The Secret of Spellshadow Manor 5 by Bella Forrest (best biographies to read TXT) 📗

to plunge his hand into the mess, just to have his flesh gnawed off by disgusting bugs.

“Professor, what is the ninth virtue of Orpheus?” Alex asked.

“Honor!” Lintz replied.

Honor? thought Alex. What is that supposed to mean here?

Feeling the tug of vaporous fingers pulling at his eyelids again, he thought about how he could get the specters back into their urns. What might entice them back in? He had seen them in his encounter with Vincent, but they were not something he had fully delved into—he knew he wasn’t supposed to look them in the eyes, but that was about it. Wracking his brains, he considered holding the urns and asking them to return, perhaps saying a few words or a prayer, in order to honor the dead. That would fit the bill, Alex reasoned, but the idea seemed a little too easy.

He thought about performing a necromantic incantation, but he was painfully aware that he didn’t know any. It made him wonder if he was entirely equipped for this series of tasks after all, or if he was missing an ability. Perhaps the golden disc had read his talents wrong.

His only link to necromancy was walking the spirit lines, and the way he was able to incorporate mind control, to manipulate memories, but he had no idea whether any of that would work on these beings. Before, he had used those talents to make people feel happy, and to restore their minds, but he didn’t think these specters could be made to feel happiness.

Going back to plan A, he clumsily made his way toward one of the urns and reached out to pick it up, almost knocking it off its plinth in the process. He held it steady, realizing it was a stupid idea, but knowing he had to at least try it out.

“Please go back inside, honored spirits,” he said.

“You think we will obey the words of a feeble human?” one of the specters cackled, making Alex feel foolish.

That left only the spirit lines as the sole valid idea he had. Dubious of its success, he fed his anti-magic out into the space of the room, seeking out the pulse of the spirits. To his surprise, he could almost see them as clearly as if he’d had his eyes open, though there was a more human quality to them when he viewed them through a necromantic lens. Where before there had been hollow eyes and gaping mouths, he could make out the echoes of their previous faces shifting beneath the surface. With an almost magnetic pull, he drew the spirits to him, letting his anti-magic flow into the wells of their former minds.

Pushing his energy into the mind of the first specter he encountered, he saw a flash of her history. She had been a young girl, no older than Alex himself, running through an empty house, her head turning fearfully backward over her shoulder as she mounted the rickety steps of a spiral staircase. There was somebody behind her, Alex could feel it, and the adrenaline pulsing in her veins pulsed in his. There was fear and dread as she hurried across a landing into a room where everything was draped in dustsheets. Panicking, she realized she had nowhere to run, the sound of footsteps gaining on her. Standing in front of a stained glass window, a shadow fell across her. Alex couldn’t make out the face of her attacker, but he heard the girl’s scream. A firm hand shoved her hard in the chest, sending her careening backward with such force that she sailed straight through the bright glass pane, shattering it with her body, before plummeting to the ground. Everything hurt, her broken form lying twisted on the stone below. Death did not come instantly, however, her eyes managing to glance upward one last time to see a handsome man standing in the shattered window, looking down upon her, a cruel smile on his lips.

With her dying breath, she whispered, “My love.”

This was not a happy spirit, but searching deeper into her memories, he found a small pocket of warmth. She was sitting by a fire, reading a book to a smaller girl, who looked up at her with loving eyes and an awestruck smile. Alex fed the memory to the forefront of the spirit’s mind, and felt a shift in the specter’s emotions. The vaporous being pulled away.

“I am remembered,” she whispered, before disappearing into the urn she had risen from.

Moving from spirit to spirit, Alex did the same for each, though some had minds crowded with dark remembrances, making it all the harder to find a lightness with which to make the specter return to its urn. When he came across such a mind, he manipulated the memories he did find, altering them until they could be skewed as happy. It took longer, and he was forever conscious of the struggling cries of his friends as he forced these false memories into the forefront of the specters’ consciousness. At least this way, Alex thought, these ghosts would be able to rest awhile in peace.

As the last specter returned to its urn, Alex heard something clatter onto the floor. Nervously, half expecting it to be a trick and to see a hollow-eyed spirit swooping toward him, he opened his eyes. The room was clear of ghosts, and on the floor, beside the painted door, lay a key.

Alex picked it up off the flagstones, noticing for the first time a small keyhole in the ground beside it. With a hopeful heart, he twisted the key in the lock. There was a quiet click, followed by the grating sound of stone on stone as a section of the floor moved away, revealing another downward spiral staircase.

Almost there, thought Alex triumphantly. Almost there.

Chapter 11

“We should get out of here,” Alex said, glancing at the others. Their faces were pale, and they were reluctant to open their eyes, though Alex had promised them it was safe to