Red Blood (Series of Blood Book 2)

by Emma Hamm

  “You be careful; people like that have no right to talk to us,” her mother advised.

  “Absolutely, Mother. I agree.”

  She was rewarded with a pat on her head. “You’re a good daughter.”

  The word sometimes hung in the air between them. Lyra knew that the word hadn’t been said, but tomorrow morning she would do something wrong again. Her mother would yell at her. Her father would scold her for being a pitiful excuse for a child. She certainly was no daughter of his. Not if she was a Siren.

  But sometimes, just sometimes, she was lucky enough to be a good girl.

  Later on that night, after her nurse had tucked her in with her new doll, Lyra crept out of her bed to stare out her window. She lived in the part of what used to be New York City. And it sparkled even at night. So many wealthy people walked down the streets without worrying about any danger.

  They paid to make certain that this area was perfectly safe. Not to mention that if anyone dared to step a toe out of line in this area, there were plenty of powerful creatures that could tear their heads off.

  She plunked her elbows onto her windowsill and tilted her head to stare at the world sideways. It was better this way. Nothing looked right, but that somehow made sense to her young brain. Everyone else always knew more things than her. This way, no one really understood the world.

  A soft sound made her freeze. A footstep behind her. Next to her bed? Lyra was certain she had heard the sound and that it wasn’t her mind making up things in the dark.

  She took a deep breath and told herself to be brave. She was a brave little girl who could handle whatever went bump in the night. Monsters weren’t real.

  She hoped they weren’t real.

  Spinning around as quickly as she could, she frantically searched the shadows for whatever had caused the sound. There wasn’t anything in the room with her. No one jumped towards her. No more sounds could be heard.

  Maybe it really was time for her to go to bed. Lyra usually didn’t agree with anything her nurse said, but if she was hearing things in the dark then maybe the old woman was right. She shook her head and crawled back into her fluffy pink bed. She shoved her hands under the pillow and tried to get settled.

  A soft rattling sound next to her head made her scramble for the light. Clicking it on, she stared down at the beautiful beads she pulled from underneath her lacy pillow.

  “What?” she whispered.

  These were the beads she had wanted. The beads the boy had urged her to steal. But Lyra was a good girl; she wasn’t going to steal something she could simply buy. Her family had enough money.

  Yet here they were. In her bed. She blinked a few times and wondered if she was dreaming.

  Her fingers danced over the smooth, glittering surface until she realized that these were, in fact, real. She was holding onto the one thing her mind had wanted. They were really here.

  She grinned and clutched them hard to her chest. It had to be the boy. Somehow he had gotten the necklace and brought it to her without her nanny seeing. She was so excited she didn’t even hear the popping sound as the boy teleported out of the room.

  Lyra didn’t know how this miracle had happened, but for the first time in her life she was grateful.

  NOW

  “My lord?” the simpering voice whispered the words as though the Graverobber was going to reach out and snap the neck of the speaker.

  He had a good reason to be worried. He was the fifth attendant that the Graverobber had employed in a matter of six months. The others had not lasted very long, and it was likely that this one would follow suit.

  “What is it?” The deep tone was laced with dark magic.

  The goblin shivered. He was an unfortunate looking creature whose back had bent from magic. Unnaturally small for a human, his hands were gnarled and curled into his palms. Even worse were the warts that dotted his skin in abundance.

  “Master. A letter.”

  The Graverobber was seated upon his throne made of iron. He was the only magical creature who could sit upon such a throne. No other magical creature could stand the touch of iron as it was poisonous to their kind.

  He was shrouded in darkness and covered by a cloak of night. The shadows around him stirred as he leaned forward. One scarred hand reached towards the goblin.

  The little man shivered as he watched some of the runes upon the Graverobber’s skin begin to glow. It was a sure sign that the dark creature was using magic. The white light sometimes grew so blindingly bright that it was difficult to look at him.

  A squeak echoed as the letter levitated from the goblin’s hands and into that of the Graverobber’s.

  “You may leave.”

  The goblin turned but hesitated before he took a step. “Master…”

  “What is it.”

  “Might I… Perhaps?”

  “Fine,” the Graverobber shifted and slowly raised his hands from within his robes. The image of a black bird formed inside his palm, caged by skeletal fingers. With a loud caw, it burst from his hands and flew towards the goblin, beating its wings against his back. As it settled, the bird sunk into the goblin’s skin as ink.

  It was not a spell to heal. Nor was it a spell that would ease the goblin’s pain. But it provided power that the goblin had not felt in a very long time. His back straightened as the pain was suddenly easier to bear.

  The magic of his master was not unlike a drug. The goblin was never healed. He was never physically changed. But there was something in his master’s magic that made him strong. It made his master strong.

  Graverobber waved his hand at the goblin, and it quickly skittered away. Lord, Master, Creator, all were the names that this man was called. He was not known to be a good man. Not in the slightest.

  He reached up and flung the hood of his cloak away from his face. He would have been a handsome man in another lifetime. But he had chosen a different path.

