“Only adds to her name.” Osiris smirked at the laughs his crude statement garnered. “In any case, you noticed she had a peculiar ability, did you not?”
Stas’s lungs stopped working.
A gifted mortal surrounded by Ichorians.
“It’s customary for one in my position to kill you on sight,” Issac had said what felt like years ago.
Was Stas about to learn what he meant by that? To witness exactly what his kind did to fledglings such as herself?
“I-I did, Sire. Her t-touch was hypnotic,” Jarod stammered.
Stas frowned. A prostitute with a hypnotic touch? How was that considered evidence?
“Ah, how very intriguing. Have you or the others been able to re-create it, Mike?” Osiris asked.
Mike flashed a lascivious glance at the woman. “I don’t know about hypnotic, but her touch sure is inspiring.”
Ugh, gross.
“Not exactly proof, then.” Osiris tapped his chin. “If only we had someone here who could sense immortal bloodlines.” He smiled, his focus shifting over the crowd with a knowing gleam. “Oh, but we do, don’t we? Sierra, love, why don’t you join us?”
14
A Gift for Words
Ice held Stas captive, refusing her the ability to move or breathe.
An Ichorian with the ability to sense immortal bloodlines.
Fledglings.
Me.
Issac had listed all the ground rules, never once mentioning that someone might be able to sense her. An oversight? Or because he didn’t consider the approaching woman a threat?
He didn’t seem at all bothered, his body just as relaxed as before. He was even drawing patterns against her thigh with his thumb.
She forced herself to inhale. If he wasn’t concerned, then she would be fine. Right? She exhaled through her nose. Okay, yes, this would be fine. Everything would be fine.
If she told herself that enough, she might just believe it.
“What do you think, dear?” Osiris asked as a woman with black slacks and a tank top joined him on the stage. She had to be the most conservatively dressed woman in the room.
Something about her struck Stas as familiar. Short blonde spikes, metal bar through her nose, short, plump, hmm… Where do I know you from?
Sierra’s hand wavered a little, belying her confident stance, as she touched the brunette. Anticipation stirred in the air, everyone awaiting her verdict.
“I sense nothing, Sire,” Sierra finally said, releasing the woman.
“Really?” Osiris’s expression indicated surprise to the crowd, but it appeared too contrived. The slight flattening of the mouth, imperceptible to the back of the room but noticeable to those in the front, suggested he held something back.
Or maybe Stas was just starting to understand his tells. Something about him struck her as familiar, too. Like she knew him from a different life. I’m clearly losing my mind.
“She’s not a fledgling, Sire.” Sierra bowed her head and turned to leave, a flush creeping into her cheeks.
Oh, shit.
In two seconds, she would spot Stas.
Would she recognize—
“Stop.” Power buzzed through the room, singeing Stas’s senses. It felt so familiar, calling to her own ability to compel. “Don’t move until I tell you to.”
Stas’s lips parted, understanding finally dawning. She’d felt the urge to obey once before tonight. To feel it again contradicted coincidence.
Osiris can definitely compel.
Just like me.
Only his gift appeared to be far more powerful.
“Carl, join us.” Another demand, tightening her stomach into knots.
No restraints. The man just wielded his gift like a whip, controlling the room with mere words.
This was one of Stas’s darkest concerns—that she could someday give in to the sinful instincts brewing inside her. Compelling others could easily become addictive, and a very wicked part of her enjoyed it.
A lanky male dressed in the trademark black strode down the stairs across the room, his expression blank. He didn’t acknowledge Sierra as he stepped onto the stage, merely arched a thick, bushy brow at Osiris after bowing his head in respect.
“Are you aware of your progeny’s evening activities?” Osiris asked.
“Sierra bartends at Louie’s.”
Stas’s lips parted at Carl’s mention of Owen’s favorite bar. She went there regularly with him. Is that how I know Sierra?
“Yes, indeed she does,” Osiris agreed. “And do you know who was a frequent visitor of the establishment?”
