Damaged Gods

Is spellcasting much different?

If I can find something to make Pell’s life easier, he will be happy. Hell, this might even strike some debt off my page in the book.

I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by trying.

I hurry up the hill in the approaching dawn and do my best not to look at the tombs on either side of the path. But it’s pretty hard not to notice those gaping black doorways. And inside some of them, I see movement. Like there really are monsters inside. I shudder and walk faster until I’m over the hill and the cathedral is looming before me.

I pause briefly in the lower great hall and look up the staircases on either side of the main one. I wonder what’s lurking up there. Ghosts? Other monsters? Or just bits and pieces of time tucked away in rooms?

That poem above the doors comes back to me. Not the part about the horns and the hooves, but the part about time. A tick of time, a last mistake. Keep them safe behind the gate.

But I don’t really know what it means. The gate—that’s probably the gate out front. Or the gate in back. Or hell, who knows? Maybe there are dozens of gates to this place?

Again, I shudder, then go up the central staircase and enter the apothecary room and let out a long breath. There’s a lot to unpack in here. And then I remember that it’s all written in Latin, so I just slump down onto the couch and think.

How does this Latin thing work?

There’s something there that I’m missing. Because Pell thinks we’re all speaking Latin when we’re not. Is it possible that there is a spell that allows him to understand foreign languages?

It makes sense to me. And it’s a starting point. So I get up and start looking at the spines of the books for clues. There are too many for this plan to be practical, but the book Pell was showing me yesterday is still open on the stone counter, so I start there. These are Grant’s notes. Pell and Tomas make him out to be, if not brilliant, at the very least competent, in the realm of spellworking.

I take it back over to the couch, sit down, and start paging through the book. I’m well into the middle of the thing before I find one I can read.

And boom. It’s exactly what I was looking for.

Pia’s words inside the cottage come back to me in this moment. This is weird.

She was right back then and it still holds true now. Because this spell is called How to Read the Books in the Apothecary.

I page ahead, looking for more spells I can understand, but the rest of the book is all in other languages, most of them not anything I recognize as letters—unusual symbols, and dots, and lines. Some of it even looks like music notes. But not exactly music notes.

And every single page in every other book I take off the shelves is written in another language.

One spell. That’s what I have to work with.

Good thing it’s exactly the spell I need.

I find an apron, tie my hair back, crack my knuckles, and get started.

Magic, here I come.

CHAPTER ELEVEN - PELL

I don’t go to dinner and I don’t show up for breakfast. So it’s nearly lunchtime when I stroll out of my tomb and start making my way up the hill towards the cathedral.

I’m just… what is the best word for how I’m feeling?

Bitter? Angry? Jealous?

I’m gonna go with bitter. Because I am not jealous. That town sheriff is no one. Not a threat. Not in the least. And besides, the girl is mine. I have a hold of her entire life. The sheriff hasn’t got a chance and neither does Tomas. Pie might like Tomas better than me, but he’s unavailable. And eventually, Tomas won’t be able to hide what he really is and she will see I truly am the only one in her life who matters.

So definitely not jealous.

And not angry, either. Nope. Anger is reserved for situations I cannot control. We are definitely not in anger territory yet, so I’m going to go with bitter.

I enter the lower great hall and start walking up the stairs, taking my time because this realm is mine. I rule this place. I am the fucking king.

And yet… they left me in the steam cave like I was no one. Like I didn’t matter. Like it was them against me.

All right. Maybe I’m a little angry.

I blow it off.

And then, up in the ceiling, the little bird flutters and flaps. I pause on the stairs, looking up. What did she call that thing? “Pia,” I say out loud. Like Pie, with an a.

I whistle to it.

It whistles back, mimicking me.