Rosemary & Iron: The Eastern Quarter's Mana, #1

By Dorian Valentine

When a ritual to restore Mana goes wrong and sends him into the distant past, Célestin Edevane seeks the help of a strange man inhabiting an even stranger estate in order to prevent the calamity that destroyed Mana. Faced with a fascinating world unlike his own, filled with vampires, fae, witches and old gods and an unexpected love affair...will he even want to return to his time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorian Valentine
• Release date: Oct 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223130987

Book preview

Content Warnings:

Consensual sex

Gore

Interspecies racism

Depictions of toxic relationships

Depictions of familial abuse

Mentions of genocide

Mentions of Pregnancy

Mentions of child death

Depictions of mental illness, including:

Depression, PTSD, anxiety.

To my wonderful friends who never let me give up.

Without you, I don’t know what I would do.

Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.

- Oscar Wilde

The Picture of Doran Gray

Prologue

Un dibujo de una persona Descripción generada automáticamente con confianza baja

The world used to have magic. Mana was a once powerful force within this world. An easy ebb and flow coursing through each life, in some small sense. Some were capable of harnessing the power in significant quantities and others hardly noticed its presence at all.

Humanity was a frivolous race in many ways, hardly noticing the world around them until it suited their own fancy. They regarded Mana as the innate gift, one that no creature—God or mortal—could take away. A never-ending resource that would never diminish—one that could be used without consequence. Mana was a power to harness, even if one was not truly gifted with the ability to do so. To humans—Mana is simply something as sure as the sun in the sky and the earth under their feet. Never once did they consider the resource to be finite. To many other creatures, humans were only as useful as their trade markets allowed.

Creatures of various forms and classes mingled about day to day in these human-run markets—bartering, selling, loving, and simply being. Wares, knowledge, and the unsavory goods of society were traded within these markets and subsequent port cities. The aristocracies of dozens of races became interwoven in complex webs who all agreed humanity was not at all worth their time beyond such interactions within the realm of trade—and even then, they’d much rather their contact be limited as much as possible and the common folk saw little use in paying them any mind. Humans were such strange, short-lived beings. For those with lives spanning what amounted to generations for humanity, there was little use in being friendly outside of trade. There existed some who lingered and loved humans, but such cases were few and far between.

King Tanwyn, along with the regional lords under his power, looked over the aristocrats and their clans—keeping humans far away from their ruling. It created a non-perfect matrimony but a functioning society in which as much respect that could be given would be given. Such an agreement pleasantly continued for centuries in an otherwise gentle peace.

That was until a calamity unfolded; an event simply called The Closing. The Closing began as a gradual affair, an easily unnoticeable happening taking place over the course of a few odd years. The Veil, the vein allowing for the flow of Mana between everything that was and ever would be, grew weak. The Veil had dried up and closed, cutting everyone’s access to Mana. What was once a roaring river became a trickling stream no thicker than a string. Like a candle had been snuffed out in the late hours of the night, the world became shrouded in darkness.

The first to notice The Closing were the nymphs—a race of creatures closely tied to the old gods and closer to tasting godhood than any other; many even called themselves such. They crumpled to the earth like a marionette with cut strings, falling into a deep sleep without Mana to thrive on. Various other races followed suit in their own ways, losing lifespans or the magic that made them them. For what was a fairy without flight or a siren without song?

Humans were the last to notice The Closing. The Veil had allowed for fraternization and for their trade to grow into a bustling marketplace. This trade sprouted inventions from every corner of society, inventions that became obsolete with the loss of Mana to fuel it. Without The Veil, human society began to fail. The architecture and systems of the world were messily converted to steam power and later electricity—both were a far cry from the original source.

The evidence was there, magic had existed, but after decades of trying to tear open the invisible force known as The Veil, to awaken those lost to Mana’s absence, everyone had given up. The loss of Mana left a burrowing hole in everything and everyone, unable to be filled even after generations. The ache of loss was still ever present.

