Page 103 of Summer of Sacrifice
Agatha gasped. “Wait!”
Grimm looked to her as the soul floated toward its body.
“I have an idea.” She twirled a strand of her hair around a finger. “I think this chilling magic is Gideon’s.”
As if the thought hadn’t occurred to him, Grimm looked around the chamber, then shrugged, his exposed ribcage rising and falling with the movement. “That would make sense.”
“That would mean his spell held, after his death.”
His head cocked to the side. “I’m listening…”
“So his magic is connected to more than just his soul.”
“You mean it’s connected to the well of magic all mages and witches are connected to.”
Agatha nodded.
“You,” Grimm took it a step further.
She nodded again. “Me.”
Agatha took a deep breath, closing her eyes, letting her magic search out the source of Gideon’s spell. At first, she could only sense the residue left by all spells—an almost imperceptible chill, like the cool lingering touch of a spectre.
But the longer she stood there, her magic seeking out Gideon’s, the clearer it became. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, eyes still closed. It was light and dark, swirling together amongst flakes of snow and ice.
Gingerly, Agatha’s magic pulled at a thread of the spell, the origination. When she did, it latched onto her threads with fervour, winding around her magic until it almost became one with hers. Before it could, she let out another tendril to block it.
“Holy goddess,” Grimm breathed.
Agatha’s eyes opened, and she saw whorling onyx and violet magic, dotted with glittering starbursts. The cosmos in a swirling thread.
“Hullo,” she cooed at the tendril of magic. “It’s time for you to return to where you belong, and that is not back with me just yet.”
Grimm took Gideon’s soul in his skeletal palm, holding it between the two of them. Agatha’s magic coaxed the tendril of Gideon’s magic to weave around the soul instead of her. They both watched in wonder and awe as it obeyed, the soul growing fuller, brighter.
Smiling, hope building, Grimm took the soul and pressed it back into Gideon’s corpse.
Within a blink, Gideon gasped a great breath, sitting straight up on the tray. “Goddess’ tits and teeth!” he shouted as he stiffly flung his legs over the side and made to stand. Grimm morphed back into his mortal body, rushing to steady him before he could topple over.
“Hairy arse of Lord Night!” he cursed again, finally looking at Grimm. “Oh, fuck, that’s you isn’t it?” He tried to laugh at his own joke as Agatha and Grimm were, but his body wasn’t cooperating yet. “Gods, this gives entirely too much relatability to calling the corpses stiffs.”
Footing under control, Grimm let go of Gideon’s arm. Agatha spelled a gentle heat to wrap around the mortician, and a dapper suit to cover him. “Grimm said you enjoy fine clothing,” she explained.
Gideon held out his arms, admiring the make of the morning coat, then slid his hands down his trim waist. “I do indeed. Many thanks, pet.”
Before Agatha could react, Grimm’s hand lashed out and gripped Gideon by the throat. “Do not call my wife pet again or I’ll put you back in that cold tomb. Hm?”
“Oh, calm yourself, Prince of Bone,” he croaked, pulling at Grimm’s arm.
Grimm let go and Gideon coughed, tugging at the edges of his coat to straighten it. “If you’re his wife, does that make you the Queen of Seagovia,” he said to Agatha, “or—” His eyes widened. “Oh my, if this beast is the Prince of Bone, that makes you Lady Magie de la Nuit, then?” He looked between them both, his handsome face twisted in contemplation. “No? Yes? Damn, my head was nearly frozen and quite dead. Help a man out here.”
“You knew the Prince of Bone was Lord Night?” Grimm asked cautiously.
Gideon waved a hand dismissively, suddenly distracted by the lantern. “Fletch—Two,” he clarified for Agatha, “ had some secret treatise I pilfered from him on the subject. Written by a toff who worked with Morgana the Archane. Pollock, I think his name was.” He bent in front of the lantern, peering in, then looked over his shoulder at them. “Do I have a memory of being locked in this thing?”
“Wait a moment. Pollock?” Something about the name buzzed in Agatha’s mind, and she looked to Grimm. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Probably because he worked with Chresedia Gauthier at the Academy of Alchemy,” Gideon answered for him. “They were professors there.”
