Page 58 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

As you sow, so shall you reap.

He staggered towards Åke and the symbol formed. Swirling and coalescing like a skittish sprite, he traced its lines, knowing which one to do first, which curve to follow next, until it formed a complete whole of unimaginable power.

The key to unlocking the soul of his enemies.

And of those he could have loved.

But love was a weakness that couldn’t be allowed to survive.

He knelt beside Åke and stared into his beseeching eyes. Why couldn’t he be some villain? Why couldn’t he be someone unknown? He looked back at Absolon and understood, as much as he didn’t want to. This was Absolon’s revenge, and he would take his punishment.

He stroked Åke’s cheek and stared into those confused eyes. The hunger sharpened, slicing him open, demanding something to stop the pain. He would die of that hunger if it weren’t sated.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His hand splayed across the naked flesh of Åke’s throat. The symbol flashed in his mind, formed, and catapulted down his arm into Åke’s body. He had no control over it, so fervent was it to be free and at its dreadful purpose.

The boy jerked, froze, and Ragnar breathed in his soul as it travelled up his arm. Tears clogged his throat but that didn’t stop the soul tickling and tingling along its final journey. He startled and let go, ashamed of what he’d done, but still the soul continued over the distance and along the same path. Ragnar scooted away from the dying body as more of the soul entered him. He backed into Absolon’s legs and could go no further.

“Take it in, Ragnar. Take it in quickly so you don’t have to see what he was.”

Ragnar relaxed and drew on it faster. It filtered through his mind and into his soul, bringing with it awful knowledge. Åke Klimson who had loved Ragnar the Red—

Ragnar jerked, and the soul jumped into him, and Åke’s life passed in a blur. He shielded his mind until the soul was in him and the energy exploded into stars. He collapsed against Absolon’s legs. His whole body tingled and, through him, rolled a divine ecstasy that obliterated sorrow.

“It is done.”

He looked up with drunken eyes at solemn Absolon, but even Åke’s sense of betrayal could not keep the grin from Ragnar’s face.

Oh, it was glorious, this magic, this feeling, all from taking one soul. He was invincible. His strength restored, his mind cleared, he was stronger and more alive than in any other moment in his life. He bounded to his feet, bursting with the pleasure of it all, with the power of it all, grabbed Absolon’s hand and pulled him along—he could now, he was that strong—out into the field where the clouds had parted and the moon shone down. As it lay down its benediction, they glowed.

He held up his hands to the light and laughed at how it streamed out of him, how it made him and Absolon glimmer. He spun with the glory of God. He leapt into Absolon’s arms and thanked him with a gratitude that was not faked. And he kissed Absolon, deep and long and hungry, stoking the fires of their passion.

When his kisses became more insistent, when the need for more grew sharper, he drove Absolon into the house and rode him with the ferocity and vigor of a hundred rutting stallions and christened his rebirth with an exultation that Heaven envied.

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