Diamond in the Rough - Vivienne Savage Page 0,46
magic.
Rosalia didn’t know how long the pair had been listening, but she suspected they had heard everything she and Xavier rehearsed prior to reaching the old ruins. They were one step closer to their goal, and would have never made it if they’d charged down to the mirror.
Their enemies, cocky and arrogant as ever, escorted them quite peacefully to their destination.
Gregarus didn’t so much as glance at them. His gaze remained fastened on the spymaster, a dark-haired man of less-than-average stature whom Rosalia would have never seen as a threat at any other time. He moved to the circle where a leather-bound tome awaited him, propped against another pillar.
It floated in the air at his caress, and pages turned until it reached the middle. He spoke in a language that was unfamiliar to Rosalia’s ears. The harsh and guttural tongue competed with the sound of a knife scraping bone, and she couldn’t help but cringe. At last, a beam of moonlight passed over the mirror and joined the final golden rays of the sun. They melted into a purple light and flared across the mirror’s dulled surface. A rainbow of colors rippled across the once-hazy glass then spread beyond it, seeming to rip the empty air until the fountain itself vanished and only a portal remained.
Unable to shield her eyes, Rosalia squinted and turned her face away briefly, until the stars in her vision faded. Movement caught her attention in the sky at the edge of her vision. When she sought the source of it, she saw the silhouette of a desert eagle landing on a high stone ledge above the open courtyard.
The Moritta had arrived, and not a moment too soon. Thankfully, Xavier and Rosalia had distracted their captors.
When she looked back, the light had dimmed and a strange, scintillating void wavered beyond the portal. It wasn’t what she’d expected, no brimstone or fire to be seen, only an endless, misty abyss. Something about it felt welcoming, almost as if it were calling her. Beside her, Xavier appeared equally affected, leaning forward against his captor’s grip, his gaze focused on the portal.
While the spymaster continued his chant, the mists darkened and thickened until smoke curled beyond the portal. The hazy, opalescent colors took on a darker hue lit with an umber glow, until the image beyond shifted to a desolate wasteland of stone and ashen rock.
The first creature that emerged from the abyss was unlike anything Rosalia had ever seen before. It was a mass of writhing limbs, skin as dark as the void it clawed free of, flecked virulent green and yet translucent in a manner that allowed them the glimpse of what lay beneath. A spider web of red-hot, ember-bright veins glowed visibly to the naked eye, thrumming in a rapid tempo that must have matched the beast’s pulse.
Gregarus finally ended his chant, raising his arms proudly as if to beckon the beast toward him.
It dug spindly clawed fingers into the ground before tipping back its head and releasing a feral scream, jaw unhinging as it bellowed victoriously at the sky. Agony spiked through Rosalia’s skull, and Xavier cringed beside her. If it hurt her ears, it must have been torture for his exceptional weredragon hearing.
“You called to us,” it hissed in a speech that was strangely recognizable despite the monster’s origins. “You freed us. You have kept your bargain, mortal king, and proven you are a man of your word.”
Rosalia did not know what to expect of a creature that had literally crawled out of one of the deepest and darkest hells of Gehenna, but what it did still managed to shake her to the core. Several moments passed before she realized the creature had grown one arm, elongating the limb into a sort of fleshy spear, and plunged the horned tip into the king’s chest.
Gregarus’s wide-eyed surprise provided no satisfaction. Not the way Rosalia wanted.
He’d made a deal with demons. And they had given him precisely what could be expected.
“Our dark prince sends his regards. We follow only his will, and he recognizes only the wizard.”
Raising the king above its head, the clawed tip protruded from the dying monarch’s back as he choked on his blood, surprise and terror etched on his face. Its triumphant roar shook the very ground. Their stone surroundings trembled, and men shouted out in dismay and horror.
Bile rose in Rosalia’s throat and icy dread slithered down her spine.
At last, the beast discarded Gregarus and tossed him aside. His heart remained