Crimson Sins

by Madeline Pryce

  “Dramatic much?” Bastian laughed.

  “Shut up.” Rory slapped the back of Bastian’s head. “Where was I? Right. After the queen killed his mistress, Áed went medieval on her ass. Just fucking lost it. He beat her to death, looked up to find a raven watching him. Enraged, he stalked over to the bird and grabbed it. Feathers flew. The low, gravelly caw of the vile creature rang out through the night. The bird bit the king and drew blood. Áed ripped the bird’s throat out with his teeth and threw the bloody carcass to the ground.”

  Morgan recoiled. “Gross.”

  “It gets better. The king fell to his knees, cradled his dead mistress in his arms, and cursed the heavens. Desperate, he pressed his lips, stained with the blood of the raven, to hers. He forced the bird’s blood into her and willed her back to life. She didn’t rise as a zombie, but as flesh and blood. They lived happily ever after.”

  She’d missed something. “So he’s the first necromancer, then?”

  Rory shook his head. “Nah. They married, popped out a couple of kids. The children, all very pale just like their father, were the first true necromancers. Some three hundred years later, after the necromancy gene was spread throughout Europe and Asia through a series of illegitimate children, the brothers founded the council of necromancers to keep their secret safe.”

  “Like I said, bullshit,” Bastian said.

  “It does sound a bit far-fetched,” she agreed.

  She settled into her seat, listened to the back-and-forth debate between Bastian, Rory, and Nolan as they argued the origins of necromancy. The trees lining the road gradually became thicker and taller. The rain slowed into a soft, hazy drizzle. After a long while, the rutted pavement turned into a muddy road. At some point, she must have fallen asleep. Morgan jerked awake when the car rolled to a stop in front of a wrought-iron gate covered in ivy.

  “How long was I asleep?” She yawned and stretched until her closed fists hit the headliner.

  Her coat parted, and she caught Bastian watching her through the mirror. His gaze fell to her breasts. She bit her lip and fought not to squirm in her seat. Her nipples pebbled at the heat in his eyes, the way his tongue casually wet his lower lip. Seeing his tongue made her think about the way it felt moving against hers for the too-short kiss in his bedroom.

  Nolan broke the silence. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She averted her gaze from Bastian to look out the window. Surrounding what she suspected was the graveyard, a fifteen-foot stone wall spread out in either direction. Behind the perimeter, the branches of bared black walnut trees peeked over the top.

  Without any further conversation, Rory exited the vehicle and walked in front of the car. He spread his arms wide and tipped his head back. The air around him shimmered and pulsed. Ghosts and spirits danced around him, shapeless, glittering forms. With each pass, they circled tighter and tighter until, if he wanted, he could have reached out and touched one.

  “What’s he doing?” Morgan asked in awe.

  “Asking permission to enter. It’s a sign of respect to the dead,” Nolan answered.

  A few minutes passed before Rory turned and gave them a double thumbs-up. He swaggered to the gate and pushed it open. The squeal of rusted hinges raised the hair on the back of her neck. She hadn’t been to a cemetery since she was fourteen and lost her virginity to Luke Monroe.

  The gate parted, and a simple stone building with a bright red door shone in the beam of the headlights. Bastian revved the engine, and the car lurched. As they passed inside, she studied the silhouettes of oddly shaped grave markers stuck up from the ground. They looked like torsos with no arms. Round, faceless heads topped the cement slabs. Most of them appeared in good condition, but she could see where weather and age had eroded some of the stones. In some cases, the heads were cracked in half or missing altogether.

  The scent of death washed over her. The sudden chill in the air raised the hair on her arms. She peered through the gloom at the big black trees and scattered gravestones. “How old is this place?”

  “The oldest grave is dated in the eighteen hundreds.” Bastian cut the engine and opened his car door. A second after his door slammed shut, hers was opening. With his hand on the open doorframe, he bent and looked at her. “Your first lesson is shielding.”

