“Did you show yourself to her?” Vale asked. He was the only one who did not stand up from his seat; he remained on the couch, hands on his lap, the calmest of the three thralls. He did seem to be the most level-headed.
“I did, and I did what you suggested. I told her the blood pact was voided and she was free of me.”
Bastian asked, “Is it?”
“No. As most blood spells are, it is permanent, voided only by death, and even then, she’ll…” Zys almost said she’ll belong to me, but the others had begged him to stop saying it. It wasn’t proper. People did not say such things, unless they were already in love—which, they told him again and again, Lena did not love him.
Zys was optimistic, though, he could convince her to choose him. Then, if he understood it all correctly, he’d be able to say things such as that all the time without recourse.
Of course, he was not just optimistic. He was also realistic. What if Lena continued to hate him? What if she never warmed up to him, never allowed him into her life? She was to be his—his life, his wife, his goddess. What woman would turn something like that down? One that was, he’d been told, hard to get.
Zys was all for equality, for death was equal in its embrace. Still, it would’ve been easier if he could’ve said, you are mine forever and always, and she couldn’t have refused him. So much easier.
“Why didn’t you bring her back?” Tamlen crossed his arms, a stance he often took when he was trying to control his anger. “She shouldn’t be in that castle, especially now when she thinks she is alone.”
Zys stared at the tall, scarred thrall, moving his gaze to each of the others. They watched him in full attention, waiting for him to say something. These men had no idea of what was to come. The future that they’d carve from this world together. He recalled the future he’d seen as he’d stared into the blue, wide eyes of an eight-year-old Celena.
She stood, wearing a long, flowing gown. Her hair was perfectly wavy, its lengths a bright and vibrant blue, the color of her eyes. Lena stared at her reflection, not much older than she was now, unhappy about something.
Zys walked into the elegant room, stopping to stare at her, in awe of her beauty. The moment her eyes met his in the mirror, she spun around, giving him a smile. It was a smile that said it all. He strolled over to her, hands grabbing her face before kissing her. He wouldn’t let her run away. She’d grown past that point, anyway.
Possibly due to the baby he’d put in her belly.
When their kiss ended, and Zys stared into her vibrant gaze, he saw the translucent crown circling her forehead, a few shades tanner than her skin. It was always there, though it grew darker when he was near her, darkest when they touched. It meant she was his, utterly and completely. It was the crown of a goddess, the one that matched his. A tattoo of their importance, a marking of their dominance.
“The others?” she asked quietly, eyes searching his.
“They await you outside.”
With a wide smile, she pulled away from him, a hand on her round belly as she sashayed away, hips shaking much more than they normally did. She did this on purpose, to drive him mad. She drove them all mad. Lena paused at the door, glancing back at him. The huge grin never left her face. “Well,” she said, “are you coming or not?”
Zys felt something inside him then—his heart? Whatever it was, it felt full, complete. He knew a few things. The first was that being a god was nothing compared to being with Lena. She made him whole, a strange thing to admit, because he never knew he was anything but.
And the second thing he knew was that together, there was nothing they could not do.
Bringing himself back to the present, Zys moved his stare to Tamlen. The thrall was an intimidating specimen of a human male, so he understood why Lena liked him so. Bastian was her old comfort. Vale was the logical, free one. Zys would never take them from her, for he knew how much each of the men meant to her.
He might’ve been a god of death, but he did not view himself as unnecessarily cruel. Lena denied him because she thought he was, and after speaking to the others for hours on end—doing his best to get on their good side, as they were—he’d learned what he had to do.
Zys had to win Lena over. He had to convince her a life with him would not be so terrible. She could still have all the freedom she desired even if she was with him. He would not let her go; he’d be as persistent as he must.
It had taken hours, but eventually the others did not wish to, as one of them put it, beat his face in. Though that particular one, no names of course, still looked as though he wanted to attack him. Zys supposed that’s how the man got all of his scars—rushing into fights without truly thinking it over, first. But still, it boded well for his future with Lena.
