A Curse of Blood and Power: A Chronicle of Fanhalen

by Viviene Noel

  The sound of the horses’ hooves was fast approaching.

  A race for life.

  A race for destruction.

  Screams of excitement erupted from the riders, eager and famished, so close to their prey.

  The alpha howled. A powerful, carrying sound that echoed through the plain.

  As one, the others howled in return.

  The alpha stepped aside, let his family pass, and turned to face the hunters.

  Lord Mayfair gripped her by the waist, her back arching as he tipped her backwards—she opened her eyes and blinked back to reality. Her hands tightened around Adam’s, her nails almost digging into his skin.

  His eyes. Gods, those gods-damned eyes.

  Light filled her vision, bright and dimmed at the same time, spots dancing across it. She saw his face, then where her hand gripped his shoulder with whitening knuckles.

  The curses died unuttered in her throat—right, the dance, the party.

  Mayfair gently straightened her up, gracefully drawing her to him once more. If he noticed, it didn’t show.

  Mahena pulled against his lead to give herself a feeling of control, their smooth progress across the dancefloor faltering slightly as a result. Voices spread around her, smooth, and soft, yet far off, like a silky blanket wrapped tightly around the sound.

  Mahena found herself breathing unevenly.

  Wolves. Running. Fleeing. Pain.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ he whispered against her ear.

  She shuddered as the warmth of his breath sent a wave of sensation through her body.

  The final notes resonated through the ballroom as she lifted her gaze back to his, a deep, carrying sound traversing time and space.

  Applause exploded once again, although the troupe was gone and their performance was in no regards a match to theirs. Some of the dancers left the floor, others readied themselves for the next parade.

  Mahena was still staring at him. He couldn’t be…could he? The man gently set her straight—she hadn’t realised she was still swaying on her feet—not letting go of her waist. The fire in her body grew, flames leaping within her bones.

  Forcing a smile, and refraining from swallowing down, she said, ‘The heat and the dancing must have gotten to me. Will you show me where I can freshen up?’

  Those evergreen eyes continued to bore into her—deep, penetrating, searching her soul for answers to questions he did not voice. Her shoulders almost caved inward as the power gushing from him threatened to overwhelm her.

  We do not bow. We do not fear.

  Mahena snapped her shoulders back and straightened.

  Beasts.

  He answered, his eyes unmoving, stripping her bare, ‘Up the stairs and the third door to your left, next to the gallery room.’

  Mahena forced herself to look unbothered when all she wanted was to sprint across the room and duck her head under an ice-cold fountain. She felt her chest rise and fall painfully, as if she’d run the distance with the wolves in the scene.

  Gods, it was so clear in her mind; she could see the unfolding event as she leapt up the stairs—felt the distress and panic and rage in her own heart, the cry resonating through her ears.

  Control yourself. Control yourself. Control yourself.

  Every scene, every dream, gained in intensity by the day. It built and crumpled within her, and she was going to explode if they started to happen more frequently.

  Mahena shook her head, wiping the images away. This had been different—like an exchange, a voluntary transfer of information. As if he wanted to tell her this story, wanted her to see and feel what had happened on that day. In the crazy possibility of him being the male wolf in the flashback, what kind of entanglement could she have in the tale?

  Her pendant was warmer than ever against her chest as she reached the top of the stairs and stepped as calmly as possible into the corridor. The heat of the pendant always rose after a memory, a comforting touch murmuring not to worry. Maybe she should consider it as an alarm rather than a calming presence. Was it possible all those dreams were not memories, but potential dramatic futures, shown to extract her from the situation before it ever happened?

  Those damned eyes, the depths of them.

  She had been drawn to them, to him, when they first met at the market and, in all honesty, it was a big part of the reason she insisted they come to the party. From afar, it made no difference. From close, something gently traced her skin, like his energy was poking at her, testing her.