  Chiseled features had been horribly disfigured by scars and tattoos. Like black vines, they crawled from the shadows under his collar and curled around his cheekbones. Pointed edges and jagged lines spiked down from his forehead and followed the strong line of his nose. Once his distinguished jaw had been a smooth warm line. Now it was distorted by multiple fractures.

  His body was just as disturbing. Every bit of his power came from the scars he had etched into his own flesh. Both healed flesh and tattooed skin glowed when he used his power. Every spell had a different color. Every tiny bit of magic had a flavor that burst within his mouth and danced upon his tongue.

  He tossed the letter from hand to hand as he left the throne room. He had built it originally as a place of solitude. The Graverobber preferred to be alone if at all possible. But somehow there were always people finding him.

  At first it was small children who dared to come deep into the tunnels that were his domain. They dared each other to look him in the eye and find proof that he existed. Eventually, even that was too frightening and dangerous.

  Those that followed in the footsteps of children were the foolish and the weak. They were simple minded folk who erred towards evil and preferred the comfort of night. They found the Graverobber to be a comforting presence within their life. He was the kind of creature who could protect them.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t get rid of them.

  Slowly, the number of those who found him grew. They didn’t know where to go or who would help them survive. And though the Graverobber was a notoriously dangerous man to be around, he was better than those who walked the streets of the Black Market.

  The letter held another world for him. His eyes were lost in shadows as the dark edge of his brow held back the light. He knew the words on the letter before he even opened it. It was an opportunity. A gesture of peace.

  He didn’t want a gesture of peace from anyone. He wanted to be left alone gathering his power and waiting. The Graverobber didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he would know when the time came.

  Sighi
ng, he broke the seal of wax and opened the parchment. A blank sheet of paper was held within the letter. He raised a hand and dug his nail into a recently scarred rune on the palm of his hand.

  A single drop of blood dripped from the wound onto the yellowed paper. From there, words began to appear. Scarlet letters formed upon the page as brushstrokes of words bled onto the edges of the letter.

  Graverobber,

  I write to you as an extension of my sincerest respect. Though we have not met, perhaps you shall recognize my name. I am called Malachi. The Malachi of old, whom I am certain you have heard tale.

  The amount of power you hold has intrigued me. You, who live underneath the city, should know that there is a much larger world.

  I intend to bring about the darkness you are so comfortable in. A partnership between you and I would be formidable. I offer a place on my high council once the end has been reached. You would be ill advised to turn down such a prestigious offer.

  Your response should be sent in a similar manner of which I am certain you are capable. One of my soldiers will return in one week to carry your response directly to me.

  Signed,

  Malachi

  The words seemed to dance before his eyes. Never before had the Graverobber been so directly confronted. There were legends of him, of that he was certain, but none had dared to ever assume they could command him.

  He barely read the statements on the paper. Instead, he tasted the meanings behind them. The bitter taste of arrogance mixed with the lingering acid of contempt. This was not a man to trifle with. But perhaps this Malachi was unaware who the Graverobber was.

  A rune upon his forearm began to glow. Deeply scarred, it sizzled with red sparks as he tapped his finger against the letter. It burst into flames.

  He held onto the paper for a few moments too long before he dropped it to the ground. Fingers singed, he left it to turn to ash as he turned on his heel.

  “Mungus!” His voice rang in the hallway as he stalked towards his personal set of rooms. “Mungus!”

  The referred to creature was more a pet than a person. It shambled down the hallway, which echoed with soft cracking sounds. Mungus was a reanimated dead man who was little more than a skeleton. Soulless and incapable of speech, it was slightly more intelligent than a pet but less intelligent than the average person.

  And gods was it slow. The Graverobber cast a bitter glare in its direction as he swept into the stairwell that would descend further towards his private quarters. He preferred to be deep within the ground and as far away from people as he could manage.

  He could hear the clattering of bones as Mungus followed him down the stairwell.

  “Bring the lanterns!” he shouted.

  There was a pause in sound as Mungus hesitated, thought about the order, and then resumed his stumbling in the opposite direction.

  “Dead men,” the Graverobber muttered. “The worst material to work with. Should have found a suitable woman instead.”

  He pushed his shoulder hard against a thick wooden door and burst into a well lit room. Warm yellow orbs banished the shadows from the corners. He tossed the cloak from his shoulders to reveal his disfigured body. Clothed in nothing but velvet pants, he stalked to the corner and started pawing through materials.

  A spell. Not any spell, but one of his original spells. The Graverobber was one of the few people who could still create them.

  “There you are.” He whirled towards the table in the center of the room. The lean muscles of his body flexed as he moved, warping the lines that wrapped around his skin.

  In his hand were black tarot cards. Some were torn at the edges, others appeared to be burned, all were aged far beyond the years of the Graverobber. His hands held the cards with careless disregard.

  He tossed them into the air, and they fluttered like many broken wings of butterflies. The tarots spun and twisted to reveal dark faces that would turn smiles to frowns in the blink of an eye. Magic saturated the air and made it difficult to breathe as they hung suspended over the table for a few moments.

