Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Read Free

Lucan. “Harvest? Harvest what?”
    The Old Demon smiled. “Time to find out.”
    He stepped forward, the hellish light in his eyes brightening, and his right hand darted forward. Claws, long black, filthy claws, sprouted from his fingertips. 
    Lucan just had time to flinch, and then the Old Demon’s hand sank into his chest. 
    He screamed in agony, every muscle in his body going rigid at once. He pawed at the wall, trying to keep his balance, but toppled to the floor. The Old Demon stooped over him, grinning. Somehow, impossibly, his arm had sunk to the elbow in Lucan’s chest. 
    “This,” said the Old Demon, “is really going to hurt.”
    Lucan felt the Old Demon’s fingers flex against his ribs, and pain erupted through him. His heels drummed against the floor, and his palms slapped against the rough stone. He felt the Old Demon’s fingers ripping through him, tearing through his mind.
    Memories darted through his agonized thoughts. 
    His long trek through the spirit world, fighting against the Demonsouled corruption devouring his soul.
    The bloodstaff shattering in his hands, Malavost’s laughter filling his ears. 
    Tymaen turning away from him in horror and fear.
    Marstan trying to seize control of his mind.
    The look of disgust on Richard Mandragon’s face when he realized his son could use magic.
    “Yes,” murmured the Old Demon, his eyes like dying coals in his gaunt face. “Perfect. You, Lucan. You are the instrument I have sought for all these centuries.”
    “No,” gasped Lucan.
    Gods, how had it ever come to this? He had made so many bad choices. The desperate agreement with the Old Demon. Forging the bloodstaff from Mazael Cravenlock’s blood. Using the dark magic he had inherited from Marstan. 
    Losing Tymaen.
    “Ah,” said the Old Demon. “There it is.” 
    Where had it gone all wrong? He had wanted to use his powers for good, to defend the people of the Grim Marches. But Marstan had twisted him, Marstan had corrupted him…
    “Just a little tug,” murmured the Old Demon. 
    Lucan screamed.
    And Marstan had studied under Simonian of Briault.
    An alias for the Old Demon.
    “And here we are,” said the Old Demon.
    He stood and ripped his hand free from Lucan’s chest in one fluid motion. 
    Pain exploded through Lucan, and darkness swallowed him.
    When his vision cleared, he found himself on the floor. He grabbed at his chest, expecting to feel blood and torn flesh, but his skin felt smooth and unbroken. He sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs.
    The Old Demon stood in the corner, still watching him. A tiny sphere of pale blue light danced and flickered over his right palm. 
    Lucan swallowed. “Is that…”
    “Your conscience?” said the Old Demon. “It is. Tiny little thing, isn’t it?” He laughed. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” 
    “You did this to me,” said Lucan.
    “Oh?” said the Old Demon. 
    “You taught Marstan,” said Lucan, “you twisted me, you turned my entire life into your puppet…”
    “Do stop whining,” said the Old Demon, examining the tiny sphere of light. “It is most unbecoming.” He grinned. “But, yes. Remember this, Lucan. All your woes, all your pain…I did it to you. The Demonsouled did it to you. Remember that.” He titled his head to the side. “How do you feel?”
    “I feel…” Lucan frowned. The horrible pain in his chest and limbs had vanished. “I don’t feel anything different.” 
    In fact, he felt a little better. As if a burden had been taken off his shoulders. 
    “You won’t,” said the Old Demon. “And that is entirely the point. Nothing will feel different. And you’ll even feel good as you do me a little favor.”
    “I won’t do anything for you,” said Lucan. 
    The Old Demon’s smile was indulgent. “I think not.”
    He flicked a finger.
    Invisible force seized Lucan, slammed him into the tower wall with terrific force. He would have screamed, would have fought, but he could not even