Even over a century later, those left behind in The Closing had little to go off of regarding how it happened. It simply ceased to be. The possibility that nothing lay within The Veil anymore, a theory that became more and more reasonable as time flowed by, existed. Those who thrived on the Mana supplied by the once powerful Veil were forced to live amongst the humans, dwindling away slowly over time—others were forced to stow away in the shadows and cracks of the world to await their salvation. They slowly faded into obscurity, into nothing more than legends. Only the stories remained of the time before The Closing and, as the years went by, the things nobody wrote down became fuzzier and fuzzier.

Decades passed, and with each passing month, the Mana in the world dwindled just a little bit more. Those who could still access The Veil’s supply were becoming exceedingly more and more rare as time went on. There was still the rare human able to access Mana, though their abilities were typically limited to parlor tricks; a spoon may stir sugar into tea or a children’s toy may float about as though alive—the Mana remaining was strained, as thin as a thread and could snap if tugged too hard. All that remained was the mundane.

There was the occasional story from the weird uncle about his encounter with ghouls, or the strange woman in the town who says she spoke to the pixies in her garden. There were the people with vaguely elvish ears, the only thing remaining of their supernatural heritage, and people who claimed they were 1/16th banshee on their mother’s side. The strange and the supernatural had faded away into a muck of normalcy.

Dibujo en blanco y negro Descripción generada automáticamente con confianza baja

I

Un dibujo de una persona Descripción generada automáticamente con confianza baja

A simple upbringing in a quaint town on the outskirts of one of the old port cities named Dravenport is how he grew up—within a stubby cottage by the wide mouth of a river. It was a cozy home filled with years of collections tucked away into cabinets that burst at the seams in an eclectic whimsy. Baskets hung from the ceiling, herbs from the garden were strung by the pantry, and good food always simmered on the stove. The colorful home, decorated with tintypes, sketches of fairies, and pressings of flowers—was warm even on the coldest nights when the wind would draw cold across the river. His grandmother would bundle them up on chilled winter nights in old knitted blankets and tell him stories—stories about the world that once thrived, tales she herself heard from her grandfather and he from his own. The stories were always filled with wonder and fantastical creatures. Célestin wished for nothing more than to see them for himself. An education on the mythical drew him in since before he could remember—and what better place than Dravenport University, a small institution specializing in the odd in an equally odd town.

Dravenport had once been a hub of supernatural trade. It possessed a proud, boastful history which the city declared at every possible turn. Without such an illustrious claim, the only notable site was Dravenport University; a historic college opening just before The Closing began. Even without the trade between races, the city was still diverse, home to anyone who wished to make it theirs or wished to study to their heart’s content. Dravenport had always been a refuge to the weak and weary travelers of old. It became a city of hustle and bustle, littered with the strange and unusual. During the aftermath of The Closing, dozens of displaced beings made this city their home. As the years passed, their influence became scrubbed away by the rains of time. The Veil was now just a fairytale to tell children.

The campus of Dravenport University was a well-loved creation of limestone, brick, and marble; a perfect mirror of the city housing it—a tangled but stately mix of architectural styles from the various races who had a hand in its creation. Moss and vines covered the university buildings, hiding the aging, weathered stone, and walkways comprising the campus. The gargoyles stared down at students with knowing gazes, the stars of many legends. One such campus legend said they took flight during the witching hours on the night of the full moon and that they squawked and growled at unfavorable passersby. To most, it was only that—a legend. Another fairytale from before The Closing. Another myth.

The library was the oldest of these buildings, well-loved and worn in by the students who crossed the halls over centuries of operation. In the library, there are books dating back hundreds of years, in languages very few spoke anymore. The tongues of the elven, the giants, and dwarves to name a few. At the time of The Closing, the library held every notable and remarkable book known to human beings, a collective reference for any of those weary travelers to peruse. Amongst the aging bookshelves and modern novels were catalogs of spells, collections of necromancy, and the classics which were no longer classics to humans. The further back into the stacks one was to travel, the older and rarer the works became. There were diaries and notes from past scholars, journals, and grimoires of all varieties.

