Page 7 of Ruin of Revenants

I snorted and tucked the book under my arm, eager to leave the main library in favor of my cozier one back in my quarters. There, in the familiarity of my rooms, I could pretend I was in control of a situation that was definitely out of my depth.

Owen and Lily would kill me if they knew what I’m about to do. But I hadn’t shared this discovery and my subsequent plan with them. I’d already read through several passages in this book over the past week, sneaking to this secluded corner of the library whenever I had a spare moment to pore over these pages.

It was impetuous and wild, but I was a desperate male.

Making it back to my quarters without anyone from the party catching me, I strode straight into my library. Lighting a few candles at my desk, I set the book down and popped my neck, trying to steel my nerves.

Onyx meowed at my feet, winding his body around my legs as he leaned into me, eager for affection. I reached down and patted his head absentmindedly. Dissatisfied with that level of attention, my cat leapt onto my desk to get closer, only to rear back and hiss at the book on its surface.

“I know,” I muttered, scooping up Onyx and offering him some more pets to settle him. “This is the worst idea I’ve had yet.”

I’d already sent out requests that any child who received a prophecy from Maris relating at all to the revenants or a necromancer must bring forward their knowledge. Before Father had decided to forbid traveling beyond the capital’s barrier, Lily, Owen, Cliff, and I had ventured to the nearest temples of some of the other deities. Umbryon, God of Night, who did not deign to speak to us. Sanvo, God of Healing, who was oppressively silent in this kingdom of pain. Solea, Goddess of the Sun and the one most often associated with the death-loving phoenix shifters themselves, was quiet, and her worshippers had been suspicious and nervous the entire time we’d questioned them.

Others’ temples were farther from the castle, but considering how little luck I’d had in prayer, I wasn’t convinced the travel would be worth it.

But surely the god of death would know something about the undead creatures trying to consume our kingdom.

Depositing Onyx in my armchair, I turned back and read the title printed on the leather cover for the thousandth time. A History of the God of Death. Who knew a historical account could be this foreboding and full of a god’s bone-chilling power?

Flipping it open, I found the passage I’d been studying for the past several days. Naturally, Mortius is primarily interested in the dead and dying. If a member of the living wishes to commune with him, one must weaken himself. Suffering fuels his power, so any exhibition of anguish or weakness draws his attention. But be cautious. The gods are mercurial beings who sometimes view the fae as their chess pieces to move about the board of life as they will. And the god of death, especially, is known to be a trickster.

My hope was that the anguish didn’t have to be too deep or push me halfway to the point of death. With a wry smile, I opened my drawer and withdrew the bejeweled dagger I kept there. Emeralds flashed in the candlelight as I unsheathed it and, before I could overthink it, slashed it across my palm. Blood welled and dropped onto the aged, frail pages of the open book.

If Owen and Lily don’t find out what I’ve done and kill me, now the librarians will surely see this and do the job for them.

Holding my breath, I waited. A chill swept over me, abnormal in the muggy air of the wet season, but I wasn’t sure if that was just my imagination or not. A swift glance around the room showed me that Onyx had vanished, likely to the safety of my plush mattress in my bedroom. Maybe he was wiser than me.

Shadows pooled at the corner of my vision, and I turned, half-thinking it was a trick of the light. But when I whirled on my heel, the shadows coalesced near the center of the room, forming something that resembled a figure, like a fae made of shadow. Though I detected no eyes, I could sense a heavy gaze on me, piercing into my soul, and every muscle in my body pulled taut.

Slowly, I eased to my knees to show deference. Everything in me wanted to recoil and leave in the presence of Death and his power, but I held my ground. Looking at him reminded me of my vulnerability. Though fae were long-lived to the point that the human kingdoms called us immortal, we weren’t actually deathless. Things like wounds, curses, and old age claimed us.

Or the whim of a god who decided he didn’t want to be summoned by an overconfident prince and would rather claim his soul.

I lowered my gaze from Mortius.

“Prince Archer Emberglade.” His voice was rough and deep. “I see you’ve been reading accounts about me, the only god your kingdom refused to erect a temple for, yet you all think you can summon me upon a whim when you’re desperate.” There was a pause, then a rumbling laugh. “What makes you eager to speak with Death? Do you want to know about your mother? Queen Acacia is one of the most interesting souls I’ve collected thus far.”

My chest tightened, and suddenly that was all I longed for, more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. She’d passed in battle when my sister Briar and I were still children, and my memories of her had grown hazy over the years. Asking about how she was in the afterlife would ease something inside me, but it wasn’t my purpose, and I feared Mortius was only trying to distract me.

“She’s at peace, and that’s all I need to know,” I said firmly, ignoring the chasm in my heart as I spoke. “I called you here to request information.”

The shadows dispersed, the form disintegrating into several shapeless masses that swirled about the room, fluttering the pages of the book still lying open on my desk and making me wonder if I was about to see with my own eyes how Mother was doing. Despite the growing doubt, I kept a smile pasted to my face, hoping it made me look brave rather than idiotic.

If he fed on fear like my father did, maybe he already knew it was a farce, but maybe my obstinance would siphon out the pleasure in taking my life. One could hope.

“What sort of information?” Mortius demanded at last, his shadows reabsorbing back into the figure that had been standing before me earlier. “I thought Emberglade went to their oracle for their fates and information.”

“You already know I received my prophecy from Maris, like all fae children. She won’t admit me into her presence now, and no one who has seen her in recent months has received helpful fates. I want to know the identity of the necromancer who has been raising the dead back to life in our kingdom, and I want to know how to stop them.”

Mortius burst into laughter. My grin wavered, my ire growing at the idea that this was all a game to him. That my people’s suffering was a mere jest, something to shake off and ignore. “What a noble prince you are, willing to face death itself to defend your people.”

I swallowed, my protest sticking in my throat. Maybe I did want to be heroic, but that wasn’t my only motivation. Anyone who had seen the horrors I had would want them to stop. It went beyond desire and passion—this was my responsibility as their crown prince. If my father refused to do anything but host raucous parties and sit back in decadence behind his barrier, then I would be the one to fight back against the growing darkness.

“I’m simply doing what is right.”

“And you assume, because I rule over the dead, that I am responsible for the revenants plaguing your kingdom?” The shadows dipped nearer to me, one brushing against my chin to lift my gaze toward the god. Its touch was as cold as ice.

I frowned. “Are you not?”