  “Decisions decisions,” the Graverobber muttered. “What is the outcome of supporting this Malachi?”

  The runes upon his back burned, and he smelled the distinct scent of burning flesh. The tarot cards rearranged themselves in a frantic mass before settling down onto the well worn wood.

  They were haphazardly scattered other than three cards perfectly aligned in the middle of the chaos. Those were the cards waiting for him. They were his answer.

  His hand nearly shook as he flipped the first card.

  “The Devil.” His nail crossed over the pentagram on the figure’s forehead. The edges of this card were charcoaled and had always felt hot to the touch. He had no doubt this card referred to Malachi and his ridiculous self obsession.

  “The Magician.” The card sparked underneath his touch. This had always been a card in each of his questions. It referred to himself as a magical being.

  “The Ten of Swords.” He murmured as his brow furrowed. He drew his hand away and winced as the ragged edge of the card drew blood from his fingertip. Of course it would. The Ten of Swords was, after all, a dead man with ten swords in his back.

  The Graverobber shook his head. Not a good deal after all. The tarot cards had yet to be wrong, and he always abided by their decisions.

  Some of his kind used a magic ball to divine what their future would be. He preferred a much less concrete method. It wasn’t fun to know every twist and turn that his life would take. Cards were much more vague, and it was up to him to determine the cause. Although sometimes the answer was clear. As in this case.

  “You’re being a little dramatic,” he told them.

  A card flipped over on its own. Leaning over, he scowled down at The Fool.

  “Now you’re just being petty.”

  A clacking sound had him turning to look at the skeleton that was awkwardly twisted so that it could fit through the door. In Mungus’s arms were three large bundles. Each one held precious objects that were critically important to the Graverobber’s work.

  “Useless!” he yelled as he rushed forward to yank the bundles from the dead man’s arms. “How many times do I have to tell you? Be careful with these!”

  The skeleton didn’t even have the sense to look ashamed. Its sightless eyes stared in his direction for a few moments before it turned to stand in the corner. The Graverobber wasn’t particularly certain why it always chose to stare at a wall when it was in the room with him. Mungus had always been a little strange though.

  He gently set the bundles on a padded chair and unraveled the first to reveal glass vials of herbs and countless bones.

  “Cat’s paw,” he muttered as he emptied containers one by one. “Liverwort. Limpweed. Dash of Fairy dust.”

  He tossed all the ingredients of his spell into a bowl. He found it much easier to coax natural things into magic rather than to force magic to make itself known. The less energy he had to expend, the better.

  His hands hovered above the ingredients. Between his fingers, light began to sparkle. Scars burned along his cheekbones, and runes remitted a bright light along the back of his neck. It was not an easy spell and one that always made him exhausted.

  In a matter of seconds, he was done. All who were connected to this Malachi and knew of his existence were wiped clean of their memories. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and mixed with blood that was dripping from his face.

  “All done, Mungus,” he muttered. “But Malachi remains untouched. At the very least, it will slow him down.”

  He had struck a wall in that mind and had the sick feeling that Malachi had known he was there. There was much power behind that mind or perhaps a lack of it. Nothing but darkness existed in that creature’s head.

  There would still be memories there, but none of his followers would know how to contact the Graverobber. It would buy him some time to figure out his options. He would not move. This place was sacred to him. But p
erhaps it was time to consider what he had up his sleeve to prevent anyone from ever finding him again.

  The challenge was one he welcomed.

  Chapter 3

  Gathered around a table in the center of Haven were the few people who knew that the end of the world was coming. Together, they planned to prevent the inevitable end of their lives and everyone else’s. Unfortunately, saving the world rarely seemed to go as smoothly as possible.

  Lyra was usually caught narrating all the proceedings in her head. She liked to make Aether laugh. The tiniest of the Five represented the Wind and appeared in all aspects to be the embodiment of it. Aether could read minds, and Lyra knew that she was always poking around in other people’s heads.

  Narrating the meetings dramatically was the best she could do to entertain herself. It also kept her more personal thoughts out of Aether’s grasp. Lyra liked her secrets to be kept to herself.

  “We should be more concerned with finding the next person in the prophecy.” Wren spoke up for the first time in this meeting. She was usually rather quiet and chose to listen to what everyone else was saying. It fit the creature inside her very well to listen rather than to speak.

  “We have been looking for them.” Burke said with a soft smile.

  “You have been looking for them while insisting I get my rest.” She arched an eyebrow at him.

  “This is why couples shouldn’t be on the council together.” Lyra’s quip was said while staring at her bright red nails.

  “The council? So that’s what we’re calling it now?” Burke asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s not a council.” Burke rolled his eyes. “We’re soldiers. Not politicians.”

  “You’re right. You aren’t smart enough to be a politician.” She finally looked up. “I vote we find someone more intelligent to replace the weak link.”

  “Lyra.” Aether was laughing in the corner. “Really. We’re trying to pay attention.”