Chapter 8
Julian cut the feed to the crystal ball.
The adrenaline that had kept him upright all day suddenly vanished. His limbs felt like lead. He didn't even bother taking off his bloodstained violet robe. He collapsed face-first onto his massive velvet bed.
Sleep dragged him under instantly. But it wasn't peaceful.
The air in the dream was boiling. The stench of burning flesh and sulfur choked him.
Julian found himself pinned to a massive obsidian altar. Invisible chains held his wrists and ankles tight against the burning stone.
He looked down. Standing at the base of the altar was Kamari.
But it wasn't the broken, bleeding boy from the dungeon. This Kamari was older. Six massive wings of blinding holy light erupted from his back. But his golden eyes were completely consumed by swirling, liquid shadows.
"Headmaster," the older Kamari said. His voice echoed like a death knell. "You taught me that power must be forged in hell."
Kamari raised his hand. A sphere of black and white fire ignited in his palm.
"Now, it is your turn to burn."
Kamari thrust his hand forward. The fire formed a blade that sliced cleanly through Julian's chest.
The pain was absolute. It was a hundred times worse than the gas explosion. Julian opened his mouth to scream, but his lungs were paralyzed.
He watched in mute horror as Kamari shoved his hand deep into Julian's open chest cavity. Kamari's fingers wrapped around a pulsing, blue light. Julian's soul.
Kamari ripped it out.
"NO!"
Julian violently jerked awake. A raw, terrified scream tore from his throat.
He shot up in bed, his chest heaving. Cold sweat soaked his clothes, making the heavy robe cling to his skin. He grabbed his chest, his fingers digging frantically into his sternum.
His heart was beating. His skin was whole.
But the phantom pain of his soul being ripped out still burned in his nerve endings. His whole body shook uncontrollably.
Julian threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stumbled into the washroom. He turned on the brass taps and splashed freezing water onto his face.
He stared at his reflection. Benedict's sharp, aristocratic features stared back.
A dark, desperate thought crept into his mind. He's weak right now. He's sleeping next door. I could go in there and slit his throat. End the threat permanently.
Julian squeezed his eyes shut and punched the marble counter.
Idiot, he cursed himself.
He was the author. He knew the rules of this world better than anyone. Kamari was the protagonist. He had plot armor thicker than a dragon's scales. If Julian tried to kill him, a sudden magical backlash would probably blow Julian's head off.
Besides, Julian was a writer from New York. He couldn't even kill a spider without feeling bad. He definitely couldn't murder a teenager in cold blood.
Julian slid down the cold bathroom wall until he hit the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest.
"Screw it," Julian whispered to the empty room. "I will kiss the ground he walks on if it keeps me alive."
The terror of the nightmare solidified his resolve. There was no going back. He had to commit to the lie.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long time. The aftershocks of sheer terror still vibrated through his veins, making his fingers twitch involuntarily. But he knew that the sun had risen, and the play had to continue. He took a deep, shuddering breath, consciously locking all his modern-day weakness and fear behind the cold, aristocratic mask of Benedict Guerrero. He forced his spine straight and his expression into a mask of pure, untouchable authority.
An hour later, the sun began to rise.Julian washed his face with his uninjured hand, changed into a clean black tunic, and picked up a silver tray carrying a hot breakfast.
He walked out of his room and headed for Kamari's door. It was time to drop the bomb.
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