  She tried to force back the ice slowly weighing her limbs, and failed. Death—the sweet scent of it, the way it thickened the air—bombarded her. Her ears filled with screams and pleas. Men, women, children—every voice was slightly different but no less demanding of her attention. The air glimmered in a cadence of flickering light. Where Rory sat a few minutes ago now showed a wrinkled old woman with flesh so thin Morgan could see through it. Ringlets of silver hair cascaded over her shimmering lace nightgown.

  “Those boys you’re with are death incarnate. Beware,” she whispered.

  Morgan couldn’t breathe. She looked away, back to Bastian, and wasn’t quite sure how to ask for help. How had she been able to stand this all those years ago?

  “Focus, Morgan. Create a door in your mind, and shove everything behind it. You have to picture yourself turning the knob.”

  She closed her eyes and did what he said. A door appeared in the darkness behind her lids. She imagined opening the thick oak slab and what might behind it. Ronan. Her mother.

  Her eyes popped back open. “I can’t.”

  Bastian crouched. He cupped her cheek and looked deeply into her eyes. One by one, the apparitions faded into nothing. The noise in her ears disappeared.

  “How’d you do that?” she whispered.

  “Open the door to the spot within you, Morgan. Put everything inside, and then seal it up.”

  The door inside her mind opened into a yawning darkness, somehow more black than the empty space around it. She drew in the chaos around her and shoved it inside before slamming the door shut. Morgan leaned into Bastian’s embrace.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She looked to her side, to where the old lady no longer lingered. Around her, the air shimmered, but it didn’t overwhelm her. In her mind, the solid door thinned and pulsed as if everything behind it was fighting to get free. Red ice crawled from beneath the door and spread out. She wasn’t going to think about it.

  “I can still kind of see the shapes in the air, but it’s better. I’m cold, though, really cold.”

  “That’s you suppressing your magic.” Bastian shrugged out of his jacket and fitted the leather around her shoulders, doubling her layers. He lifted her chin. “Keep that door shut tight, and remember you control the magic, not the other way around. We may have permission to be here, but if the spirits sense weakness, they’ll pounce.”

  Taking the hand he offered, she got out of the car. She closed her eyes and drew in the potent scent of death. Exhaling, she looked around and pulled Bastian’s coat tighter around her body. A heavy layer of fog rolled over the ground. As they walked through it, the mist clung to her.

  Each step connected her to the cemetery. Despite the shields, the unrest of the dead below her feet settled into her bones and made her nauseated. Screaming howls filled her ears and grew louder with each crumbling chunk of the door in her mind. The voices hit her at once. She stumbled and blindly reached out to steady herself. Bastian grabbed her hand. The moment he touched her, everything faded. Piece by piece, she labored to reconstruct her broken door.

  “I don’t remember this happening the last time I was in a graveyard,” she muttered through chattering teeth.

  Bastian grabbed her hand and squeezed. “That was almost ten years ago. You’re stronger now, have more magic. The dead are drawn to you. Look around, and you’ll see the spirits and ghosts don’t want anything to do with me or my brothers.”

  “Fresh meat,” Nolan remarked with a nod.

  “Great. Tell them to go away.” She followed close behind Bastian until they stopped in what looked like a circle of graves.

  Bastian looked around. “Here is good.”

&nb
sp; His brothers flanked her. When Bastian walked ahead, Rory put out an arm to stop her from following. To her surprise, Bastian gripped the hem of his shirt and peeled it off as he went. The muscles in his back flexed, and she drank in the sight of him. He turned at the edge of the circle to expose the bold lines of the biohazard symbol etched into his chest. She swallowed, gaze fixating on the rigid pack of his muscles and then to the jeans riding low on his hips.

  “What in the hell is he doing?” she croaked.

  Beside her, Nolan slid off his jacket and let it drop to the ground. “He’s getting ready for you to kill him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bastian forced back the lust hardening his cock and filling him with heat. Like the dead hovering around her, he couldn’t look away. Morgan stood there with her eyes bright and her hair a defiant slash of color in the night. When she drew her lower lip between her teeth and bit, his dick jerked. It took everything he had to stay on the other side of the graveyard and not take her right there in the dirt with his brothers as witnesses. The longer he stared at her, the hotter he got. Hell, he barely even felt the magic in his veins.