Oh God… Stas had been right before. This is all about Owen.
Issac’s thumb drew a circle against her lower abdomen, his touch burning through her dress. Remain calm, it said. Don’t react.
She swallowed, trying to heed his advice, recalling all his warnings.
Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.
“Owen Angelton,” Osiris said, confirming what she already knew. “You see, I’ve been trying to piece it all together, and I recently discovered that he frequented your progeny’s club on a weekly basis. Yet, she never mentioned a word to me. Interesting considering her ability, is it not?”
Carl’s stony mask didn’t falter, his beady black eyes refusing to acknowledge the trembling woman frozen a few steps away from him. Fear radiated from Sierra, suggesting she would run if she could.
But Osiris’s persuasion kept her feet glued to the floor, forcing her to face the open ridicule growing in the crowd. They were all piecing together the accusation, realizing that Sierra had been the Ichorian who aided Owen. And they were not happy.
“Jarod, you’re a telekinetic, right?” Osiris asked.
The lanky man’s nod was unsteady. “B-but only with objects of a certain weight and within d-direct line of s-sight.”
“Right. Useless. Go back to your seat.” A cold assessment that had Jarod cringing, his shoulders hunching over in defeat.
Stas almost pitied him. Almost.
At least until she remembered the woman on the floor covered in chains.
The bastard deserved a lot worse than being called out for his lacking ability.
“Oh, and, Jarod?” Osiris called as the cowering male started up the stairs. “Good prostitutes are all hypnotic. That’s how they make their money. Try not to waste our time at the next Conclave.”
Stas half expected him to use the fiery redhead to underline his statement, but he flicked his wrist in dismissal instead, his focus returning to the “hypnotic prostitute” on the floor.
“Now, what do I do with you?” he mused, tapping his chin. “It’s possible you’re gifted, but how will I know for sure? Can’t trust anyone these days. Decisions, decisions.” Movement from Stas’s right startled her. Aidan’s hand waved just once, low over the armrest, but enough to draw notice. “You have a suggestion, Aidan?”
All eyes turned in their direction, causing her skin to crawl. The lack of response in Issac’s posture indicated he wasn’t surprised by Aidan’s boldness. Osiris seemed to share the sentiment, his expression showing mild interest.
“An auction,” Aidan said.
He couldn’t mean to auction off a human? Like an object?
Except the gleam in Osiris’s gaze told her that was exactly what Aidan had just suggested. He seemed quite pleased—too pleased—by the idea. “When?” he asked.
“After the trial. To lighten the mood and perhaps inspire the famished?” Aidan spoke the words so calmly, as if they were debating the weather, not a mortal life. Anya demonstrated her approval by nipping Aidan’s lip when he finished speaking, and he flashed her an indulgent smile before redirecting his focus to the stage.
Demons.
No, vampires.
They were talking about auctioning off an innocent woman as if she were property, not a living, breathing human being. Who does that?
“Excellent.” Osiris snapped his fingers in Mike’s direction. “Give
the girl to Aidan. He’ll watch her until the auction.”
“Happily,” his minion said, tugging harshly on the leash.
The woman gagged, her knees scraping over the ground as she crawled along behind him. “Assss,” she hissed under her breath, causing Stas’s eyebrows to lift.
This female was a fighter. Being beaten, starved, and dragged around by a metal leash hadn’t dampened her fire in the slightest, as was evidenced as she continued to curse and mutter obscenities at Mike.
“Charming,” Issac remarked, his tone cold and chilling her to the bone.
No remorse.
No concern.
Just a flat comment followed by a snort of disgust as the prisoner growled crudely at Anya—who had taken control of the leash.
“Indeed,” Aidan replied, sounding just as frigid as Issac.
“Hmm, I don’t know,” Anya murmured, running her gloved fingers through the woman’s dark mass of tangled hair. “I rather like the feisty ones.”
Stas’s stomach churned at the display, her blood freezing in her veins.