If he could make the thralls see reason, he could make Lena see it as well.
Zys knew it’d be easier said than done, so to speak, but he had all the time in the world, as did the others.
It was a moment before Zys spoke, “She will not be alone in the castle for long.” He studied Vale, Bastian, and Tamlen. He needed some more time to think, time to mull over what they would each be reasonably good at. Infiltrating the castle would be easy. The hard part would be learning to live and work there.
As he stared at them, Zys found himself sighing—a very human, mortal gesture. He sighed because he knew it’d be a lot of work. But of course, for Lena any amount of work was far worth it. She deserved it all and more.
Cailan was sipping a glass of wine when a knock reverberated on his bedroom door. It was late, nearly midnight, and yet he could not sleep. He was still dressed in the day’s finery, not a single button loose or hair out of place. He got up from the lounge chair that sat near the windows, moving to answer it. Somehow, he guessed who it was.
Seneschal Henrik.
“Ah, Henrik,” Cailan spoke, a smile spreading on his face. His stomach felt a little warm with the drink, but other than that, he was perfectly able to have a conversation with the man regarding anything. “Have you ever thought about shaving that head?”
Okay, so perhaps he wasn’t all there, but he did have a reason for saying it. He hated when hair was half grey and half something else. One or the other, right? If only he could yell at the hair follicles: pick one.
“I presume you know why I’m here,” Henrik said, unamused, as he usually was. The man never found anything funny. He hardly ever cracked a smile. It was, in a word, annoying. Cailan hated how he always acted superior to everyone.
He hated Henrik almost as much as he hated his father.
“Yes, yes.” Cailan waved a hand through the air, momentarily getting sidetracked as he spotted some dirt beneath his fingernails. “I suppose the servants I sent you weren’t enough to keep you totally busy. Perhaps I should’ve sent you some of the other persuasion.” He laughed, but clearly Henrik did not find it a laughing matter.
The man frowned. “I was notified by numerous guards you invited enchanters into the great hall, along with College guards.” As he spoke, he gained a sense of haughtiness. It was something that followed the man around, like a stink. Or a shadow. It was more than clear Henrik thought Cailan to have made a terrible mistake by doing so.
Only, Cailan didn’t see it that way. Quite the opposite.
“Your father,” Henrik added when he said nothing, “wishes to speak with you.”
“My father,” he spat out the word, “can wait until the morning.”
“No, you will see him now, my Prince, lest you wish to face his wrath.”
Cailan’s back straightened at the mention of his father’s wrath. It was something he’d gotten to know well over the years, especially after his mother died. He’d never even tried to remarry, only put his focus on ruling the kingdom with an iron fist, and taking that same fist to Cailan as often as he could, for whatever silly reason he wanted.
When one was the ruler of an entire nation, one could do whatever he wished.
“Fine,” Cailan mu
ttered. “Take me to him, and let us be done with it.”
Henrik said nothing further as he led Cailan through the castle. He would’ve known where to go without him obviously, but the Seneschal must’ve wanted to make certain he reached his destination with no sidetracking. That, and maybe he wanted to witness Philip’s wrath for himself. Cailan knew the servants spoke of it, knew they gossiped and whispered about the bruises that suddenly would appear on Cailan’s body. No one ever offered to help him though, or asked if he was all right.
He was the prince. He’d get over it. And if he didn’t, well…he had to move on anyways. Royalty couldn’t linger on the past. One of his father’s many lessons.
His father’s door was cracked open, a door that stood double his height. Why the castle needed such tall entryways, Cailan hadn’t a clue, and he wondered about this as Henrik gave him a smirk and gestured for him to go in. As if he needed an invitation.
He was the damned prince. He could do and go wherever he damned well pleased.
