~ Sylas ~

By the time we reach the top of the cliffs and the lighthouse comes into view, I'm gasping for air and clutching a stitch in my side. Spots decorate my vision, and I make a silent promise to myself that if, by some miracle, I make it out of this alive, I'll get myself in better shape. Because you just never know when a madman will force you to climb a thousand stairs.

I laugh at my unfounded optimism, and Edwards mistakes the target of my mirth.

"It's bigger than it looks," he says, shoving me along the path towards the lighthouse.

I giggle breathlessly. "I'm sure it is."

He frowns at me and tightens his grasp my arm — not in a mean way, but as a sort of safety measure. I suppose if I look as awful as I feel, I can't blame him. Honestly, after being drugged, strangled, drugged again, and then forced to exert myself, I'm nearly past the point of caring.

He half guides, half drags me up yet another set of steps (a mercifully short one, this time) and as we near the lighthouse, I see he wasn't lying, after all.

With nothing to compare it to, the structure had looked small and quaint from a distance — almost cottage-like, despite its utilitarian aspect. Up close, however, I see that the long, low building at the tower's base more closely resembles an aircraft hangar. Built of large bricks of light-colored stone, it stretches east to west, more than twice as long as it is wide. It has high, narrow windows of grime-fogged glass, and a small door of heavy wood with an arched top, fitted with brass.

Edwards unlocks the door with a small key, and with the whir and click of some internal mechanism, it opens and swings inward on oiled hinges.

Darkness yawns within, and then Edwards flips a switch on the wall and lights flicker to life.

I see a long, open space beneath a vaulted ceiling, outfitted like a machinist's shop. With rows of workbenches, racks of tools, and heavy metal chains hanging from pulleys bolted to the crossbeams above, it looks ready to serve as the set for some comic-book character's secret lair.

"The old lighthouse keepers used to build small sailing vessels and fishing boats here," Edwards tells me, as if I could possibly care. "Then they ran an underwater cable over from the land, and the light went electric, and there was no more need for keepers. When the light was decommissioned, they left the cable in place. Lucky for me."

"Doesn't the government or the Coast Guard own this place, or something?" I ask, vaguely recalling something I'd read somewhere.

"Used to," Edwards says, leading me towards the far end of the long hall. "The Harbor City Preservation Society owns it, now. Dean Forsythe is the chair."

"How convenient."

"Indeed! And he was only too happy to let me take up the post when the previous caretaker took a little tumble off a cliff."

"An accident, I'm sure."

Edwards gets my drift and laughs. "Yes, actually. The cliffs are quite dangerous, especially in a high wind. The fellow survived, of course — broke a leg and decided to retire. I don't just go about bumping people off left and right, you know."

"Coulda fooled me."

He laughs again, and I roll my eyes. Good to know I'm keeping him entertained, I guess.

We reach the far end of the building, where tall windows with many small panes of dirty glass admit a hazy stream of afternoon light. A raised wooden platform, like a low stage, occupies the floor before them, and on this rests a large, strange contraption shaped like a hollow sphere. The bands of metal that give it shape intersect and join at specific points, and after a moment of confusion, I recognize it for what it is: a three-dimensional magic seal.

I stop in my tracks as a shock of icy dread goes shoots along my nerves, and Edwards bumps into me. He grips my shoulders to steady himself.

"Ah, so you see it, then," he says, all trace of humor gone from his voice. "My masterpiece in the making."

"This is...?"

"My 'mechanical Sign,' yes," he confirms, with obvious pride. "The parts all move, you see, and can be arranged into any number of seals for any number of purposes. With a Quill at its heart, it will be able to absorb or expend enormous amounts of magical energy, making it effectively self-sustaining."

"With a Quill..." I repeat, feeling breathless all over again. The insides of the metal bands are studded with small black gems, like large rhinestones, while in a metal cage at its center is a huge icosahedron of black obsidian.

"If enough to you makes the transference," Edwards continues thoughtfully, "something of your consciousness might even go along for the ride. That's a kind of immortality, I suppose. I wonder if anything of your ancestor still inhabits your Sign. There's an interesting thought."

I swallow, feeling sick all over again, and briefly consider making a break for the cliffs.

Edwards reads my thoughts and gives my shoulders an unwelcome massage. "Don't even think about it, Sylas. I've got you on a leash, remember?" He tugs gently on the collar at my throat. "Resist or disobey, and this gets tighter. It won't kill you, of course. It will choke you until you pass out, which isn't a fun experience. I think it's a form of torture, actually."

I consider it anyway. He probably needs me conscious for at least some of what he has planned, and starving a brain of oxygen, especially repeatedly, couldn't be good for it.

"Go ahead," he waves his hand at me. "But turning yourself into a vegetable won't stop me, and it will only make things worse for Jaxon. I don't want to hurt you more than I have to — I'm not doing any of this to be cruel — but I'm more than capable if you force my hand."

