Tower of Trials: Book One of Guardian Spirit (16 page)

The scream startled him—was it Lydia’s? The ring’s? He did not know which; he only acted. Acted wrongly, reaching for a knife—no—an arrow—none of which he had. And the ringed-hand grabbed that hand, and the pain roared in, slicing through his glove, through his skin, and into the aether. His aether, his hope, went out like a light.

Once a ghoul had caught him with a claw, right down his back, toward his hip. So deep had its poison-like claws gone, the aether there had clotted like blood. The wound did not heal for days.

This hurt worse.

Once Guard could jerk himself away, he curled around his hand. The pain died instantly, but his hand was worse than numb. It felt not his own. He pressed his forehead to stones, bowled over, as the sensation crept through up his arm, inch by inch. The iron snakes had found a way in, and they burrowed like parasites.

There was no escape. Guard knew that now.

This was his fate, his punishment.

From the corner of his eye, beyond the spirit holder’s kneeling form, Guard saw Shalott dragging Lydia away, trying to haul her down the hill, saying, “It’s no longer safe. Lydia, the rest might get angry; we have to go—”

She kneed him; he cursed; she shouted, still straining toward Guard, fighting to her last breath. “He’s your brother, Perce! How could you—
how could you!
Roland, what if someone was claiming your sister?”

The ringed hand tightened into a fist, and Guard’s own clamped, too, following some unspoken command. “I’d kill him.” Ravenscar paused, looked down at Guard, and smirked. “But he’s not my sibling. Heed your own advice, Shalley dear. See to her protection. I will not be long.”

And despite her screaming and fighting, Shalott managed to take her out of sight down the hill.

“I’m not some ogre of old,” Ravenscar said. “But your kind is.”

“My kind,” Guard gasped. “I have no kind. I’m not a true spirit; they cast me out.”

“So I heard.” Then Ravenscar said, “Fortunately, your deficiencies do not disrupt my plans. Tell me, are you really Arden? How fascinating, for you do not resemble Mrs. Shalott—or her current children or her husband.” He cocked his head. “But for that matter, you don’t look like anyone, really—a spirit trick I look forward to unraveling.”

Guard prayed he was not related.

A wasted prayer.
What goddess would listen to a thing like me?

“Well, it would make a difference if you are Arden, but even if you are not, I think you can still understand. Actually, you are likely the only one of your kind who can. As you were taken, so was my sister. I wasted years trying to find her. But the more I learned, the more I knew it was too late. But I couldn’t let her loss be for nothing. So I vowed no one will ever be taken again; no spirit will ever again rip apart a family. Over the years, I made a plan. This—” He raised his ringed hand. Guard’s own twitched upward. The spirit holder smiled. “Oh, yes, this is a large part of it. Now so are you, Cambion.” With his bare hand, Ravenscar reached out and grabbed Guard’s lost one. Guard couldn’t pull away as his arm was extended and the glove stripped off. “And so is this: today, I will not bind you completely. I do not seek a broken, mindless tool, but a partner who believes in my mission as much I do. On that day, you will come to me. In the meantime, rest assured, I take care of my own: you will be want for nothing and will be well taken care of. For all that is part of my plan as well. Do you understand, Cambion?”

Guard would not beg.

He would not.

Just as his father would not beg a ghoul to spare him, Guard would not beg this ghoul-hearted man. Instead, he spoke the truth, “I will never be yours, Thief.”

“Oh, yes, you will. For your kind left you no choice in the matter. So hear me now, all of you spirits. I, Roland Russell Ravenscar, bind this half spirit to my will, my purpose, and my spirit ring.” And he grasped Guard’s bare right hand, tight, the evil band pressing into the skin. “And no one shall ever take you from me.”

The words were burning ice—the expected pain of failure come at last, far worse than Guard ever imagined. Starting in his palm, ripping through his body, his aether, cresting in his mind. Then, thankfully, Guard knew nothing more.

About the Author

Jodi Ralston enjoys a little weird in her life, whether it comes from stories she reads (like H. P. Lovecraft’s) or from stories she writes (like this
Guardian Spirit
series) or from the things she does (such as, raise butterflies as a hobby). 

She also likes receiving emails that discuss the weird things her fans have read (in Jodi’s own stories or in others’). If you’d like to send Jodi some email, send it to
[email protected]
.

If you’d like to subscribe to her mailing list so you can keep updated on her writing progress, please go to this page:
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If you’d like to check out her webpage, go to
http://dark.chiaroscurohouse.com.

Thanks!