Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
What happened? Tristan is compelled to ask, then brings a hand over his mouth, ashamed, wishing he’d kept quiet.
Mance peers across the ice bin at Tristan, answers simply, “I had to kill them … again.”
Tristan grimaces.
Mance turns away. “Wasn’t long after that, faced the wrath of the big wigs. Big bad me broke witch laws, opening Death’s door how I did. Wanna take a gander at what my sentence was? Death. By the very witches who already thought I wasn’t worth their dollar-store incense, sentenced my grieving ass to die … Public burning. Sick joke, right? Burning a pyromancer at the stake?” He grabs the box of hair off of the table, hands it to Tristan across Brock’s body. “Here, hold this.”
Tristan takes it. You are obviously still alive. What happened?
“Went on the run. If I was gonna die, it’d be on my terms, not theirs. To be honest, part of me welcomed dying. I already died the moment I found my wife and girls. Nearly set fire to myself that day.” He hoists the heavy bucket of goat blood off the table, sets it on the floor next to him with an inelegant thud. “Didn’t last long, being a fugitive. Plot twist, wasn’t the witches who found me; it was Markadian’s goons. Got me because of an ancient agreement I knew nothin’ ‘bout that they had with the witches to secure peace. Markadian, this man I once called a brother, he sat at the head of a trial they held to determine how wicked I’d been. Would you believe it, Markadian looked me in the eye, declared me guilty, and right there in his court, all the power in his hands, he sentenced me to live out my days in his supernatural prison. What I did to bring back my family … that was more hideous to them than that bloodthirsty Feral on the loose they were too fuckin’ lazy to handle in the first place.”
Tristan stares down at the sad box of hair in his hands. Not to interrupt, but why am I holding this?
“Because it means somethin’ to you. This Brock fella, you had a connection to him, didn’t you? I need that energy in this room. You don’t wanna open Death’s door without a tether of some kind, an emotional tether. You can call for one spirit and a whole lotta other bad can answer … Never quite know what’s listenin’. Keep lookin’ at that hair, keep feelin’ things.”
Is … that why you’re telling me your story? To set an atmosphere in this room? … with my … sentimental energy …?
“No, I’m tellin’ you my story so you understand that that boring box you’ve got is more than just a boring box.” He lifts his eyes, scowling. “So you understand my price for doin’ what I’m doin’. Hand that fuckin’ box to fuckin’ Markadian, it’s all I ask.”
Tristan was already betting on the gift proving dangerous to Markadian, but now that it’s been made certain, the weight of his responsibility to deliver it has increased exponentially.
It also hits Tristan as uncharacteristic that Mance is using emotion to appeal to him, sharing his story, his grief, his rage.
He can’t help but wonder if he knows Mance at all.
Mance takes hold of the bat wing, runs a hand over it, his greyish fingertips dancing gently over the leathery texture. “I’m thinkin’ it’s about time you get your sweet butt outta this room before the fucked-up shit happens. And about time to eat that last bead anyway, ain’t it?”
Tristan nods distractedly. Of course, yes, it is time for my last hourly snack. He steps away, taking care not to disturb the ring of black salt, then heads to the door. He stops. What happened at the trial? Were you not sent to his … supernatural prison?
“Did what I do best,” answers Mance, lifting his free hand to wiggle his fingers. “Gave ‘em a pretty show. A little fire … a little pizazz … poof! … the magician disappears.”
Impressive, admits Tristan, to escape both a death sentence and a life sentence … and to still have evaded capture by Lord Markadian all these years. He never found you again?
“Got my ways. Like your kind, I work best in the shadows.”
Tristan lifts his eyebrows. And what of the Feral that hunted you and your family? What came of them?
Mance’s eyes darken. “Nothing at all.”
Tristan blinks. Do you mean to say they’re … still out there …?
Mance runs his hand over the bat wing once again, as if petting it, his grey-tipped fingers curling into a fist. “Better get on outta here while you still can.”
Tristan needs no further warning. Good luck, he says, feels silly, then sets the box of hair on a nearby counter and departs.
When the door shuts, he feels instantly warmer. Though at one point curiosity had filled him about Mance’s process, he realizes he is no longer interested in the least about how the necromancer will go about reanimating a days-old corpse, nor does he even wish to imagine what is about to take place in that room. He sits with Mance’s story in his heart as he walks down the hall, slowly at first, then picking up pace. He passes by two nurses and a doctor, all three of whom stop to bow to him—As you were, he says distractedly—and continues hurrying on down the hall until he finds a door, peels it open, and slips inside.