I believe him, and the tension leaves my muscles as I let my desperate plans die.

"Come along — I've work to do, and it will be a while before the others join us. Let's get you comfortable, shall we?"

Several doors are set in the longer sides of the walls, and he leads me to one of these, unlocking it reveal a nearly bare chamber within. There's a toilet, a sink, and a mattress on the floor. It looks like a prison cell — which, in fact, it is.

Edwards shoves me through the door. "In you go. Nothing much you can use as a Sign in here, of course. The walls are warded anyway, so don't bother. Get some rest."

He shuts and locks the door after me, and the only thing I can be grateful for is that I'm alone. It's obvious what Edwards said is true, but I investigate the space anyway, just in case.

There's nothing. Not even a flake of stone or a piece of wire, or a bit of loose thread. Even the toilet is Crafter-proof: water only rushes through the bowl when I pull the flush, and the reservoir is concealed within the wall.

The window is covered with a thick lattice made of strips of brass, and even if I could fit my arm in between the spaces, I couldn't reach the deep-set panes beyond.

Caught between aggravation and despair, I pace the cell. Even if I wanted to take Edwards's suggestion and 'get some rest,' I'm not tired — I just spent the last however-many-hours passed out on his boat.

I am, however, hungry and thirsty, and angry and scared, and those are all things that, in large enough doses, make me tired.

Eventually, I give in and sit on the mattress, falling to lie on my back, and stare up at the ceiling overhead.

My thoughts go in circles like birds with nowhere to land, the barren island of reality offering no welcome roost.

When Jaxon's mother had trapped me at Spellwright house, with similar designs on my life, I'd used her own incredibly powerful Sign against her, unraveling her spells and revealing her insidious designs. Here, I have no such convenient tool. Even if I could get my hands on my own Sign, I'm not sure what I would do with it. I could nullify the magic in the collar, and break the spells warding the island, maybe, but beyond that, anything else — like cursing Edwards — would take more time than I'd likely have. Moreover, the use of magic would leave me drained, and then I'd be just as useless as I am now. And if Jaxon was here...

The thought leaves a cold ache in my heart. He'd thrown his knife at me — to drive me off and get me away from him, I was pretty sure — but the damage was done. In forcing me to speak the truth, to say I'm not sure of my feelings, or of what they mean, he'd hurt me and destroyed my trust.

And then there was Aurelio.

Jaxon had warned me not to trust him, said he was cold and unfeeling, and cruelly logical, but that's not how he'd seemed. He'd seemed to be caring and considerate, and genuinely kind. He'd seemed like a friend.

So much for my judge of character.

I guess I was always too willing to give others the benefit of the doubt, given how I hate being judged based on the expectation of what a Lovecraft ought to be.

I sit up abruptly, struck by a thought.

It would be a dangerous game to play, especially while wearing the collar, but Aurelio had been proof of concept: I could restore myself from a source other than Jaxon, but not without adverse effect. Jaxon is my ink — my inexhaustible well — the only one whose desire I return with desire of my own. On the other hand, I might kill an incompatible source if I took too much to restore myself.

The thought of kissing Edwards is about as appealing as a bowl of slugs, but it's a thought nonetheless, and I hold onto it as time passes, unmeasured, in my cell.

✧ ✧ ✧

The click and scrape of the door rouses me, and I realize I must have drifted off. Sitting up and wincing against the remnants of a headache, I see Edwards watching me.

"Time to begin," he says, holding the door wide.

Carefully, I rise and approach. As I pass him, I stumble and let myself fall, and he catches me with a grunt of surprise.

"Sorry," I mumble, my hands tangled in his shirt as I steady myself.

He remains still a moment, and I wonder if it's too late to drag out the old Lovecraft appeal, after all. Then his arms slide around my waist, and he takes some of my weight.

"No; I'm sorry," he murmurs. "It's not my wish to see you suffer, you know."

I let myself lean on him a little more heavily, and shiver. It's a shiver of disgust, but he doesn't know that. He raises his hand, almost reluctantly, as if he's caught between two conflicting wills, and strokes my hair.

"If I could spare you all this, I would. It's an unfortunate necessity. But your part will be over soon, and then you'll be at rest."

He says it in a tone of gentle reassurance, as if it ought to make me feel better about being murdered, somehow, and I play along, nodding against his chest.

"That's the spirit," he says. "Now, are you ready to begin?"

I look up at him and nod, and let something inside me unfurl, just a little — like a tiny, dark sprout reaching for the sun. I know my eyes are a bright, blood red, and when I part my lips, I hear his breath catch.

He clears his throat. "Good, then. Come along."

He guides me out into the long, central hall, and towards the hideous sphere. I make no effort to resist, and force myself to lean on him the whole way, though I withdraw the strange tendril of desire-seeking magic back within myself.