  Her low, husky voice carried on the wind and broke him from his trance. “I’m not going to kill anyone.”

  Kill. The word punched him in the gut. He closed his lids, and the image of Morgan’s lifeless body flashed through his mind. The squirrelly, uncomfortable sensations he had no idea how to deal with pulsed through him. No. Morgan wasn’t dying on his watch.

  He opened his eyes and locked gazes with his brother. “Nolan, tell her what to do. I’m ready when you are.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious?”

  Beside her, Nolan nodded. “I’m going to instruct you, and then you’re going to aim for Bastian.”

  Her confusion turned to panic. “You are serious. Aim? Aim what?”

  “Your magic.” Rory pointed to the glowing yellow frost dancing in his hand, then at Bastian. “Focus, and then fire.”

  Morgan crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Absolutely not. I saw what Ronan did.”

  Rory shook his head, took hold of her wrists, and uncrossed her arms. “It’s the only way to learn. Bastian’s a big, strong man. He can take whatever you dish out. Now, strip down.”

  “What? No.” She batted away Rory’s hands when he tried to remove her outer layers. “I’m not stripping, and I’m not going to hurt him.”

  Bastian shouted so she could hear him loud and clear. “Trust me; anything you throw at me won’t be half as bad as what I’ve already gone through. Let Nolan and Rory walk you through it. Take off the coats, Morgan.”

  She eyed each one of them warily but did as she was told. One layer at a time, she stripped until she stood in only her thin tank top, jeans, and boots. “Is this how you guys learned your…tricks?”

  “Spells,” Nolan corrected. “And no. If you get your spell wrong, we won’t flog you.”

  “Unless you ask, of course.” Rory placed a hand on Morgan’s back and straightened her spine. He pointed at Bastian. “Now, lock gazes with your opponent.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. He gave her a half smile he could tell she didn’t find amusing.

  Nolan’s deep voice rumbled. “I’m going to teach you the three basics: Death’s Chill, Withering Touch, and Raven’s Sight. Now, the first one is the easiest, and if done correctly, your target will be overwrought with a chill that resembles death. The organs shut down, brain function is limited, and the heart slows to a crawl. It only lasts a few minutes, but it should be enough time for you to haul your stubborn ass to safety.”

  Morgan shook out her fists as if she were about to go into a boxing match. “Is there any kind of, I don’t know, drawback with these spells?”

  Rory grinned down at her, and the sight made Bastian clench his fists. “It’s fucking cold. If you don’t expel all the magic, you can suffer from the effects and become paralyzed, which sucks.”

  “Bastian. I don’t like this.”

  “How sweet. She’s afraid,” Nolan taunted. “Man up, kid. Pretend your boyfriend over there is your mortal enemy. If you don’t stun him, he’ll crawl through windows and eat kittens.”

  “What’s with you and the cats?” Bastian asked with a disapproving shake of his head.

  Nolan only shrugged.

  Morgan steeled her resolve and gave Bastian a rather convincing glare that had him grinning despite how crappy his night had been. “All right, evil kitten-eater,” she said.

  Nolan leaned in close to Morgan, and his voice echoed in the cemetery. “Slowly crack open the door in your mind. Pull in the death around you, not the spirits, but the feel and texture of the actual death lingering in the air. Everything eventually dies, and that mark stays behind. Gather all the cold energy, and combine it with your magic. Let it settle in the pit of your stomach. When you can’t stand the pressure any longer, let it flow out of your palm and to your target. Get it all out, every drop, and then slam your imaginary door closed.”

  Morgan nodded. Bastian watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she drew in a breath. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and her narrowed eyes brightened. Bracing himself for the hit to come, he closed his eyes and tensed.

  He heard Rory whisper, “That’s good. Now, release it.”

  “I can’t,” she stuttered through what he imagined were chattering teeth.

  After another minute of silence, he looked at Morgan. Her lips, pink and inviting, took on a bluish shade as the scent of cinnamon filled the air. Scarlet magic dripped from her hands. The ice looked like blood.