  As she rubbed her eyes, it hit her—that tickle, that shy and tentative approach, it had happened with Sheya. She’d been too distracted, too focused on not saying anything she shouldn’t, to pay any attention to it and had missed the chemical reaction happening inside of her.

  That was it though.

  When he’d touched her, inviting her to explore his town, electricity had shot through his fingers into her own and she’d been enthralled to him ever since—drawn to him by a curious, tempting thread. Sheya had magic. Could it mean he used to as well? What did it all even mean?

  Mahena clenched her pendant as she walked down the corridor, trying to find the toilets. She toyed with it unconsciously, her fingers tracing the contour of the twelve spiked, star-shaped medallion, its obsidian heart a detail that troubled her now, somehow.

  She didn’t know how, but when she pulled from her own thoughts, she faced a hallway of portraits. Hypnotised, her heart slowed back down. She ran her fingers down the wooden frames, realising there were portraits of women only. The work was breath-taking—though she knew nothing about art. For some reason, the nameplates only indicated the kingdoms, not the name of the women so perfectly, so delicately depicted.

  A strange scent of ash and dark fruits brushed past her and she abruptly stopped, her eyes squinting as she pivoted towards the provenance. Mahena cocked her head to the side as she beheld the most beautiful woman—painting—she’d ever seen.

  It almost knocked the breath out of her.

  How could anyone look like that? Thin and oval-shaped, her face was the definition of grace and femininity, with a waving flow of silky, aubergine hair cascading beyond the borders of the frame. The pale, mossy green of her eyes seemed like an endless stream of pure water—the mysterious, depthless waters of hidden caves and lakes—intensified by the contrast of her night hair. Mahena stared into them, as though she might teleport to that very place where the woman seemed secluded from the world. The painting sported a mocking grin, playfully devilish, an invitation to a universe of ecstatic mischief.

  Mahena stepped closer to the frame, frowning at the thin smears of ink on the painting. Her fingers reached forward—to touch, to wipe it off, to clear the fault marring the picture. But then she stepped back several steps, far enough to take it in its entirety. She had failed to notice the shadows painted around her, embracing her like a pet boa, an entity of their own. They danced around her like a mist of darkness, the ghost of a snake swirling around, almost dressing her up.

  Narrowing her stare on another whirl of the brush that, from up close, had been only a smile, Mahena saw from this distance that it curled up with a maliciousness entangled with the fumes around her, a promise of cruelty that twisted the unnatural features on her face into something uncanny and terrifying.

  Something cracked inside of Mahena. Something buried deep, deep inside, amidst dreams and memories she no longer remembered, nightmares and stories and truths and lies, all tangled up in a mighty fog. She clenched at her heart, not realising she couldn’t go through skin and bones to reach it, to see where it came from, what it was, who it called to. Unconsciously, she was brushing against the tendrils of smog.

  Wielder of the dark power, the little voice jolted, something like happiness in the whisper at the back of her head.

  Her dreams of the battlefield flashed before her—the passiona
te, wicked smile. She’d been covered in gore and blood and mud, but the resemblance…it tugged.

  Then, a vision swallowed her whole.

  Mahena smelled blood, and damp, and rot as she found herself in a white-walled tower, still in that shapeless form of hers, drowned in blinding sunlight. She swept the place up, then lowered her gaze to the floor.

  Her heart dropped in her stomach, shattering to the floor, splinters collecting against a prone figure. Her eyes filled with a stream of tears that slid down her invisible face. She fell to the floor, sobs sending ravaging waves across her misty form as it engulfed the room and its sole occupant.

  On the floor, bloodied, and broken, and panting, her hair spilling around her too-thin body, laid the same woman.

  Mahena wanted to move, to help her up, to get her out.

  Slowly, the woman braced herself on her forearms. Slowly, she lifted her eyes up.

  Rage, cruelty, emptiness.

  She frowned. Sniffed at the air.

  And met Mahena’s eyes.