“Do try to contain your gifts, yes?” Osiris said, his affectionate gaze on Anya.
She waved her leather-clad hand at him, mischievousness dancing across her striking features. “I’m wearing protection.”
Several chuckles vibrated around the room, including one from Issac. His hold around her abdomen loosened just enough for him to draw his fingers up and down her side.
The touch warmed her through the fabric, confusing her instincts. Part of her longed to cuddle closer, to seek his comfort and lean her head against his shoulder. Yet logic held her in place.
I should hate him, not trust him.
Except he’d warned her tonight would not be easy. And it wasn’t his fault she sat here.
No, the blame lay at Tom’s feet and her own. She never should have come here. If only—
Osiris’s hand clamped around Sierra’s throat, freezing Stas midbreath. He dragged the woman backward and tossed her unceremoniously into the chair while Carl observed emotionlessly.
Oh God…
The worst had yet to come, the truth of that lurking in Osiris’s smile as he addressed the crowd. “Let the trial begin.”
Sierra’s screams echoed through the room as Osiris slid the razor across her mutilated skin.
This was one of the ancient immortal’s favorite methods of torture, something he reserved for those he planned to kill. It didn’t matter what the woman said, she would die tonight.
Astasiya remained rigid on Issac’s lap, her nails biting into her palms. She’d clearly ascertained that Osiris could compel, something the Ichorian had made obvious when he commanded Sierra to sit in the throne without restraints while he skinned her alive.
A violent shudder had rocked Astasiya as a result, her understanding and horror palpable.
Issac had done everything he could to distract her from the stage before them. Fondling a lover during a ceremony such as this was expected and allowed, as many of his kind preferred the darker pleasures in life. Not Issac, but his brethren didn’t need to know that.
He nipped Astasiya’s shoulder, shifting her focus from the gruesome scene back to him. Her dilated pupils showcased her terror while her heartbeat remained normal. He hoped that was because of the diversions he continued to offer her—little kisses, bites, and touches.
“Why was Owen in New York City?” Osiris demanded for the fifteenth or sixteenth time. The bastard could just compel the information from Sierra, but he adored entertaining. And Issac’s brethren thirsted for blood, furious at one of their own for breaking the precious Blood Laws.
Fucking archaic laws.
They were established after the Treaty of 1747 as a defensive measure. The Hydraians had grown too powerful, hence the reason the Ichorians lost. So the new plan was to prevent the Hydraians from amassing more power by cutting them off at the source.
Forbidding the creation of fledglings meant no new Hydraians could exist.
The rules against consorting with Hydraians was just an additional measure to ensure Ichorians and Hydraians didn’t develop any new partnerships. Those of certain birthrights were grandfathered in, their relationships allowed to remain so long as they didn’t break the treaty. Ergo Issac and Aidan were permitted to contact Lucian and the others.
Of course, that didn’t mean Issac could invite the Hydraian Elders to New York City.
And that definitely didn’t grant him the right to a relationship with Astasiya—a known fledgling.
Complicated laws.
Bullshit rules.
With very serious consequences.
“I don’t know!” Sierra screamed, referring to Owen’s purpose in the city.
“Truth,” three women said in unison. They stood just behind Osiris, having been called down for their aptitudes for mind reading. Whenever one of them expressed even the slightest hint of doubt in Sierra’s answer, Osiris repeated the question while removing another layer of skin.
Poor Sierra would have very little skin left to remove soon. Osiris had already divested her of her clothing and scalped her. The areas he focused on now were ones that would drive a sane person mad. And the hysteria in Sierra’s gaze said she was well on that road to insanity.
“A pity he didn’t tell you why he was in New York,” the ancient murmured as he wiped the razor against a towel Carl held beside him.
Sierra had divulged very little information, only noting that Owen had paid her handsomely to keep his presence a secret and to provide him with notice of any upcoming Conclaves. Everything else she mentioned was inconsequential.
