Red Blood (Series of Blood Book 2) by Emma Hamm (rm book recommendations .txt) 📗

It was not a spell to heal. Nor was it a spell that would ease the goblin’s pain. But it provided power that the goblin had not felt in a very long time. His back straightened as the pain was suddenly easier to bear.

The magic of his master was not unlike a drug. The goblin was never healed. He was never physically changed. But there was something in his master’s magic that made him strong. It made his master strong.

Graverobber waved his hand at the goblin, and it quickly skittered away. Lord, Master, Creator, all were the names that this man was called. He was not known to be a good man. Not in the slightest.

He reached up and flung the hood of his cloak away from his face. He would have been a handsome man in another lifetime. But he had chosen a different path.

Chiseled features had been horribly disfigured by scars and tattoos. Like black vines, they crawled from the shadows under his collar and curled around his cheekbones. Pointed edges and jagged lines spiked down from his forehead and followed the strong line of his nose. Once his distinguished jaw had been a smooth warm line. Now it was distorted by multiple fractures.

His body was just as disturbing. Every bit of his power came from the scars he had etched into his own flesh. Both healed flesh and tattooed skin glowed when he used his power. Every spell had a different color. Every tiny bit of magic had a flavor that burst within his mouth and danced upon his tongue.

He tossed the letter from hand to hand as he left the throne room. He had built it originally as a place of solitude. The Graverobber preferred to be alone if at all possible. But somehow there were always people finding him.

At first it was small children who dared to come deep into the tunnels that were his domain. They dared each other to look him in the eye and find proof that he existed. Eventually, even that was too frightening and dangerous.

Those that followed in the footsteps of children were the foolish and the weak. They were simple minded folk who erred towards evil and preferred the comfort of night. They found the Graverobber to be a comforting presence within their life. He was the kind of creature who could protect them.

Try as he might, he couldn’t get rid of them.

Slowly, the number of those who found him grew. They didn’t know where to go or who would help them survive. And though the Graverobber was a notoriously dangerous man to be around, he was better than those who walked the streets of the Black Market.

The letter held another world for him. His eyes were lost in shadows as the dark edge of his brow held back the light. He knew the words on the letter before he even opened it. It was an opportunity. A gesture of peace.

He didn’t want a gesture of peace from anyone. He wanted to be left alone gathering his power and waiting. The Graverobber didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he would know when the time came.

Sighing, he broke the seal of wax and opened the parchment. A blank sheet of paper was held within the letter. He raised a hand and dug his nail into a recently scarred rune on the palm of his hand.

A single drop of blood dripped from the wound onto the yellowed paper. From there, words began to appear. Scarlet letters formed upon the page as brushstrokes of words bled onto the edges of the letter.

Graverobber,

I write to you as an extension of my sincerest respect. Though we have not met, perhaps you shall recognize my name. I am called Malachi. The Malachi of old, whom I am certain you have heard tale.

The amount of power you hold has intrigued me. You, who live underneath the city, should know that there is a much larger world.

I intend to bring about the darkness you are so comfortable in. A partnership between you and I would be formidable. I offer a place on my high council once the end has been reached. You would be ill advised to turn down such a prestigious offer.

Your response should be sent in a similar manner of which I am certain you are capable. One of my soldiers will return in one week to carry your response directly to me.

Signed,

Malachi

The words seemed to dance before his eyes. Never before had the Graverobber been so directly confronted. There were legends of him, of that he was certain, but none had dared to ever assume they could command him.

He barely read the statements on the paper. Instead, he tasted the meanings behind them. The bitter taste of arrogance mixed with the lingering acid of contempt. This was not a man to trifle with. But perhaps this Malachi was unaware who the Graverobber was.

A rune upon his forearm began to glow. Deeply scarred, it sizzled with red sparks as he tapped his finger against the letter. It burst into flames.

He held onto the paper for a few moments too long before he dropped it to the ground. Fingers singed, he left it to turn to ash as he turned on his heel.

“Mungus!” His voice rang in the hallway as he stalked towards his personal set of rooms. “Mungus!”

The referred to creature was more a pet than a person. It shambled down the hallway, which echoed with soft cracking sounds. Mungus was a reanimated dead man who was little more than a skeleton. Soulless and incapable of speech, it was slightly more intelligent than a pet but less intelligent than the average person.

And gods was it slow. The Graverobber cast a bitter glare in its direction as he swept into the stairwell that would descend further towards his private quarters. He preferred to be deep within the ground and as far away