I've proven my idea, anyway. Edwards wants me to power his machine: well, I will — and I'll use him as my source.

He leads me up onto to the low platform, and I see that the sphere is even larger up close — plenty of room for me to stand inside it, along with the gigantic icosahedron in its gilded cage. He directs me to get inside, and I obey. The arrangement of the various metal bands seems designed to keep power contained, and to amplify it, each of the myriad obsidians lining the inside acting as a node.

"Go on," Edwards says, nodding at the huge chunk of black stone. "Charge it."

I hesitate — just for good measure — and feel the collar tighten incrementally on my throat.

Kneeling before the black icosahedron, I hold out my hands, close my eyes, take a breath, and call the power from my core. My chest grows warm, and my arms and hands begin to tingle as raw magic flows through me and into the stone. It drinks it in, yawning like a black hole in my mind. Rather than resist, I open myself to it, spilling magic like blood from a severed artery. I need to be hungry for I what I plan to do next.

As the stone absorbs my power, it begins to hum with a strange, low vibration, and Edwards laughs with delight.

"You're doing it, Sylas!" he shouts. "It's working!"

The heat in my chest steadily builds, until it burns like a brand, and a cry of pain escapes me against my will.

Edwards steps closer. "That's enough for now, I think. I need you conscious when dear Jaxon arrives."

I withdraw the flow of power, and sag with relief, exhausted and breathless. I need me conscious, too, for what intend; Edwards isn't the only one I mean to punish.

The stone hums with energy, and I see it reflected faintly in every small node. They surround me like a thousand glittering eyes, and I shiver with revulsion. What Edwards has built is monstrous — a magical abomination; a mechanical prison for a living soul.

And if I'm going to lose my soul, it won't be to this.

"Ah! They're here at last!" Edwards announces, looking at his phone. "Don't go anywhere!"

He strides away to do whatever he needs to do to let Aurelio and Jaxon through the island's wards. I wait, gathering my strength, sinking into myself and feeling my connection with the stone. If I open myself to it again, it will drain me dry and drink me in — unless I give it something else.

A moment later, Edwards returns, rubbing his hands. "They're on their way — Jax and Rel, and a little surprise as well. Your sister's here."

"Lyssa," I gasp, surprise and a new fear stealing my breath. There's no more time to waste.

"Now," Edwards says, circling the sphere. "Craft for me, Sylas. Give me what I want."

Lucky for me, I don't even have to disobey. I call on my magic again, opening myself to the obsidian's pull. At the same time, I look up, lock eyes with Edwards, whisper his name, and reach for him with that tendril of desire.

"Linden..."

His breath catches, and he steps towards me, transfixed.

"Sylas... What are you...?"

I repeat the call.

"Linden..."

It echoes around me, amplified by the sphere, like the whisper of a thousand leaves stirred by a soft wind.

He steps inside the interlocking hoops of the sphere, and falls to his knees, grasping my shoulders with the stone between us. I see the red of my own eyes reflected in the green of his.

"Linden."

With one last call, I have him — the tendril now a thick, strangling vine woven through his will — and, unable to resist, he kisses me.

It's vile, like foul medicine, but I drink in his desire as the stone drinks from me, and refuel myself as fast as I'm drained.

Edwards begins to shake and gasp as I feed from his vitality, but he keeps kissing me, as if it will somehow bring relief.

A door bangs open and my concentration breaks. I look up, past the glowing bands of the humming sphere, and see Jaxon, Aurelio, Marcus, and my sister running towards me. They stop short when they see what's happening, and Lyssa covers her mouth in horror.

"What are you?" Edwards gasps, clutching at me and raising a weak hand to touch my face. "Beautiful... terrible thing..."

"You know what I am. I'm a Lovecraft," I whisper, and smile as I kiss him again.

He shudders, but doesn't resist, and I pull hard on the vines of power still leaching his life from him. Something snaps and he goes limp. I release him, and he falls to the floor in a heap.

Then, in the ringing silence, I stand. The sphere hums, and the obsidian glows with power; but so do I, and both of us — the gem and the newly awakened darkness within myself — still hunger for more.

I raise my eyes to the figures watching me. Lyssa, who betrayed me for wealth; Marcus, who conspired with his mother, used my sister against me, and got poor Mr. Yorba killed; Aurelio, who knew all along, and toyed with me like a cat with an injured mouse.

And Jaxon, who demanded my heart and my trust, and who broke both, and who I still love anyway.

He's saying something, hands outstretched, but I can't hear him past the silence in the sphere. He's probably worried for me, as usual; afraid I'll be hurt, unable to defend or protect myself.

He needn't be. In fact, I'm going to make sure no Spellwright hurts me ever again.

Turning my eyes on him, I fix on Aurelio and call his name.