The king’s bedchambers were two times the size of his, with his own personal washroom and balcony overlooking the gardens. The sheets on the bed were crinkled and messed up, keying Cailan into the fact the King had most certainly taken advantage of the pretty servant girls he’d sent him to keep the man busy.
King Philip was dressed, though slightly disheveled, sitting at his desk, staring at a letter he’d just opened. The moment Cailan entered, he muttered, “Close the door.” He didn’t even look up to make sure it wasn’t a stranger, or an assassin, or anyone he didn’t want in his room at such a late hour.
Cailan was slow to do as he asked, only taking a few steps farther into the room. “I imagine this is not about wanting me to find a suitable wife.” Though he tried to joke, it fell flat. Truly, he shouldn’t have even bothered. He would admit, however, he didn’t care it fell flat. His father hated his tenacity for joking either way.
“Don’t be stupid,” Philip spoke, standing from his chair. He turned to walk near the balcony, gazing out of the window beside the open door. A gentle breeze swept through the room, rattling the parchment on his desk only a bit. He had the scrolls weighed down with his letter opener. He held his hands behind his back. “Why would you go against my direct orders, Cailan?”
He knew his father was near his boiling point, which was why he did not move an inch as he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Philip whirled, storming to his side, grabbing his collar with both hands. A gesture he’d done dozens of times before. His skin was pink in anger, spit flying from his teeth as he yelled, “You make me look like a fool, going behind my back and organizing this…this foolish test!” He spun, pushing Cailan farther into the room, shoving him into the chair that sat before his desk. It was the chair Henrik often sat in while they discussed the goings on.
Cailan was sure Henrik was not so rudely forced into it.
Standing up, Cailan said, “She returned to us demon-free, father. If she could handle an hour across the Veil, surely she is credible enough to have kept from the temptation of blood magic—” He was met with a sharp, swift blow to the side. He winced, feeling his organs practically burst from the pain.
“It doesn’t matter if she’s credible. The people want blood in retribution for the fright of the lockdown.” Philip held himself back from hitting Cailan any more, returning to his spot near the window. He stared out of it, as if Cailan wasn’t important enough to look at. “She will be executed tomorrow, regardless of the results of her test.”
The words hit Cailan like a brick wall. Hard and impossibly fast, and all he could do was stare at the back of his father’s head.
“I only hope the people are satisfied, for I truly do not want to execute every mage in the College. The enchanters are so very close to figuring out a way to counteract Sumer’s eradicators—”
As his father went on, Cailan felt himself growing irate. His dark eyes flicked to the desk, to a certain item that could, perhaps, remedy this entire situation. But…he couldn’t.
He’ll never respect you. He hates you. He blames you for your mother’s death. They were Cailan’s thoughts, but they sounded as if they came from someone else. From something else. Still, he knew they were true. He hurts you. He’ll hurt her too, but he can’t kill her, because you want her.
It was like a tiny voice in his head tried to convince him to act, convince him to end it all. And, as strange as it was, Cailan believed the voice, because he knew he wasn’t alone in his body.
His stare moved to the window. Not the one his father looked out of, but the one directly behind the desk Cailan stood near. Though he wasn’t beside it, he could still see a faint reflection. And, just like always, it was there—the giant, hazy shadow. The thing that constantly urged him to do things he normally would’ve ignored.
Hunger.
Cailan supposed he could blame Hunger for his next actions, but he knew he shouldn’t, because even before the spirit had gone inside him, he’d thought about ending it before. Hunger merely gave him the courage to do it.
His hand went to the desk, grabbing the object that had called to him. While his father spoke about his disgraceful actions, how he had to learn, that he would make him learn, Cailan moved behind him, fingers running down the letter opener. It was a strong enough metal, pointed enough.
It would do its job.
Cailan said nothing as he swiftly brought the tip of the letter opener to his father’s neck. The metal pierced the skin easily, immediately spewing a dark red substance. Huh. He must’ve hit a vein. After yanking it out just as quickly as he’d used it, Cailan watched Philip stagger toward the window, reaching for his neck to stop the bleeding.
