Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) by Burke Fitzpatrick Read Free Book Online

blink his eyes and wheeze. Normal people would die or bleed out. His heart should stop. He should be dead. He had never guessed the runes would torture him like this, and pain blurred his vision as he croaked a complaint.
    “Kill. Me.”
    “You ask for mercy?”
    “Please.”
    “When I betrayed the Seven Heavens, I was punished with an eternity of torment. Cast out, renamed, forgotten. They turned me into a monster and called me Moloch.” Mulciber grabbed Tyrus’s face, grinding broken bones together until Tyrus howled. “And now you dare betray me? How shall I punish an oath-breaker? The angels would leave you chained in the Nine Hells.”
    Tyrus whimpered through watery eyes. He should be dead. Mulciber’s angelic eyes burned with fire, and his ivory skin peeled away. Beneath the beautiful face lay another bone beast, the worst of the brood, with horns and glistening fangs. Tyrus trembled.
    “Look at me, my Lord Marshal. You will never escape my wrath. You think you betrayed Azmon? Who do you think Azmon serves? Who do you think is the real power behind Rosh? You are my general. You are my Lord Marshal. And you are pissing me off.”
    Darkness washed over him, and he panicked. He should die in a great battle against a worthy foe. To drown in the dark, to lose it all for nothing, was a pointless death. If he had a sword and something to fight, he could at least die well. He deserved to die fighting, not gasping in black muck.
    “You will… not… leave.”
    The voice became distant as black liquid covered his ears. Tyrus choked on the stuff, and it chilled him. Regrets washed over him and left him wishing he had done more with his life than kill people. He wanted a second chance. The demon’s ferocity penetrated the darkness.
    “The seven battles begin… you are mine… eternity… punishing you.”
II
    Tyrus bolted awake, covered in sweat. In the darkness of his room, wool blankets clung to him like towels. His hair was matted to his forehead, and he probed his ribs, seeking out breaks. A dream, but unlike any he had experienced in a while. He rubbed his face and still felt Mulciber’s claws digging into his cheeks. Not a dream or a nightmare but a message.
    Mulciber hunted him?
    He climbed down the stairs of the tower. His runes allowed him to see in the dark as though a full moon cast the night with a bluish-gray glow. Dura’s students had gone to sleep. No candles glowed, and no sounds could be heard as Tyrus left the tower. Outside, he stood on the ramparts, at the top of the Gadaran mountains, and listened to the wind howl. Most of the countryside was dark. Clouds blocked out the stars and moon, and beneath the tower, the sprawling fortress of Ironwall rested in shadows. Tyrus spotted a few fires for guards on the walls.
    He chided himself for not standing closer to the ramparts. The wind chapping his face brought back the memories, though, and he had to steel himself against them. Closing his eyes, he sensed the vertigo of the fall. Any minute, the trees would hit him. The ground remained steady, but his instincts mistrusted it. He edged closer to the rampart and hesitated as though the mountain might toss him into the abyss. With a shaky hand, he grabbed the cold stone.
    Of all the battles he had fought—against monsters, beasts, men, and demons—the idea of falling down a mountain inspired the most fear. He glanced over the edge and had to close his eyes. The height terrified him, and he rested his forehead against the stone.
    He should have died. Instincts betrayed him, leaving him a trembling fool. Fear of heights—could there be a more useless fear? Howling wind drained the blood from his face, but he must confront it. He fought the things he feared, and he always won. This was a battle like any other. Morbid curiosity pulled him to the edge again, and the sheer drop tempted as it revolted.
    He had confronted this drop for a year, and the nightmares grew worse. If Mulciber was this angry with