  A soundless scream ripped out of Mahena’s throat as she felt herself push away from the painting and back against the opposite wall—and stumbled into another room as her back met empty air.

  Her ragged breath echoed, shouting back at her as she groped in the sudden dimness until she found the wall, the ground beneath her threatening to disappear as her knees buckled under her weight. She wiped her eyes, sobs straining in her throat—the frantic movements of someone who had witnessed an atrocity they wanted to wash clean with tears.

  But there were none, her face was dry.

  Too much.

  Too many in a short amount of time.

  Why was this house such a trigger?

  Her blood pulsed under her skin, warm and tickling, her heart pounding louder as she drew breath.

  ‘Control your gods-damned self,’ she rasped, inhaling deeply.

  When her eyes lifted back to the room she’d practically fallen on her ass into, she realised the portraits were gone.

  The terrifying frenzy vanished.

  As Mahena stepped forward timidly, the torches on the wall brightened—welcoming her. The opposite wall came to life before her, painted with a genealogic tree that glowed with a pulsing heartbeat. She found herself plunged into another world. Generation, after generation, after generation. Centuries of history—of this continent’s history.

  Mahena dared a second step, her head spinning as she tried to encompass the work before her. This house...this manor...it looked like nothing from the outside. Her hand brushed upon the first humming thread—

  ‘Are you finding my galleries to your liking?’

  Mahena whirled before she had the time to feel fear. ‘Isn’t it where you sent me?’

  Lord Mayfair, in the dimmed light of the room, leaned against the wall. ‘Perhaps.’ His eyes, brighter than ever, lazily traced her figure, leaving a trail of flames in their wake. He continued, ‘But this room is usually closed to the public.’

  There was an angry edge to his voice, now.

  Why wasn’t she scared? Her tongue became a leaden weight in her mouth, rasping against her dry pallet—not from fear.

  ‘There was no door.’ Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended, lined with an unwanted wariness. It wasn’t a lie, after all.

  Mayfair elegantly, slowly, peeled himself off the wall, and prowled towards her. ‘Was there not, now?’ His lips curved upward in a smile nothing short of predatory.

  It was so hot in here, the tingle on Mahena skin spreading again as he got gradually closer, her throat so dry she fought the urge to cough.

  What had that effect on her? Was it the man? The house? It surely wasn’t the one flimsy flute of wine she’d consumed.

  Dreaming, she must be dreaming. What else could explain this masquerade?

  So, Mahena played. ‘This room is undoubtedly a rare gem,’ she waved her hand to encompass the space, ‘as are all the portraits. Is the artist someone from your house? I cannot imagine the price he must demand for one piece.’

  Her instincts screamed at her not to turn her back to him, not even for a second, as he began to circle her. Yet, she feared that the heat inside her body would only increase if she didn’t. His breath caressed her neck as he whispered from behind her, ‘I doubt your interest in my home lies in the artist who decorated it.’

  Mahena swallowed hard, forcing herself still, sure he could feel her heartbeat in the hair’s breadth of air between them.

  What did he mean? She didn’t ask to enter his lands, let alone his house. He had invited her. But his presence...it was like honey, rich, warm, and sweet, from another time. It grew in intensity as time passed. She sidestepped, more casually and elegantly than she felt. The confusion painted on her face, on the other hand, was genuine. She turned to face him.

  ‘I am afraid I don’t catch your meaning.’

  Adam closed the distance once again. He was so much bigger than her, although it hadn’t seemed like it when they danced, and she hated herself but she tilted her head to keep their eyes locked. All polite flirtation had vanished, something far more primal now danced there.

  It sucked her in—calling.

  Her clothes were now too heavy on her skin, compressing her, making her want to peel them off. It was so hot, yet she shivered. Was this his intent all along—to get her alone?

  His eyes bore into hers with the strength of a tsunami, destroying all she knew, enclosing her mind solely in the space that existed around them. They were a story, a myth, a promise she wanted, needed, to explore.