“What…” Philip muttered, wheezing, his other hand sliding on the glass as his knees gave out. “…have you done?”
The blood was everywhere. On the floor, on the window, all over Philip’s clothes and skin, coating his beard and the hand that gripped his throat. Cailan knelt before his father, staining his knees with the blood that pooled around him. He knew the King grew weaker and weaker by the second. The blood was like a raging river coursing out of his neck wound.
Cailan’s voice was strangely steady for a man who’d just stabbed his father in the throat, “What I should’ve done years ago.” He grabbed the hand that gripped the injury, forcing it away, letting the blood flow freely. Philip didn’t stop him, too weak to do so. “One of your many lessons, father. Never trust royalty.”
He watched his father, eyeing the blood oozing from the hole in his neck, waiting with bated breath for him to expire. Cailan felt a strange, strong sense of power as he watched the very life drain out of Philip’s eyes. The way his pupils dilated and grew glassy—it sent a thrill down Cailan’s spine. It was almost addicting.
“Long live the King,” Cailan muttered, slowly standing. He still clutched the bloodied letter opener, for once standing higher above his father than he did to him.
It was at that inopportune time Henrik barged in the room, saying, “Is everything…” He could not finish his sentence, his ankles nearly tripping over themselves as he halted, still gripping the side of the door. Henrik’s stare moved from the corpse to Cailan. “What…what happened? What did you do?”
Cailan studied the Seneschal, noting how the man gulped at the sight, how his skin paled and sweat seemed to instantly form on his greying brow. His hand, still holding the bloodied tool, tightened its grip as he said, “He had an accident. He fell on this letter opener. A shame, really, because he was such a good man.”
Henrik decided to take an attitude, something best done when facing a man without a weapon. “You won’t get away with this.”
“I am the prince,” Cailan paused. “Actually, I’m the king. Or I will be, once we have a coronation. I suggest you serve me like you served my father, or I will have you gutted and put on display for all to see. Perhaps tie a noose around your neck and hang you off the tallest peak of this castle.”
He spoke the threats like he was used to saying them.
Still, he sounded very malicious and convincing. His father would’ve been proud.
Such a shame he was dead.
Cailan glanced at his father’s body. Blood still oozed from the hole in his throat, though it slowed, due to a lack of a beating heart. “I think we need to cancel tomorrow’s execution and start planning a funeral instead, don’t you?”
The Seneschal paled, but he said nothing to refute him. He only nodded. “It will be done, Your Highness.”
Your Highness. Cailan rather liked that.
He liked it a lot.
Lena, for the first time since her imprisonment, found herself struggling against the chains that bound her to the wall. She had to get out, make sure Vale, Bastian, and Tamlen were okay. If they weren’t…she’d regret her decision with Zyssept. She couldn’t go on without them. They’d become a part of her she never knew she needed until the day she accidentally rose them from the dead.
Okay, Bastian might’ve been on purpose, but still.
She struggled so much and so hard her wrists grew red and sore, the skin threatening to break. Lena slowed, breathing heavily, realizing if she hadn’t denied Zyssept, she possibly could’ve gotten out of these blasted manacles with her blackened blood.
But it was no better than using blood for spells, and she refused to stoop to that level. She’d find another way out; she had to.
Just as she paused to think it over, to come up with another plan, she heard footsteps down the hall. Strange, she thought, for no one visited her at night. She’d just passed the pathetic excuse for a credibility exam, and she was sure she hadn’t been tugging at her wrists that long. Whoever it was, she had a feeling she wouldn’t like it.
And, as the Prince’s smiling face came into view, Lena knew she was right. His smile, the way his dark eyes moved along her, she hated it. Though he was handsome, there was something about him that was…off.
Blood and Sorcery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 2) Page 18