It was amongst these stacks of books Célestin found the tattered leather-bound notebook that he hoped would become the heart of his thesis. The notebook was hidden between two large grimoires, the pages were yellow with age and stuck together in some spots. It was somewhat of a grimoire itself, the leather cover embossed with the initials A.d.B. in a flourish. On its pages were handwritten notes in elegant yet firm handwriting, written in a mixture of what he assumed was French, English, and broken Latin. Dotting the pages were crudely drawn diagrams of herbs, listing their usages in spells and necromancy. The pages were stained with the dyes of pressed flowers and herbs that crumbled under his gentle touch as he leafed through the pages.

The grimoire held spells of various kinds, in no particular order, as if the writer wrote it frivolously. Within the handwritten notes comprising this strange grimoire existed a spell for summoning a beast—remarkably different from any of the other spells within the grimoire. Strangely enough, this spell was written entirely in neat English print—exceptionally odd compared to the various languages and swirling cursive throughout the rest of the grimoire. The beast in this spell was described as stronger and more powerful than a king with an army—noted as being loyal to whoever released it from hell and gave it a suitable offering. Perhaps a creature like this would be strong enough to tear open The Veil once more. This page alone was enough cause for Célestin to add the book to the ever-growing stack in his arms before rejoining his friends at one of the large oak study tables on a lower level of the library.

The table his friends sat at was littered with books old and new, stacked high on the table and covering every possible space with notes. Despite the scholarly look, there was nothing studious happening at the table. His friends were in deep discussion of the latest rumors on campus. Within the last few weeks sightings of a ghost on campus had increased tenfold. Many people described him as a handsome man wandering the halls waiting for his lost love. It was a sweet notion; to long for someone so deeply even after death. After all, who wouldn’t want to be loved so passionately, so wholly, not even death could keep them apart? What a lonely existence it must be.

Those who had seen the ghost said he was a tall man, dressed like those did hundreds of years ago. They say his skin was pale like moonlight, donning long blond hair that was nearly white, striking golden eyes that seemed as though they flashed red when the light of a street lantern hit him just so. Perhaps he lost his love when The Veil dried to a trickle, doomed to walk the halls of the campus waiting for his love to come back. The sightings of him had grown rapidly as if he was becoming restless at long last. Never once had this ghost harmed a student, but the recent activity sent prickles up the spine of those who were superstitious.

I heard he’s been looking outside of Mayweather House, isn’t that where you live, Célestin? Annalyse asked—one of his friends he met during their first year at the University. You should be careful.

It is. And I’m always careful.

Maybe you’re the reincarnation of his lost love, another friend, Elias, joked. He grinned wide, eyes crinkling up. Their smile was toothy and infectious.

Célestin huffed, leafing through one of the books he had left on the table earlier. I don’t think I’m quite to the taste of some ghost. And even if I was, I don’t think he’s into men.

This made Elias laugh loud and boisterous in the way that he did, earning the group a glare from the librarian and a shush from other students. He waved an apology and tried to quiet himself down; he was always easy to laugh. He held his stomach and covered his mouth while he shook with quiet laughter. They all rolled their eyes, knowing just about anything would make their friend laugh until it hurt.

Even so, you should be careful when walking alone. You never know what might set this ghost off, Lydia remarked, bringing her travel mug to her lips for a sip. I heard it followed Marcus all the way to the front door of the dorms just last night. He’s in your dorm too, if I remember right.

Annalyse chimed in with, I had asked Marcus about that earlier in our classical English lecture. He said the creature spoke to him and asked to be let inside. I have never heard of a ghost needing permission to enter a building, isn’t this just strange? Maybe it isn’t a ghost at all.