  ‘I must admit,’ he whispered as he lightly brushed her arm—she buckled at the touch, ‘your act of innocence is exquisite.’

  Now would be the moment for her inner warrior to put him on his ass, giving her time to run as far away from this damned house as possible. But no fear coursed through her veins, no fright as she met his eyes with all the defiance she could muster. That vibration, that warmth igniting from him to her, threatened to explode.

  Deep, deep down inside of her, in one of the extreme dark corners of her being, something growled—something primal, and unborn, and lusting.

  But then she blinked. Once, twice, and it was gone.

  ‘What act of innocence?’

  A slight frown was all he gave away.

  Was he weighing whether to speak the truth or to hold back? Who did he think she was?

  He stepped back, his face a mask. ‘This tapestry hasn’t appeared to the eye in over two years.’

  ‘You mean it requires magic to be seen?’

  He nodded.

  Mahena frowned in return. ‘So? This house feels full of it.’

  That thing inside of her hissed, and snarled, at the pure male dominance exuding from his pores, the strongest of enticing perfumes. She closed the space between them this time, her face now a breath away from his.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, why did you invite me here? And am I to expect having to fight my way out?’ She damned herself, but she stared at his mouth and smiled.

  43

  Asoft laugh ripped from Adam’s lips, the warmth of it brushing Mahena’s cheeks. A knowing light danced in his eyes. He grabbed her hand, and warmth shot through her veins. ‘I doubt a simple writer has the ability to convey magic,’ he tightened his grip, ‘and it ripples from you.’ That predator gaze burnt bright. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Lady Ahra?’

  The way he emphasized her fake name had her somehow almost chuckling. That magnetism swarmed through her with a strength she was experiencing for the first time.

  ‘Magic is gone and has been for a long time,’ she replied with flimsily mustered determination. Her emotions were all over the place, strong then weak, assured and shy, all coming out at the same time.

  The heat.

  Adam mused, sensual, ‘I
strongly suggest you don’t play this game with me.’

  Her entire body was in flames. ‘I am not playing any games,’ she rasped, her throat tight, and damn her, but she again lingered on his lips.

  Mayfair growled—not loudly, not aggressively, but possessively. The ripple intensified and Mahena tried to yank her hand free, but Mayfair only pulled her closer.

  However small she was compared to him, however weak, it didn’t seem to bother her body in the slightest as Mahena just growled back.

  Mayfair’s nostrils flared, his eyes wide for a flying semi-second.

  ‘How’s the heat suiting you? Did the portraits seem alive?’ His eyes trailed down, to the hidden, burning necklace in between her breasts and lingered, as though he could see right through the fabric of her dress. His mouth was an inch from hers, the warmth of it a silken caress she fought not to claim. ‘So, let me ask again, Lady Ahra,’ the warm, spiced taste of his breath quickened her breathing—gods, she would have him, ‘Do you think me a fool?’

  Mahena held his stare, now back to her eyes. She couldn’t move, couldn’t retort, couldn’t get her thoughts straight as long as his skin was in contact with hers. All she could think of was the power from him responding to that primal thread within her—of him on the floor and her on top.

  Then he pulled away and straightened himself.

  ‘Ahra!’

  Mahena stumbled back, her breath knocked out from her. She blinked at him, then turned her hand over. Come back, she wanted to scream at him.

  Emmerentia’s face was in the door frame, and rage pumped through her for a second.

  The twin exclaimed, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’ Her voice tinted with the effects of alcohol, she extended a hand towards her friend. ‘Come back to the party, you’re missing out on all the fun.’ She looked to Mayfair, a drunken smile stretching her face. ‘Thank you for inviting us, this is an incredible evening.’

  Mahena squinted at her friend. It had to be an act. Emmerentia wobbled on her legs and dramatically brought her hand to her mouth. ‘I must apologise for my behaviour, the wine is beyond exquisite.’