Thomas Scarville's eyes fluttered open, focusing slowly on Luke. For a moment, confusion clouded his gaunt features before understanding dawned. He glanced at the bloody stump where his hand had been, then back at Luke, his expression eerily calm.
"Well," he said mildly, "It looks like you've cut my hand off before I could shake your hand and have a proper introduction, son of Hermes."
Luke stared at him silently. The man's demeanor was drastically different from the psychotic appearance he had displayed during their fight. Gone was the manic energy, replaced by an almost professorial composure despite being chained to a chair with a severed wrist.
But Luke wasn't fazed. He had been a shinobi. Deception was in his blood. He had interacted and worked alongside some of the most depraved people in existence. Orochimaru, Kabuto. Men who could smile pleasantly while discussing how many children they'd dissected that morning.
He let his eyes curve into a smile above his mask. He'd play the magician's game for now. But Names were powerful things for magicians, Chiron had told him. Never give a witch your true name.
"You can call me Sukea."
"Sukea," Scarville rolled the name on his tongue like tasting fine wine. "Japanese, if I'm not mistaken. Curious choice for a Greek demigod."
Luke shrugged noncommittally. "I'm a man of many talents."
"Indeed you do," Scarville's yellowed teeth flashed in what might have been a genuine smile. "That lightning technique was... unexpected. I've never seen a child of Hermes with such abilities."
"I'm full of surprises," Luke replied, twirling his sword casually. "Speaking of which, I'm surprised you're so chatty for someone who just lost a hand."
Scarville glanced at his stump again, which had stopped bleeding its strange black ichor. "This body has endured far worse, I assure you. Besides," his eyes glittered with dark humor, "it's not like I can't find a replacement."
Luke didn't bother responding. "Let's talk about why you're hunting a daughter of Zeus."
"Direct, aren't we?" Scarville chuckled. "Very well. Why does anyone seek power? To obtain more of it."
"You already stole Hecate's Eye," Luke nodded toward the bag on the table. "Wasn't that enough godly artifacts for one necromancer?"
"The Eye is merely a tool," Scarville explained, as if lecturing a particularly slow student. "The girl is the key."
"The key to what?"
Scarville's smile widened. "Immortality."
Luke kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced. Immortality was the oldest, most dangerous ambition in human history. People had committed atrocities beyond imagination pursuing it.
"Let me guess," Luke drawled. "Drain her life force? Perform some ritual sacrifice? Steal Zeus's power through her?"
"Nothing so crude," Scarville scoffed. "Though I suppose necromancy seems crude to the uninitiated."
"Try me," Luke challenged, leaning forward. "I've seen things that would make your zombies look like a kid's birthday party."
Something flickered in Scarville's eyes, curiosity, perhaps. "Have you indeed? How fascinating." He tilted his head, studying Luke more intently. "There's something... old about you, Sukea. Something that doesn't quite match your youthful appearance."
Luke smirked beneath his mask "You're stalling."
"Not at all. I'm reassessing." Scarville's chains clinked as he shifted slightly in his chair. "You see, I had planned to simply eliminate you as competition. But now I'm wondering if perhaps we might have... mutual interests."
"I seriously doubt that."
"Do you?" Scarville's voice dropped to a near whisper. "You didn't kill me when you had the chance. You want information. Knowledge. That suggests a mind that values understanding over brute force. I can appreciate such qualities."
Luke snorted. "Says the guy who sent zombie civil war soldiers after me."
"A precaution. This city has been my domain for decades. I don't appreciate uninvited guests." Scarville nodded toward the map Luke had pocketed. "But you've found what you came for, haven't you? The girl's location."
"Maybe," Luke admitted, not confirming which spot on the map was correct. "But I still don't know what makes her so special. Why this demigod specifically."
Scarville's eyes gleamed. "Ahh, but there are none like her. This girl was born of a broken promise. A child born of broken oath on the Styx is a rare thing. Her divine essence is concentrated, pure." He licked his lips unconsciously. "With Hecate's Eye to focus that power, and my magical expertise to channel it..."
"You could achieve true immortality," Luke finished neutrally..
"Not just immortality," Scarville corrected. "Godhood."
Luke couldn't help it, he laughed. The sound echoed off the stone walls, sharp and incredulous. "Godhood? Seriously? You think the Olympians are just going to let some random necromancer join their club?"
Scarville's expression hardened for the first time. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. You're still thinking like a mortal, like a demigod bound by the rules of divine hierarchy."
Luke laughed coldly. "Tell me a little about yourself, Scarville. How does a mortal, a near mundane human, gain access to magical powers?"
The effect was immediate. Scarville's carefully constructed facade cracked like thin ice. For just a heartbeat, pure killing intent and rage bled through his expression, a flash of something ancient and utterly inhuman, before it was papered over with practiced composure.
Ah, a touchy subject, Luke noted internally. Someone doesn't enjoy being called a mortal.
"Well, Sukea," Scarville sneered the words, acknowledging the unspoken understanding that this was a fake name. He settled back in his chair despite his bonds, assuming the air of a storyteller about to regale an audience.
