Death Lord Arcanist [Chapter 16]

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More Death Lord Arcanist! I hope you all enjoy.

Shami

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE CULT OF DEIMOS

How long had I been sleeping?

I didn’t know. It was difficult to tell when my dream was nothing but a dark void. What had Zahn done? Where was Deimos? It felt like… Deimos wasn’t doing so well. Had he lost in the abyssal hells? Did he need help? I didn’t have time to sleep—not when there were so many things to do.

Every so often, I felt around for the threads of magic, and I tugged on the one that led back to the soul catcher. Only mystical creatures with magics that could influence dreams would be able to break me free from this unresolved nap, and there weren’t any ethereal whelks or celestial dragons nearby…

Those were the only three creatures I knew could affect dreams. Well, mimics as well, but only if another dream-manipulating creature was close. Altering someone’s dreamscape was a rare ability.

Finally, my tugging resulted in something. I pulled on a thread of magic and the mark on my forehead burned as it shifted and changed. The soul catcher’s magic flooded me, filling my body with an unusual hunger. What was this sensation? I couldn’t even articulate it. Instead, I focused on ending this dream.

I needed to wake.

With my teeth gritted, I tore apart the void and my head hurt, as though a terrible headache bloomed from the back of my skull all the way to my eyes. The pain was enough that I lost my concentration. The thread of magic that allowed Twain to be a soul catcher faded from my mental grip.

That was okay—I sat up and took a deep breath.

I was now awake. Everything had worked as intended. And the moment the soul catcher magic drained from my body, the headache went with it.

After rubbing my face, I glanced around.

I almost wished I hadn’t.

There were only three people in the room—me, and two others—but I was on a large, marble altar, one about the height of a table. The worst part was the fact I was buck naked.

Well, I had a white sheet over my loins, but calling it a sheet was being generous. It was more like a napkin, and it was trying its hardest to keep me decent.

My marble slab of an altar was cold, and so was most of my body, as though I had been inactive for far too long. I coughed, and my throat felt terrible, my lips cracked. What was going on?

The two other people in the room were odd, and that was me being generous a second time. One was a woman, her long hair dark, and mostly unkempt. She had dark rings around her eyes, either from makeup or lack of sleep, I wasn’t sure which. The arcanist mark on her forehead had the image of a fish person wrapped around the seven points of her star.

She was… wearing a tight black dress with a large white cloak over it. Seven dashes were stitched into the collar of both her dress and the cloak.

“He’s awake,” she whispered.

The other person in the room was a man with short, red hair and amber eyes that disturbed me. His pupils were so small, it was as if he saw the world through pinholes. His arcanist mark had a freakish sea serpent coiled throughout the star.

He, like the woman, wore black underneath white—he had a black tunic and dark trousers, and then wore his white cloak over his shoulders. The same bizarre seven marks were on his outfit as well.

“He is awake,” the man said, more breathless and in awe than the woman. “This is… a wonderful event.”

I held my napkin steady as I carefully swung my legs over the side of the cold altar. This room was small—maybe a bedroom?—but there was no other furniture. No chairs. No tables. No desks. There weren’t any windows, either. Just a door.

And Twain wasn’t here. Neither were the eldrin of the other two arcanists. The only source of light was the glowstone lamp hanging from the ceiling.

The glowstones…

I had more appreciation for them now. Before, I barely noticed them—barely cared they existed. Now they seemed extra magical, or perhaps just more beautiful.

The souls of those who had passed were still here, and still helping us.

I probably stared at the lamp for far too long.

“Ah, forgive us!” the man cried. “We were lost in your majestic presence.” The man bowed deeply. When the woman didn’t immediately bow, he grabbed her arm and tugged. She, too, bowed, both of them folded at the waist.

I glanced down at them.

“Who are you two?” I asked, trying not to sound dismissively sarcastic.

“I am Jacinto Ren,” the man said as he stood straight.

The woman also stood, but she didn’t meet my gaze. She kept her attention on the floor as she replied, “I’m Rosella Silvers, Death Lord. I’m so humbled to be in your presence.”

Death Lord?

Not only did the souls in the abyssal hells mistake me for a Death Lord, but now random people were, too? How was this possible?

“We have waited our whole lives to serve you, Death Lord Deimos,” Jacinto said with a second sweeping bow. Then he motioned to the door. “Please, we should hurry to your brother. He has long awaited your return. Longer than all of us!”

Ah.

They thought I was Death Lord Deimos. This was making more sense.

“You two were just standing around while I was sleeping?” I asked. I circled a finger through the air. “While I was just naked on this altar?”

Rosella stiffened her posture, but again, she didn’t glance up. “We were told to watch over your vessel, Death Lord. Your brother indicated you might awake, and if you did, to inform him immediately.”

“Wait.” Jacinto stepped forward, his pinhole eyes focused on mine. “Are you just the vessel? Or are you truly our Death Lord?”

Vessel?

I hated that so much.

