Page 45 of Summoned
She frowns. I might have sounded more convincing if my cheeks weren’t burning crimson. With a weary sigh, she lifts a hand to her temple. “Nicole, you’ve been acting so odd these past few days. What’s going on with you?”
My heart skips.I don’t know, Mom. Maybe it’s the late-night card games with death, the casual flirting with my own nightmare, or the slow, creeping realization that I may not be as untouchable as I once believed.
But my mother is the last person I’d ever confide in. She lost my trust the moment she stepped back and left the parenting to Dad. Occasional instances of care won’t change that.
I shrug. “Everything’s fine. I’m just tired.”
14
Gaetano
Day 6
By the age of ten, I could draw blood from a stone. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
At sixteen, I could do it quite literally, with magic.
By twenty-six, I was an expert in witchcraft, trickery, and the delicate art of slipping off dresses.
At thirty-one, I unlocked my immortal form. Not long after, an artifact infused with dark magic killed my uncle—a man who, much like my father, painted illusions with the same skill a master uses on a canvas. His death made me realize that innate magic could never match the old, traditional power of ancestral witchcraft.
I said goodbye to my family in Sicily and traveled to Florence, the birthplace of science, alchemy, and heresy. Among its narrow streets lined with statues of men who once dared to challenge the gods, I learned something else: power didn’t come only from magic. It stemmed from knowledge, manipulation, and the ability to bend the minds of those who believed they were the gods of the world.
True knowledge wasn’t found in bright libraries or spoken in educated men’s salons. It dwelled in shadows, dust-covered texts, and oral traditions.
It was there that I met Madeline.She didn’t seem “ancient.” Quite the opposite—she was sexy, captivating, and intelligent. Judging by how quickly we ended up in bed, she had also sensed my potential from the very beginning.
Madeline was the kind of woman who didn’t need to speak to command attention. Bold and unapologetic,her presence filled any room the moment she crossed its threshold.
She desired me with fierce intensity. But not in the naïve, fluttering way young girls fall for handsome men. No. To her, I was a tool. A rough-cut diamond she could polish to perfection.
Our nights together were a storm of passion and magic. She would whisper incantations onto my skin, summon powerful energies to swirl around us on the sheets, deliver exquisite pain, and bring pleasure.
Madeline taught me the dark arts the same way she taught me how to please her—thoroughly, yet with a brutal, unrelenting demand for mastery.
She tried to teach me that magic wasn’t my only weapon.
As witchers, we often forget that we’re not merely the magic pulsing in our chests. We also carry a human half, which is emotional, fervent, and capable of wielding a different kind of power. The way to harness it…is to let it breathe.
Though it was my magic and mind Madeline cherished most, sometimes she would reach for my heart.
“Fuck me like a human, not like a witcher,” she would sometimes say. And I would have to strip off the mask, end the performance, and possess her not with the desire born of our entwined magic, but with something rawer. Purer.
However, it was also when I failed her most often.
Though I reveled in the mere union of our bodies, those moments always exposed a flaw in me. Without magic, I was little more than a hollow vessel, unable to spark the flame. Sometimes I went through the motions. Other times, I couldn’t perform at all. The disappointment in Madeline’s eyes crushed me every time.
The Baroness’ question—whether magic was trulymy only weapon—sent me back in time. To that old war between me and Madeline. To the nights when I felt… incomplete. And we both knew the fault wasn’t hers. I had simply been made this way—unable to surrender my body without the shield of magic.
Though Nicole intended something different, her words hit me like sandpaper on an old scab. It bled, sudden and bitter. The tremor went so deep it shook the foundation of my magic. Enough for me to give up the game and let the Baroness enjoy the sweet taste of victory.
Now I stand facing the library wall, crowded with relics. Two hundred and eighty-nine of them. A memento from every soul I’ve claimed—an aged fan, a broken pocket watch, a dagger with a silver hilt, a string of pearls torn mid-embrace, a wolf’s tooth hanging on a leather string, and so many more.
Soon, I’ll seal the Baroness’ soul within the castle walls. I wonder which of her possessions I’ll keep. The ballerina figurine from her bookshelf? The family photograph tucked into her drawer? Or perhaps…the red lace underwear that hugged her most private curves and drove me to a madness I hadn’t expected?
Fragments from last night’s game continue to flare in my mind like embers refusing to die. Copper hair splayed across the table. Lush, parted lips poised in readiness. Soft shape beneath the satin of her robe. And those crimson panties, pressed delicately into the cleft of her…
Blood floods through me, thick with desire. My latestharvestmay be mentally fractured in a fascinating way, but compared to the women who once captivated me, she is painfully ordinary. Years of imprisonment seem to have stirred in me a hunger for touch, a longing for release, mistaken for the desire for a beautiful woman. It’s anillusion. I should know better, being a master of deception.