"I was born to a family of carpenters, back in good old New York in 1827. Was there when the Statue of Liberty was gifted by the French."
His voice took on a theatrical quality, as if he'd told this story many times before, perhaps only to himself and his many victims.
"My father," he sneered when he said this, "wanted me to continue the family business. But, you know, I was always hungry for more. I knew I was meant for more."
Luke noticed how Scarville's eyes gleamed with a fanatical light when he spoke of destiny.
"I was Clear-Sighted, you see, so from a young age I could see the denizens of the supernatural and myth that wandered the world openly."
"I saw my mother being eaten by a cyclops, and my father, the pitiful mortal that he was, refused to believe me."
Luke watched Scarville's undamaged hand clench into a fist, knuckles white against the chains.
"But I searched and searched, and I discovered in my mother's diaries that she could also see the same things I could, so could her grandmother, and so on."
Scarville's gaze turned distant, as if looking through the stone walls to a past only he could see.
"Why. I asked myself. Why am I blessed with the ability to see the true nature of the world, but have no power to enact change?"
His voice dropped to a whisper, compelling Luke to lean forward despite himself.
"And that's when I stumbled onto the Manse. Or rather, the Manse found me."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "The Manse?"
"You see, that's where my story truly began," Scarville said, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "The Manse was a school for witches and other magical practitioners, established by Hecate herself. It was shut down a few decades ago, but that's irrelevant to the story."
Luke leaned forward despite himself. This was information he hadn't expected, a magic school set up by Hecate?
"There, I found my calling," Scarville continued, eyes gleaming with fervor. "Finally, for once, all my answers were within my grasp. I discovered I had the blood of the Goddess of Magic running in my veins."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "You're claiming to be a son of Hecate?"
"Not a son," Scarville corrected sharply. "A legacy. My many great-grandmother was a daughter of Hecate, though the blood had thinned over generations. But the potential was there, dormant, waiting.
The necromancer shifted in his chains, his excitement palpable as he continued his tale.
"The Manse taught me to access that heritage. At first, it was simple tricks, manipulating the Mist, small illusions, minor charms. But I wanted more.
Luke kept his sword steady, watching Scarville's face. The man was completely lost in his memories now, his eyes unfocused.
"The instructors tried to hold me back. 'Blood magic is forbidden,' they said. 'The cost is too high,' they warned." Scarville laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "As if any price was too high for power."
Let me guess," Luke drawled. "You went ahead anyway."
"Of course I did!" Scarville's eyes snapped back to focus, burning with intensity. "I began experimenting in secret. First with animal blood, then my own. The results were... promising. But limited."
Luke felt a chill run down his spine as Scarville's yellowed teeth flashed in a grin.
"Then I discovered the true potential of divine blood. A fellow student at the Manse was a daughter of Demeter. Sweet girl, always growing flowers in the courtyard." His voice took on a dreamy quality. "She cut herself during herbology class one day. Just a small nick, barely a drop of blood. But I felt it, the power radiating from that single crimson bead."
"You killed her," Luke stated flatly, fighting the urge to run the man through right then.
"I prefer to think of it as... harvesting," Scarville corrected. "Her sacrifice advanced my understanding immeasurably."
Luke tightened his grip on his sword. "And after that first taste?"
"Oh, I was insatiable!" Scarville laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "The power in demigod blood, it's like nothing else. Each god's lineage has its own... flavor. Apollo's children give visions of the future. Ares' offspring grant strength and battle prowess. Aphrodite's brood—" he shivered with pleasure, "—their blood enhances your beauty and persuasive abilities.
"Disgusting" Luke muttered, his stomach churning. Mad scientists are all the same.
"It's science! Art! Divine communion!" Scarville protested. "I've documented everything meticulously. The effects, the duration, the optimal extraction methods. Did you know that fear makes the blood more potent? Adrenaline acts as a catalyst for the divine essence."
"And the zombies? Where do they fit in?"
"Ah the undead, that came later," Scarville waved his stump dismissively, apparently forgetting his hand was missing. "After I was, shall we say, asked to leave the Manse."
"They kicked you out."
"They tried to kill me!" Scarville snapped, his composure cracking momentarily. "Hypocrites, all of them. Hecate herself sent her minions after me. But I had prepared." His smile returned, smug and self-satisfied. "I had already consumed enough divine blood to enhance my natural talents. I escaped, taking several valuable texts with me."
The necromancer leaned forward as far as his chains would allow, eyes gleaming with maniacal enthusiasm.
"That's when I truly began to innovate. I discovered that while living demigod blood grants temporary power, the dead could be... repurposed. Their divine essence persists after death, you see. Not as potent, but far more stable."
So you became a necromancer," Luke concluded.
"I prefer 'thaniturgist'" Scarville sniffed. "Necromancer sounds so... medieval."
Luke couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Right, because raising zombie Confederate soldiers is totally cutting-edge."
"Those are just the foot soldiers," Scarville dismissed with a flick of his remaining wrist. "The true art is in the preservation and manipulation of divine essence post-mortem."
He leaned forward conspiratorially, as if sharing a trade secret. "The trick is in the binding. You have to capture the soul at the moment of death, before it can fully depart. Then you can tether it to the corpse indefinitely."
