so hard. There were plenty of women—and men—who’d kill for a chance at becoming a goddess or god of death.