The Legend of the Eight: The Wicked (Book 2)

Prologue: A Deadly Promise

PROLOGUE: A DEADLY PROMISE

THE AIR WAS COLD AND bitterly so when he left the bar that night and judging by the empty streets, he was probably the last one out. As the brisk wind whipped at his face, he tightened the wool coat around him and sped his stroll up to a brisk walk.

After a few blocks, the wind howled louder and the temperature dropped dangerously low. Above, streetlights began flickering so he quickened his steps. He rounded the corner and there at the end was his building—one he'd moved into only the day before. And just as he was about to reach for the door, a frost blew over and covered every surface in a hard, icy sheen. He stopped suddenly and his foot slipped on ice. He grabbed a nearby railing to keep from falling and exhaled a breath of relief.

Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes that was too loud to have come from the wind and he froze where he stood. His dark eyes darted to the bushes and when they began to move again, he opened his hand and pointed it at the bush. Then, using his strongest voice, he called out,

"Who's there?"

From the bushes came a shadow. It slithered along the icy ground towards the light and there it took the shape of a man. It appeared as real as any other person he'd ever seen. He almost couldn't believe it.

"You," the young man growled, staring menacingly.

Most people may have questioned the identity of the mysterious visitor but he didn't need to. He would recognize that man anywhere in any light—or lack thereof.

"Jeremiah, what are you doing here? You were Banished."

Jeremiah let out a deep laugh and then snapped his finger, igniting a flame which he threw up to the streetlamp, which was alight once more.

"No time for an introduction, son," he answered swiftly. "I don't have much time in your world and there's work to be done."

"Funny how you only call me son when you need something," said Damon Donovan—his eyes narrowing into a glare.

Damon studied his father in the dim lighting. He looked remarkably the same despite the twenty years that he'd been gone. His dark features were as full as ever and he kept his beard trimmed cleanly. Damon looked a great deal like his father—something he always resented—and as he continued to stare at Jeremiah's unwrinkled face, he knew his father must have used magic to stay unchanged.

"What are you doing here?" Damon asked again, strengthening his voice.

"I heard the King brought you on as one of his trusted advisors," said Jeremiah and he circled his palms together, creating a strange green light between them. "The timing couldn't be more perfect. In February, a comet will pass and when it does, I will be free."

"Aren't you already free?" asked Damon because his father had been Banished years ago and yet, he managed to be standing right in front of him. "How can you be here if you're not?"

"Consider it a temporary leave," Jeremiah smirked. "But I have debts to pay before I can make it permanent."

"And what debts might those be?"

"In my efforts to be free from the Shadow Lands, I've promised something that I will need your help to deliver."

Damon folded his arms over his chest. "And if I refuse?"

Jeremiah smiled like he anticipated the hostility. "I think there's a stepfather of yours in the Mortal World that would encourage your cooperation."

Damon became furious. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing yet. But that can change very quickly. So, what do you say? Care to help out your old man?"

But Damon was adamant. "You're bluffing."

"Maybe," Jeremiah shrugged. "Which is why I've come with an insurance policy."

Then he took his hands—now coated in a mysterious green magic—and grabbed his son by the shoulder. Damon wailed out in pain. There was an intense burning where his father's hand touched him and he tried to tug away but it was no use. Jeremiah's grip was strengthened with the spell and it was impossible to break the contact. Damon tried to cast a jinx to knock his father back but Jeremiah was too strong.

"Stop it!" Damon cried out. "What are you doing?"

He gave one final tug and it was enough to break away. Once free, he rubbed the spot on his arm which felt as though it had been branded with a hot iron and he stared at his father with a combination of fear and disgust.

"What have you done?" He felt dizzy, lightheaded even.

Jeremiah was smiling. The spell must have been successful.

"Have your years of mortal education caused you to forget simple magic lessons? Do you recall nothing about the Dark Vow?"

Suddenly, the son's eyes widened with panic when he understood what had happened. He rubbed his bicep slowly and felt the tender flesh fearfully. The skin had been raised in a strange pattern that would be clearer in the morning but he already knew what to expect. Sinuous lines characteristic of Dark Magic—a past he'd been trying to outrun his entire life.

"So it's not enough for you to threaten the life of the man who raised me but you have to curse your own son?" Damon's eyes were dark with anger and hatred but Jeremiah didn't seem to mind.

"As I said, I brought an insurance policy. And should you fail to do exactly as I instruct you, death will be a mercy by comparison."