Page 51 of Bluebeard’s Key

“Enough of this weakness. It doesn’t suit you. We both know you have it in you, the lust for knowledge and the desire for power. It’s all waiting for you after you jump this one insignificant hurdle. You will always have the memory of your golden year with him, but so many more years, and husbands, wait before you, ready for the taking. Be a man and embrace your power, your immortality, and do what you must.”

Zayan reached up and stroked Tom’s brow, saying, “I’m sorry, Huggybear. I’m sorry to leave you like this, but I can’t. I can’t save you, but I also can’t do this to you.”

With that, he rose from Tom’s shallowly breathing body, pushed roughly past Bluebeard, and ran out the door.

Bluebeard saw red. The wretch was intolerable! Zayan would bend to his will, or he would die. He followed and grabbed Zayan by his weak, cowardly arm.

“The boy is as good as dead. Don’t waste his sacrifice.”

“I can’t,” Zayan said, and there were tears in his eyes. Tears! Such shameful weakness. “I love him.”

“That is entirely the point. You will now do your duty or you will die.”

“On my own? I don’t know if I can.”

“Must I say this again? He must die by your hand, and his blood must be given new life by your hand. It is the only way.”

“I can’t,” he said, struggling to escape, pulling them toward the stairs. “Have mercy. Truly, I…”

His impotent begging was entirely too much, and he forced himself not to retrieve the blade and end them both, right there. Running away like a frightened rabbit! His apprentice was even weaker than he imagined. In a rage, he flung the sniveling coward back into the laboratory and slammed the door, blocking all avenues of escape, locking it with Key.

He shouted through the door, “You will remain there until the deed is done, or his wasted death will be on your head.”

How had he ever seen a reflection of his own fire in the boy? He had grabbed opportunity with both hands, back when he was a youth. Zayan was spoiled by this age, coddled, not seeing that opportunities like this were rare and fleeting, and must be grasped before they disappear. Just days before, Bluebeard had every intention of building a practice with him, adding Zayan’s talents to his own and using them to expand his reach. But now, he wasn’t so certain. If Zayan would crumble at every minor setback, he would be no good with the heftier challenges always besetting an immortal. No, he would have to deal with Zayan later, after the current drama had played itself out. After he had his lover’s vitality in his hands.

Listening at the door, he heard, “Huggybear, please, tell me what to do.”

Still vacillating. So weak. But Bluebeard still had confidence in Zayan’s inner greed. As the blood dripped slowly away, unstoppable, he was bound to see the only logical course ahead of him. He had seen Zayan’s practical side as they processed Beatrice’s blood. It was certain to emerge now, as he came to understand the inevitability of the situation. Immortality stood before him, impossible to resist.

“I’m so sorry,” Zayan said, barely heard through the thick door. This was a good sign. Zayan was rallying.

Silence, and he could easily imagine the blood flowing slowly, inexorably, from his dying apprentice. The vitality would surely rival that first time, when he lost his precious Annabella. His love for Annabella had been bright and pure, as was hers for him. He saw the same purity between his two apprentices, taken to new levels by Thomas’s chivalry. The Elixir from this union would surely be unparalleled, supporting his clients for decades to come.

He waited patiently, listening, knowing what would be next. The blood would flow ever quicker, Thomas would fade gently away, and Zayan would accept his destiny.

“It’s nearly over, my love,” Zayan said, more confident and more easily heard, and with this, Bluebeard knew the alchemist in Zayan had won, and Mage Bluebeard, master of Château des Fleurs, would have his reward.

“All good?” he asked, against his better judgment. “I’m right here if you have any questions.”

“Leave me alone,” Zayan snarled back, and Bluebeard snickered, too quietly to be heard.

Bluebeard retrieved a chair from Zayan’s laboratory and set up camp outside the door. He soon heard the clanking of tongs and crucibles, so the Great Work had begun. For a short moment, he felt a sharp pang of jealousy. He had not had blood of this quality under his hands in centuries. Perhaps when the sublimation was complete, he would offer his assistance. It would be good to feel his magic sing again.

Counting the familiar sounds of clanking and sizzling, Bluebeard estimated he was three pints in when there was a great commotion of glass breaking, tongs crashing to the floor, and a sharp explosion. Smoke curled under the door, and he heard Zayan’s body fall heavily to the floor. Then, there was silence.

“Zayan, what is happening?” he asked, and then louder, “Speak to me, foolish boy! What have you done now?”

If he had ruined the entire sacrifice through his carelessness, he would surely kill him on the spot and finish the transformation himself. Thomas’s blood was too great a treasure to lose due to Zayan’s ineptness.

The lab remained silent, so he demanded one more time, “Zayan, come to the door. Tell me what has happened.” He could imagine the results of the calcination, snow white like that of his dear Annabella, lying unattended in the furnace and burning away, wasted. It was intolerable.

In the continued silence, he shouted again, “Speak to me, boy!”

He muttered to himself, “I should have known I would need to do this myself.” He hastily unlocked the door, bellowing, “What have you done?”

When he slammed the door open, Zayan was nowhere to be seen. His furnace, the furnace that had served him well for centuries, was a blasted mess, but not ruined. The coals still burned bright, as they always had, waiting for their next magic. Shattered glass and ceramic littered the floor around upended tables, but with some gold in the right hands, his laboratory would be at its peak in mere days. But the slab was empty, with only a smear of Tom’s blood to show he was ever there.

“What is this treachery?” he snarled, crunching through the remains of his laboratory. There, in the crypt, he spotted them. Tom lay silent on the floor with his wrist bound in a makeshift tourniquet, and Zayan kneeled by him, hand on his arm, looking strangely triumphant.