Now, this bit of information made Célestin look up from his books. This really was not like a ghost at all. The ghosts of legends and all the stories he had heard said they could go freely wherever they pleased within the location in which they were contained. It seemed as though this ghost could go anywhere on campus that was public property. Even stranger yet, the ghost spoke while also maintaining a physical form. This was unheard of in the stories often told. That is strange. Maybe it’s a vampire. I read about them in one of those old guidebooks from the fifth floor.

Yeah right, a vampire! Lydia grinned, tapping the book in front of Célestin. You’re getting lost in your research again. You know those don’t exist anymore. I think it’s just a polite ghost. Creepy, but polite. You know that people only ever see ghosts now because they don’t need Mana to manifest themselves.

That isn’t to say they don’t exist anymore. Célestin pushed back his brown fringe as it fell loose from his ponytail into his face. He quickly retied his shoulder-length hair, hating the way it fell into his face when he studied. Wouldn’t that be exciting? A supernatural being unseen for decades right here on campus! Vampires need permission to enter buildings. A ghost could enter wherever they want. Vampires are considered one of the few true immortal beings. If I remember right, they can do a vast number of things without even using Mana—mind control, shape-shifting, teleportation. Think of the untold knowledge such a creature would have. Wouldn’t you want to ask about everything you could?

There was a resounding ‘no’ from everyone at the table. His excitement for the times before The Closing often created a lull in the conversations, it was something he was all too familiar with. Célestin studied mythology and occultism at Dravenport University, finding himself fascinated with the history of this world. There were few academically recognized recounts of life before The Closing and even less information on the identification of non-human beings. The details he did have to reference predominantly from old wives’ tales, which would contradict each other even within the same collection—all of this creating a muddled mess of information that, if he were to ever encounter a non-human creature, would leave him horrific at identifying their species. Though the likelihood of stumbling across anything but a ghost was impossible—and a ghost was easy to identify by their strange fluttering appearance.

The tales he heard growing up from his grandmother were bewitching—and only partly the reason he enrolled in Dravenport University. She told him tales of the fae in the woods, ghouls lurking in the water, and the beasts flying in the sky hundreds of years ago as if she was there herself. She told the tales with excitement in her voice, her words painting a colorful world for young Célestin. There was nothing he wanted more than to see the majesty for himself. The dirigibles in the sky and other steam-powered wonders were nothing when compared to the stores of old. His fascination with The Closing often brought an uncomfortable air to any conversation it was brought up in.

Doesn’t this stuff freak you out at all? There’s someone hanging out around your dorm. Creature or not—it’s fuckin’ weird, Elias commented, rolling one of the golden beads on their locs between their thumb and forefinger. I’m glad I’m not in Mayweather House.

I don’t stand a chance in a fight against anything that can access The Veil, there’s no use in worrying about it.

They went back and forth for hours, not getting much of anything done. Annalyse was the first to gather her things, tucking several books into her bag to take back to their apartment. Her long purple sleeves snagged on a book and she cursed under her breath while pulling it free. Her curly ginger hair stuck to the corner of her mouth and she muttered more while she pulled it out, breathing in and out to regain her cool.

I’m going to head back to the apartment, you guys coming? she asked, pointing a manicured finger at her partners. Lydia and Elias were quick to join in, scooping up their books in a flurry.

I’m going to stay and do some more research. I found an interesting volume today. Célestin held the grimoire up to his friends, tapping the cover. This might be just what I need.

Elias crossed their arms, unimpressed. This was how these study sessions usually ended. Don’t stay here too late.

Yeah, you might run into your Mayweather vampire if you stay after dark, Lydia warned, adjusting the hold on her tote bag. You should come stay at our apartment, we have a second bedroom we don’t use anymore. You’re free to crash until they figure out what’s going on with that guy.

I’ll be fine, he promised, waving them off so he could get back to his research in peace.

Message us when you get home at least, Annalyse demanded. The trio left after trying to convince Célestin a little longer to come stay with them in their apartment across town.

Being one to always get lost in his research, several hours had passed, and his notes on The Veil spanned several notebooks now and his reference list was extensive, including notions from nearly every book on the topic. Before him were several open guides on herbology, his fingers dotted with ink from his pen as he compiled a shopping list based on the grimoire.