  “Release it,” Bastian warned, worry creeping into his voice at the tremors racking her slight body.

  Morgan shook her head, and the strands of her hair whipped her face.

  “Damn it, Nolan, take the magic from her,” Bastian growled and was already halfway across the graveyard to do it himself.

  Rory grabbed her palm and held it to his chest. The spell she’d woven passed silently from her into Bastian’s brother. Her eyes widened. Bastian stopped, assessed the red-tinged ice crystals forming on Rory’s eyelashes. His brother’s lips turned blue, and he went rigid as if frozen in a block of red ice.

  Morgan yanked her hand back in horror. “No. Oh my God. I killed him!”

  Bastian cupped her face and brought her gaze to his. He stepped in close and had to resist the urge to press his lips against hers. “You didn’t kill anyone. Nolan is being an ass. Rory will be fine. Just give him a minute to fight your magic. This one doesn’t hurt, much.”

  Ten seconds later, Rory wiggled his fingers, then his entire hand. His lips went from blue to pink, and he started jumping up and down in place. He exhaled red ice crystals. “Not bad, but it was kind of weak. You need to be able to throw the spell, though. Holding it in like that will only hurt you. Let’s try it again. If that ever happens again and no one is around, shove it into the ground. You’ll bring whatever is close by back to life, but it’s better than the alternative.”

  “Weak?” she stammered.

  Bastian coughed to hide his chuckle and earned a sidelong glance from both of his brothers.

  “Your lips were blue!” she exclaimed.

  “Child’s play, sweetheart,” Rory taunted. “Now come on. Again. Let’s see how quick Bastian can shake off the spell. I bet you twenty bucks it takes him longer.”

  Six tries later, Morgan finally managed to hurl the spell across the graveyard. Crimson crystals moved through the air, smelled sweetly of cinnamon. Bastian braced and took the hit to his bare chest. Ice moved through him, invaded his body until each limb weighed what felt like a hundred pounds. He couldn’t blink, could barely breathe. Using his own magic, he pushed the ice out and broke free of her spell within seconds.

  “Hey!” Morgan yelled, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with lingering magic. “It was supposed to incapacitate him for a few minutes. That was like, what, five seconds?”

  “You owe me twenty bucks!” B
astian shouted. To Morgan he winked. “And, I’ve got skills.”

  Rory ruffled Morgan’s hair. “Don’t get discouraged. Bastian is exceptionally good at throwing off spells and being able to draw them out. We haven’t met any other necromancer who can do what he does.”

  “Enough about that,” Nolan said. “Let’s move on to the Withering Touch. The trick to offensive magic in a fight is being able to assess the situation and work through the panic. The magic builds with adrenaline, and it is up to you how you use the energy. It can aid you or fuck you in the ass. This spell, if you put enough juice into it, will kill even someone who is immortal, so you have to be clear on your intent.”

  Bastian stalked forward, his boots sinking into the damp grass as Nolan rolled up the sleeves on his flannel.

  “I don’t have to hurl it at you?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “This is an up-close one. I don’t think you’ll be able to project, not yet at least. Once you get the spell together, I want you to touch Nolan’s arm and slam it home.”

  “What? No way!” As if something dawned on her, she took a step back. “Withering Touch. This is what Ronan did to Rory, to my mother, isn’t it?”

  Bastian met her gaze. He brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. “I’m right here, Morgan. I’m not going to let you kill my brother. You don’t have the same level of magic Ronan has, nor is your intent as dark. You will not have the same results. And if you put too much power into it, I’ll draw it out and heal him. Trust me to keep you and everyone else safe.”

  She chewed her bottom lip and searched his face. She spoke after a long second. “What do I do?”

  “This one is more complicated,” he said. “Picture rotting corpses. See the stages of decay in fast motion. Skin, hair, muscles—don’t stop until you see bone. Picture it; pass it off with the intent you want. You can aim to stun, to incapacitate, or to kill. You don’t have to worry about backlash, but this spell does have a kick to it like a gun recoiling. Build back your shields as quickly as possible.”