Page 27 of Magic in My Bones

The cloud of anguished souls pressed against my hastily erected defenses, their ghostly fingers scrabbling at the edges of my power, seeking purchase, seeking to break through and claim Ren as their own. But I held fast, gritting my teeth againstthe strain, my body trembling with the effort of containing the raging tempest.

And then, with a final, anguished wail, the spirits dissipated, their forms shredding like mist before the rising sun. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged sound of my own labored breathing and the thunderous pounding of my heart.

“Ren!”

I rushed to Ren's side, my heart in my throat, a litany of pleas falling from my lips as I gathered his limp form into my arms. His body felt both fragile and precious against mine, his head lolling against my shoulder in a way that made my heart clench. Even unconscious, he instinctively curled toward me, seeking warmth or protection, or both. The trust implicit in that small movement nearly broke me. This brilliant, brave young man who saw beauty in death magic, who treated spirits with such genuine compassion…

I had failed to protect him.

A shuddering breath escaped my lips as I pressed my fingers to the pulse point at his throat, a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening. And there, beneath the pads of my fingers, I felt it—the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat, a delicate flutter of life.

Thank the gods.

He was alive. Unconscious, yes, but blessedly, miraculously alive. I clutched him tighter to my chest as if I could shield him from the horrors that had so nearly claimed him.

But as I looked down at him, my relief was tempered by a sudden, chilling realization. There, upon his brow, glowing with an otherworldly light, was a sigil. It was a mark that I had seen before, emblazoned upon the tortured souls.

My blood ran cold as I stared at the glowing sigil upon Ren's forehead, its eerie light casting a sickly pallor across his delicatefeatures. With trembling fingers, I traced the outline of the mark, my mind racing with the implications of its presence. This was no mere coincidence, no random happenstance. No, this was a deliberate act, a calculated move in a game whose rules I had yet to fully comprehend.

With a heavy heart, I gathered Ren's unconscious form into my arms, cradling him against my chest as if he were the most precious treasure in all the world. Because he was far too precious to be caught in this web of darkness I'd unwittingly drawn him into. My arms tightened around him as guilt and something deeper, something I refused to name, warred in my chest. The weight of him against me felt right in a way that terrified me, even as the sigil on his brow reminded me of how dangerous such feelings could be.

His breath whispered against my neck as I held him, warm and alive and achingly vulnerable. I found myself cataloging every detail: the way his fingers had curled loosely in my shirt, the soft flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the lingering scent of bergamot and old books that clung to his clothes. If anything happened to him because of my carelessness, because I'd let my growing feelings compromise my judgment... The sigil upon his brow pulsed with an otherworldly light, a beacon of malevolence that set my nerves on edge. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the core, that I could not leave Ren to face this dark power alone.

11

Marked by the Spirit

Ren

My eyelids fluttered open,the world a bleary watercolor painting slowly coming into focus. The last thing I remembered was the flash of skeletal hands, reaching, grasping, and then... nothing. Darkness.

I blinked once, twice, my mind foggy and sluggish, like I'd been sleeping for a century rather than a few hours. Soft sheets caressed my skin and the scent of cinnamon and old books wafted over me. This wasn't my dorm room at Blackstone, that much I knew. No, this place felt infinitely more inviting, like being wrapped in a warm hug.

Every surface held some fascinating tidbit that spoke of a life devoted to both magic and comfort: delicate teacups perched on stacks of ancient grimoires, hand-knitted throws draped over leather armchairs. A collection of mismatched candlesticks held enchanted flames in different colors, and the whole space smelled of cinnamon, old books, and something distinctly magical like autumn leaves and starlight. Someone had placed a small bouquet of black roses and silver sage in acrystal vase beside the bed, their petals gleaming with protective enchantments.

As my vision cleared, I took in my surroundings. Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed to bursting with leather-bound tomes. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the cozy space. Outside, rain pattered gently against the windowpanes, a soothing melody that made me want to burrow deeper under the covers and drift back to sleep.

But I couldn't, not yet. Questions swirled in my mind, nagging and persistent. Where was I? How did I get here? And what in the name of all things necromantic had happened with those spirits?

I pushed myself up on my elbows, wincing at the dull ache in my muscles. It was then that I noticed I wasn't alone in the room.

At the foot of the bed sat a dog, its head cocked to the side as it watched me with an intensity that would have been unnerving if not for the fact that it was, well, a skeleton. Literally. Bleached white bones gleamed in the firelight, held together by some unseen force. It shouldn't have been possible, but then again, I was a necromancer-in-training. Impossible was starting to feel like just another Tuesday.

The skeleton dog rose from its haunches and trotted over to me, its clacking steps muffled by the plush rug. His movement was surprisingly graceful for a collection of animated bones, and I noticed he was wearing a tiny bow tie that sparkled with protective runes. A silver bell hung from his collar, tinkling softly with each step. Despite his macabre appearance, there was something undeniably charming about him, like he'd walked straight out of a peculiarly cozy ghost story.

He carried himself with the dignity of a proper English butler, right up until he flopped onto his back, clearly requesting bellyrubs. I couldn't help but laugh. Even skeletal dogs were still dogs at heart.

“I see you've met Bones,” a familiar voice said from the doorway. I glanced up to see Professor Dorian Crowe standing there, a tray balanced in his hands. The scent of chamomile tea mingled with the cinnamon, a soothing aroma that immediately put me at ease. “My familiar.”

Dorian crossed the room, setting the tray down on the nightstand before perching on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and I was suddenly very aware of how close he was, how the candlelight caught the auburn highlights in his hair and made his eyes look like moss agates. His rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms marked with intricate protective runes that seemed to shimmer when he moved. I caught myself wondering if they were warm to the touch, then quickly derailed that entirely inappropriate train of thought.

The cottage seemed to grow smaller, more intimate, as if the very space was conspiring to draw us closer together. Even the shadows cast by the dancing candlelight felt like they were holding their breath.

He reached out to scratch Bones behind the ear. “He's quite fond of you already,” Dorian remarked with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “He hasn’t left your side since I brought you here. How are you feeling, Ren?”

I pushed myself up further, leaning against the headboard as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. “I'm... I'm okay, I think. Just confused. And sore. And a little freaked out, if I'm being honest.”

Dorian nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Understandable. You've been through quite an ordeal.” He reached for the tray, pouring a steaming cup of tea and offering it to me. “Here, this should help. Chamomile, with a touch of honey. Best for rainy days and frayed nerves.”

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