He stayed entranced with his work until a librarian tapped his finger on the book in front of him and reminded him of the time. Looking past the librarian, Célestin was not at all surprised to see the only remaining sunlight was almost kissing the horizon in shades of purple and pink. He gathered his things and left the library with the grimoire stashed safely in his bag.

The air outside the library was chilled with the start of winter, leaves crunching under his boots as he walked. He couldn’t help but tug his oversized cardigan closer to his person for some semblance of warmth. At this hour the walkways of the university were sparse, hardly passing any other students as he made his way back to his dormitory on the far side of campus.

It was one such student that caught his attention, just before he left the cluttered main buildings which gave way to a maze of walking paths. Under the warm light of a street lantern, a man stood holding a black umbrella above his head. This was what caught Célestin’s attention—the skies had been clear all day. He didn’t linger long enough to take in any details about the stranger. What someone else did was none of his concern. Walking quickly past the blond-headed man, Célestin returned his acknowledging nod. Afterward, the man observed the sky, closed his umbrella, and walked off in the opposite direction. It was like he was waiting for Célestin to pass before leaving.

Mayweather House was a large, stately manor crested upon a hill. The pathways leading up to the dormitory were made of red brick, worn down into the dirt where students walked the most. A wrought iron gate closed the property off from the common areas, it groaned and creaked as Célestin pushed it open and closed it behind himself.

Under the porch light of the dormitory stood the tall blond man, waiting patiently. He held his umbrella under his hand like it was a decorative cane, tapping the tip against his shoe. The light shadowed his features in a way that made Célestin unable to see his face. Célestin’s steps faulted on the marble stairs of Mayweather House, his spine-tingling in the presence of the waiting man. If one could call the being before him a man—as, for all intents and purposes, he looked like a human. He looked human enough. But something about him set Célestin’s nerves on fire, something in his head screaming that this wasn’t right. He had walked in the opposite direction as this man. How did he beat him to the front door?

Célestin continued up the steps, walking past the man waiting silently on the porch. The man made no movement and Célestin opened the door to the dormitory with just enough space to slip inside.

Good night, Célestin, the man said, just before the door closed. His voice, honeyed and deep, cut through the quiet night like a knife.

Célestin closed the door behind him with a hard slam, gripping the handle hard enough his knuckles turned white. He wasn’t sure how long he waited with bated breath, holding the lockless door closed; expecting the man to bang on it or try to force his way inside. Letting go of the handle, Célestin backed away from the entrance. He walked quickly up the stairs to his room, nearly tripping on the landing in his rush.

He locked the door behind himself, finally letting out a breath of relief. His heartbeat in his throat, breath ragged from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Turning on his light, Célestin dropped his bag on the floor, and flopped face down onto his twin-sized bed, feet hanging off the edge. He stayed like this until his arm went numb under his weight and he was forced to roll over.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head: Who was that? What was that? How did he know my name? He churned idea and idea over in his head, worrying away at the thoughts until they were round like a sea stone and he had convinced himself it was a coincidence. Célestin shoved the idea out of his mind and sat himself up on his bed, swinging his legs over the edge.

With a flourish of his hand, the grimoire worked its way out of his bag and floated over to him. A curling of his finger made his notebook and pen swirl over to him and open themselves up to his words, anxious to write down his ideas for him. Célestin’s eyes turned a warm golden shade as he worked with the Mana around him, something that was both second nature to him and a secret to everyone in this world aside from his grandmother and the curious old woman who owned the herbalist and fortune-telling store in town. He longed for more—to know more than little tricks.

The grimoire opened itself to the page with the spell that so interested him and his notebook turned to the shopping list he created. Several candles around the room lit themselves to grant their master more light to read by.

