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“Now, back to it.” Aamon points at the wilted burnt-orange flowers. “Make the flowers root, Thorne.”
Exhaustion settles deep in my bones, urging me to rest, though I comply with a despondent sigh. I know Aamon will never allow me a moment’s respite, so I do as I’m told, focusing on the blossom’s root system.
For every minute that passes unsuccessfully, Aamon’s impatience grows palpable. The tension thickens as he looms behind me. With a sudden yank, he jerks hold of my hair, jerking my head backwards violently. The sting of pain forces a hiss through my clenched teeth as my eyes shut tight.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap, glaring up at him through narrowed eyes.
Aamon’s mouth hovers over the shell of my ear, growling, “Use your fierce loathing of me to root the flowers.”
There is very little detestation left after last night’s tantrum. I’m utterly embarrassed by it, and yet he’s asking me to behave the same way.
“Is that what it takes?”
The marquis lets loose his grip on my scalp. My neck snaps forward to face the flowers in the vase. Their continued wilting taunts me. “A powerful emotion may work to your advantage.”
The heat of his breath and body near mine tempts me; unnervingly, the only potent emotion I sense between us is the growing lust. I refuse to allow myself to fall prey to that temptation again, however. Focusing all of my energy, I feel the electric hum of magic start at the base of my feet. Imagining the marble flooring has the spongy feel of moss beneath my toes, I meditate on the roots underground, the rivers and fictitious root systems of hell.
The pulsing energy circles my legs, coiling tightly around my body as if it were a serpent. It reaches my fingertips as a verdant force sizzles, and suddenly I feel it take control. Strange symbols dance in my vision while another string of imperceivable words tumbles from my lips.
“Confortamini et proceri flosculi, accipe radicem!”
The magic swirls through the flowers, creating an iridescent glow. Its roots form slowly, inch by inch until they begin to grow so quickly that the confines of the crystal vase can no longercontain them. The crystal begins to crack. Water leaks from its sides onto the table until it shatters into tiny pieces.
“Thorne!”
I hear him, but the pulsing thrum of magic has overtaken my every thought and feeling, consuming me completely. Its power is intoxicating, and even as I watch as the flowers begin to snake their roots across the table, I find myself unable to stop.
Aamon grabs hold of my shoulders, wrenching me around to face him. His eyes are shockingly full of concern. “Stop,” he tenderly urges me. “If you continue, you’ll destroy the marble.”
His voice snaps me out of the spell's grip. “What’s wrong?”
Blinking, he turns me gently on my heels once again to face the vase and flowers. The root system has spilled over the table, several thick tendrils burrowing into creases of the marble floor. They appear to be searching for soil deep beneath the mansion.
My pulse hammers violently behind my ribcage as the sight creates an unease beneath my calm façade. The power Aamon has gifted me with our pact far outshines anything I have created prior. Who could ever give up this magic?
“I did that?”
He pauses, tipping my chin with his claws, looking deeply into my eyes, his own sparkling with appreciation and reverence. “Yes, yes, you did that.”
Aamon
“What are we doing out here?”Thorne asks, but I don’t miss the look of awe in his eyes.
The path to the fields is one I seldom take, though today feels full of promise. A promise of true and better change. The air is laced with the earthy aroma of fertile soil and tinged with perspiration. Seeing Thorne’s untapped potential gives me hope. Perhaps once he is safely back in his realm, we can maintain a mutually beneficial relationship.
As we crest the hill, vast expanses of fields spread before us. The rows of crops are in various phases of life, some beginning to sprout, others nearly ready to be harvested, and yet the majority are withering and decaying. The workers, souls condemned to this circle of Hell, move along the fields in mechanical precision, weary from hours of torment in the heat.
“These fields sustain the people in this city.” I gesture to the fields below us. “Unfortunately, we have been in a drought, and the fields are producing far less than usual.”
The souls trapped here are still in need of provisions. Even if trapped in an endless cycle of misery, I am their ruler. Hunger is a torment that, as of late, I have been failing to rectify. Instead, I've been borrowing from other Goetia whose crops are better.
I glance at Thorne’s face, studying the way his brow furrows in thought. He’s perceptive and knows just why he’s been brought here. The realization dawns rather instantly, with a flicker in his chestnut eyes.
“You want me to help with the fields?” Thorne turns to face me, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Why do you care if they eat or starve?”
I consider my response carefully, trying to shove away the ache in my heart at the thought that I’m perceived as such a monster.
“It’s true that these souls come to Hell to be tormented by their own desires, but hunger is a cruelty they don’t deserve.” Pausing, I look over the field as a harvester speeds through one row, churning black smoke into the air. “It’s within my power, Thorne, to ease that burden, and it’s within yours as well.”