Osiris clearly knew she was out of details, the last several rounds meant to be a statement more than anything else. A lesson to those considering disobedience.
Like me.
Alas, Issac chose his path centuries ago, choosing to ally with the Hydraians while remaining in New York as an informant. Because while a treaty may exist between the races, everyone knew it was temporary.
One day, the agreement would fall. And Issac wanted to be able to provide his family and friends ample notice of that day.
So he played this game, attended the Conclaves, and worked his own angles.
A leathery bit of skin fell to the floor—the remainder of Sierra’s thigh.
Astasiya swallowed, her attention having drifted back to the throne. Another question hung in the air, this one about whether or not Sierra knew of anyone else in the city aiding Hydraians. She responded in the negative between shrieks while the hive of mind readers confirmed her truthfulness.
Issac and Aidan were very good at keeping their personal affairs private.
No one suspected a thing about them, and they would keep it that way.
Osiris sighed theatrically and stood, trading his weapon for a clean towel from Carl. Having Sierra’s maker involved in the ceremony only added to the punishment because, technically, the man could speak up on her behalf, attempt to negotiate a lesser sentence. That he said nothing spoke volumes about the kind of immortal he’d become and what little care he had for those he’d turned.
Issac would never allow his progeny to suffer in this manner.
Aidan wouldn’t either.
“Tristan, would you mind?” Osiris asked while cleaning his hands with the bottle of water Carl had brought him.
“Of course, Sire,” Tristan replied, instantly silencing the room.
This was why no one challenged Aidan’s bloodline. Between Issac’s aptitude for manipulating vision and Tristan’s ability to control sound, they were a formidable team. Couple that with Anya’s gift for killing by touch and Aidan’s gift for intelligence and strategy, and they were unstoppable.
Astasiya shifted, her wide eyes lifting to Tristan in wonder and awe, clearly grasping what he’d just done.
Tristan sat lounging in his chair, petting Clara’s arm. He gave Astasiya an indulgent look. “Impressed, pet?” he taunted, mouthing the words at her.
Her responding expression said, Yes.
Issac drew his finger down her spine and pressed his lips to her throat again, claiming his mark. It should have stirred unease inside him, yet all he felt was immense satisfaction. He was enjoying this charade far too much, but fuck if he cared enough to stop. After the evening they’d endured together, he’d earned a little pleasure in their situation.
“I’m assuming no one else has any final questions or last words for the accused?” Osiris’s voice carried an ominous chill.
Sierra’s seconds are numbered.
Issac wrapped his palm around Astasiya’s neck, forcing her to study him, not the stage. She didn’t need to see this next part.
Sierra’s mouth parted on a silent scream, her eyes wild. She couldn’t move, Osiris’s command having paralyzed her from the neck down. He’d only allowed her head to move, requiring her voice, which Tristan now silenced.
A horrible, excruciating way to die.
Issac couldn’t even imagine how much it had to hurt to remain seated from a command while in such pain. Osiris certainly knew how to put on a show.
“Well, hearing none, I think it’s time to deliver punishment,” Osiris said.
Because skinning the woman alive had clearly not been enough for him or the audience. Howls of approval followed, eliciting a grin from the mastermind on the stage.
Meanwhile, Astasiya began to tremble, something Issac attempted to dispel by tightening his grip on her neck. She remained cradled against him, her ass on his groin, her legs over the armrest. There was only so much he could do to hide her reactions, such as the goose bumps pebbling up her bare legs.
He nuzzled her throat again, attempting to mask her reaction as one of arousal, not fear—the two were closely related, after all.
“Sierra, Ichorian daughter of Carl, I find you guilty of breaking one of our most sacred laws,” Osiris announced, his authoritative voice adding to the theatrics. “Consorting with Hydraians is a crime punishable by death. Carl, as is custom, I leave you with the honors. You know what to do.”
Ah, a way to punish them both. Forcing an Ichorian to kill his progeny was a punishment in itself, one Issac could never accept.
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 137