Priest’s Crown, a branch of Cedar, Meadowsweet, Rowan, Mugwort, Yew, Wormwood—Saffron? I think I can use Elf Leaf in place of that. Célestin summoned a book aptly titled Herbs in Traditional Spellwork from the bookshelf. The book opened to the page he desired and confirmed his speculations. Yes, that’ll do. Elf Leaf is much cheaper. I’ll also need an obsidian mirror. Hmmm, anything I can’t get at the market I can purchase at The Constellation.

Célestin tended to talk to himself when alone, musing and muttering his way through most of his mental blocks. A knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts, the candles snuffing themselves out and all the books dropping aside from the grimoire, which he grabbed from the air himself. He scrambled to his feet and cracked the door, only opening it wider when he recognized the person outside.

Hey man, you okay? Sounded like you knocked a bunch of shit over, his housemate asked, face scrunched up.

I’m good, just kicked over a stack of books when I got up. Célestin gently shook the grimoire in his hand for emphasis. What’s up?

His housemate held out a small black box to him. I found this on the front steps when I came in just now. It says your name on it. Figured you dropped it coming home.

Célestin looked at the box and then up at his housemate. He took it from him, weighing it in his hand—it was heavier than it looked. Right, how—silly of me. Thanks.

No problem, good night.

Yeah, good night. Célestin’s eyes didn’t leave the box as he retreated into the dorm room, locking the door behind him.

The black box was unassuming, yet ornate and easily over a hundred years old. It was lacquered wood with an inlaid mother of pearl in intricate swirling floral patterns. He dropped it, letting it float before him. This was a gift from that man and every bone in his body told him not to touch the contents. Célestin flicked the latch and opened the hinged lid with his breath held. The box tilted itself towards him so he could see the contents; a necklace and a sealed envelope presented themselves to him.

Taking the box back into his hands, Célestin sat at his desk. The candles around the room relit themselves, casting a warm glow on the contents. First, he pulled the necklace out, a delicate pendant on an even more delicate chain of silver. He couldn’t be sure if it was real silver, but it was fine and had the weight of it. The pendant was a blood-red ruby set into the tarnished metal, smaller than the pad of his thumb. Célestin set it aside on his desk and picked up the letter. On the front, Célestin Edevane was scrawled in practiced calligraphy. The letter was sealed with wax as red as the ruby, the image of an elegant B pressed into it. Célestin opened the letter carefully, the parchment was strange under his fingers, delicate and smooth—aged unlike the ink on the page.

It read:

Mon cœur,

Please take this necklace and keep it close to your heart. Rubies are for protection. I believe it will aid you on your journey. This stone has been in my family for generations, it has served us well. At the very least, you will have something to remember me by.

With all my love,

A.

Célestin’s eyebrows furrowed as he read the strange letter. He turned the parchment over, finding no other information on it. If his name hadn’t been so prominently written, he could easily call this a coincidence too. But his name was written so carefully on the letter, it had to have been left by the stranger from earlier. There wasn’t any way to work around this fact. That man—the man so similar to the campus ghost rumors—was looking for him. He had been waiting for him. He folded the letter up and slipped it back into its envelope and then into the ornate box. The ruby necklace was a strange gift. Célestin held it between his fingers as he studied it. The gemstone shone in the candlelight, it looked like a drop of fresh blood on the metal. Whatever this man—this ghost wanted, it didn’t seem intentionally malicious. The presence of that man made him nervous, though not as much as he expected—fully expecting to feel as though he was being watched within his own locked quarters. Instead, a strange sense of wonderment and though he deigned the attention of a ghost—it was more along the lines of misplaced love with a twinge of stalkerish tendencies.

He ultimately decided to put the necklace on, the pendant falling perfectly at the center of his sternum—as though he was always supposed to own it. The necklace was cold from sitting outside and Célestin cupped it in his hand to warm it.

Dibujo en blanco y negro Descripción generada automáticamente con confianza baja

II

Un dibujo de una persona Descripción generada automáticamente con confianza baja

The Constellation was a small occult store situated between a bakery and an accounting office. As soon as Célestin stepped through