Then I waited half a second for Deimos to answer. He did that occasionally—he spoke with my mouth and my voice—but when he said nothing, I knew I was going to have to fake this. Which was fine, because I was really good at faking things, and I knew Deimos pretty well at this point.

I sat a little straighter, and hardened my gaze into something I had seen Deimos do.

“Do you maggots really think I waged three wars and waited multiple millennia only to awake not in control of this borrowed body?” I made the same kind of hissing growl of disapproval Deimos often used. “Feh. If we were in the abyssal hells, you would be on your knees, begging for forgiveness.”

“A-Ah, yes, I deeply apologize.” Jacinto bowed twice more as he stepped away. “Please forgive me, Death Lord Deimos. I, uh, I’m unfamiliar with how one uses a vessel to commune from the abyssal hells to the realm of the living.”

I was pretty unfamiliar as well, but I wasn’t going to say that.

With an arrogant huff, I motioned to my body. “I require clothing.” I had to hold back a laugh after that. It was amusing to impersonate Deimos.

“At once!”

Jacinto dashed from the room. He opened and shut the door with such speed, I barely caught a glance of the hallway beyond. Where were we? Still in the same place as before? The same home with the large ballroom?

Rosella remained with me.

She slowly brought her green eyes up to meet mine. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you,” she whispered.

I didn’t know what to say, so I remained quiet.

Was Jacinto and Rosella part of that cult that worshipped Deimos? The ones who had attacked me before? The ones who ruined Ashlyn’s cotillion?

That was the only explanation. They were working with Zahn, after all. And Deimos’s brother was probably the ringleader of that whole organization.

Rosella’s face grew pink and she shifted her attention back to the floor. “You probably already know everything…” She rubbed her arcanist mark, her fingers tracing the bizarre fish-person.

I had no idea what she was talking about. “I know a great many things,” I cryptically replied.

Rosella quickly reached out and grabbed my hand.

I was about to jerk out of her grasp, but she got to her knees and knelt before me, pressing her forehead onto my knuckles.

“Death Lord Deimos, I have served faithfully for years in the hopes I might speak with you. I have something personal to ask. I… I will pay any price, or follow through with any task… but I need your help. Only the magic of a Death Lord will do.”

I ripped my hand from her grip, my chest tight with awkward nervousness. “First, I will be dressed. Then I will hear your request.”

Rosella clutched her hands together and held them close to her chest. With her gaze on the floor, she weakly nodded. “Yes. Forgive me. I’ll… I’ll help Jacinto find you an outfit.”

She stood and fled the room, practically in one motion. I felt her embarrassment in the way she avoided looking at me at all costs. When the door shut behind her exit, I let out a long sigh.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” I muttered to myself.

The silence that greeted me was unsettling. There weren’t many times in my life I was truly alone. When I was younger, I had my twin brother. After I became an arcanist, I always had Twain. And once Deimos was stuck with me, I had his presence in the corner of my thoughts.

Now, to have no one…

I hated it.

After another exhale, I slid off the altar. I kept my napkin secured, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. My legs trembled, and I had to take a moment to steady myself. How long had it been since I stood?

“Deimos?” I whispered.

No response.

I closed my eyes and focused. He was with me still—I felt a twinge of emotion that just wasn’t mine.

“Deimos.”

“Your pleading is intrusive, boy,” Deimos replied using my mouth and voice, though they were subtly different. He had a distinct way of speaking, his cadence strange.

I half-chuckled. “You’re there?”

“I’m resting,” I whispered to myself—Deimos whispered to me, I should say. “I can’t focus long. Why do you keep calling me?”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I need… time.”

I ran a hand down my face and then shook my head. “Is Nini with you?”

“No.”

My heart nearly stopped. When Deimos didn’t elaborate, my imagination played terrible tricks with my emotions. What was I going to tell Sorin if Nini was dead? My brother wouldn’t take that well.

“She hasn’t died,” Deimos said through me, his tone dismissive. “She is wandering the third abyss. Perhaps she’ll perish, but last I saw, she was still well.”

Last he saw?

Deimos wasn’t with her?

I sighed, though I still didn’t know what I was going to say to Sorin. Nini was lost in the third abyss? What a terrible fate.

I shook the thought away. Everything would be fine. We would get her. She was a reaper arcanist—she could live in the abyssal hells until we found a way to free her. Yes. That was the plan. Everything would turn out all right.

“Did you know you had a cult?” I asked, trying to switch the conversation to something upbeat.

“I have followers,” Deimos replied through me, that same hiss of derision in his tone. “They have toiled long, searching for ways to open the abyssal hells.”

“And you know them? Personally?”

“Zahn kept me appraised, but I never spoke with any of them. I trusted my brother to handle everything, including the management of those who would worship at my feet.”

That was curious. And also odd. Why had Zahn told everyone I was just a vessel? Shouldn’t he have told them that I was my own person? I needed to speak with him. I also needed to find Ashlyn and Knovak so we would leave this place and get back to Astra Academy.

How long had we been away?

Surely everyone was worried.

The door slammed open, and I flinched.

“Here we are, Death Lord Deimos! An outfit befitting a king.”