Luke watched Scarville's animated face with growing disgust. The necromancer kept speaking, his voice rising with excitement as he detailed his experiments, but Luke had stopped listening.
Instead, he reflected on his previous life, on the twisted shinobi he'd encountered, Orochimaru, Kabuto, Danzo, Hiruko, and others. Shinobi who would sacrifice anything and anyone for their twisted ambitions. Regardless of the realm, the significance of powerful blood and those who lusted for it never changed.
As Scarville rambled about his techniques, Luke observed the subtle shifts in the air around them. The Mist was moving, condensing around the necromancer's chains in barely perceptible wisps. Anyone else might have missed it, but Luke's trained senses caught the manipulation immediately.
"—and that's when I discovered that the cerebellum retains divine essence longer than—"
"That's enough," Luke interrupted, his voice cold. "You've spoken long enough."
The necromancer's eyes widened fractionally. "Now, Sukea, let's not be hasty. I've been very cooperative. I can tell you exactly where to find the girl—"
Luke's sword flashed in the dim light, slicing through the air with precision. A strangled scream filled the chamber as Scarville's remaining hand tumbled to the floor, severed cleanly at the wrist.
"You were saying?" Luke asked pleasantly, as if they were discussing the weather.
Scarville's face contorted in agony, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His eyes bulged with disbelief as he stared at his second severed wrist, blood, black as oil, pulsing from the wound.
"You—you—" he gasped between screams.
"Me, me," Luke mocked, reaching into his pocket. "Yeah, I noticed you trying to manipulate the Mist around your chains. Amateur hour."
"YOU MISERABLE LITTLE GODSPAWN!" Scarville howled, spittle flying from his lips. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I COULD HAVE OFFERED YOU? IMMORTALITY! POWER BEYOND YOUR WILDEST—"
Luke tuned him out.
Thomas Scarville was destined for death today. Of that there was no doubt. Regardless of what he said, there was no chance Luke would allow him to wander the streets of the living beyond this moment. Death would be a mercy for the damnation his soul was destined for. Now it was only a case of how much information could he extract from him.
He already had an idea of where the girl was. But he still had more questions to ask.
Luke pulled out a small vial of Chrysos Krasis that glowed softly in the dim chamber. Scarville's screams turned to whimpers as he stared at the severed stumps of his wrists, his face pale with shock. Recognition, then naked hunger spread across his face.
"Is that Nectar?" he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse.
"Mmm something of the sort," Luke confirmed, uncapping the vial. The faintest scent of warm cookies wafted through the chamber.
Without warning, he splashed a drop onto Scarville's fresh wound. Scarville howled as the golden liquid made contact with his wounds, his body thrashing against the chains. The black blood sizzled and steamed, and then, miraculously, the bleeding stopped. The wounds didn't heal completely but cauterized enough to prevent him from going into shock.
"Nectar," Scarville breathed, his eyes never leaving the golden liquid. "But how? That should have burned me to ash. No mortal can consume the food of the gods without—"
"Burning up from the inside out?" Luke finished, pocketing the vial. "Trade secret."
Scarville stared at Luke like a man possessed, his academic facade completely shattered. "That's impossible."
"Yeah, yeah, spontaneous combustion, cellular breakdown, agonizing death," Luke waved dismissively. "I've heard the speech."
"How?" he whispered, leaning forward despite his wounds. His rage had vanished, replaced by desperate, naked desire. "How have you made it safe for mortal consumption? You must tell me. Anything you desire, I'll give you. My books, my research, the location of other artifacts—"
Luke tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Anything?" He pretended to look around for a bit.
He picked up the bag containing Hecate's Eye, still clutched in Scarville's severed hand, and peered inside. The orb pulsed with sickly green light, as if sensing his gaze.
"So this is what powers your whole operation?" Luke asked, poking at the bag with his sword. "Hecate's missing eyeball?"
"It's not literally her eye," Scarville corrected automatically, his academic tone briefly resurfacing. "It's a focus of her power, a manifestation of her divine sight beyond the Mist."
"And with it, you can see potential demigods?"
"Among other things," Scarville nodded eagerly. "It reveals divine essence in all its forms. That's how I found the girl. Her aura is... spectacular."
Luke nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention back to Scarville. "One more question. Those purple-shirted demigods in your zombie collection, where did they come from?"
Scarville's eyes darted nervously to the side. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Luke sighed dramatically. "Really? We're back to lying? After I've already taken both your hands?" He raised his sword meaningfully. "I could start working on feet next, if you prefer."
"Wait!" Scarville yelped. "Fine, fine. They're... they're Roman…"
A flash of blinding purple light cut him off mid-sentence. Luke instinctively raised his arm to shield his eyes, the air in the chamber suddenly crackling with power so intense it made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"That's enough out of you my dear," came a voice like velvet over steel. "Some secrets aren't ready to be revealed yet."
_____________________
Hope you enjoyed the Chapter!
For those who'd like to read up to 5 CHAPTERS ahead, chat with fellow readers, see illustrations of characters, or receive direct updates, you can check the links for my linktree! See the link below
linktr. ee/DarkeBones