by Carmen Caine
I winced, my head hurt.
“I’ve something to show you, doll,” Ricky piped up with his wide, tacky grin. “But you’ll have to move. Spit spot, time to rise! You can douse your sorrows in whatever spice you choose once we’re out of here, but it’s time to go.”
“Vice,” I corrected, still woozy.
The smoky imp grabbed my hand and tried to yank me up, but it was a futile exercise. I mean, why did he even try? He was made of smoke. I could disperse him with the flick of my finger.
I did. A couple of times—just to prove my own mental point.
“Stop faffing around, now, will you, love?” Ricky complained once his teeth had returned to his mouth. “Here now, let’s have a butchers hook—come see what I’ve got for you, eh? That’ll get you mobile.”
Butchers hook? I grimaced as he skipped to the corner of the room and disappeared behind a large picture frame propped up against a pile of cushions. There were a few scuffling noises. Someone threw a cup. It landed on the floor with a clang.
I recognized it as the old silver chalice I’d discovered before.
It rolled my way.
But it wasn’t the cup that caught my attention. I frowned. How could a smoke-creature like Ricky pick up an old silver cup when he’d failed to even lift my hand? Something didn’t add up.
Curious in spite of my newly fallen misery, I rose to my feet. And picking the chalice off the floor, absently rubbed it with my sleeve. I paused when something tickled my nostrils, and I peered at it again. It was the same cup as before, but this time, it was mana-infused.
I stared and almost dropped it.
For a fleeting moment, a woman’s face had appeared on its dark surface. I shook my head and looked again, but it was gone.
Along with any hint of mana.
Odd.
Had I hallucinated? I’d just gone through something traumatic. A bit uneasy, I set the cup on the floor and headed towards the sounds of Ricky swearing.
“How did you toss that cup?” I asked, but cut myself short as the large picture frame teetered my way with Ricky balanced on top of it like a monkey.
“Stop it!” I snapped before a bright glint arrested my attention.
Metal. My knives. All three of them.
“Found ‘em,” Ricky said, hopping down from the portrait to casually lean against a cushion and fold his spindly arms.
“How?” I asked, astonished.
The knives hadn’t been there before. Surely, he couldn’t have carried them there. He was made of smoke.
Ricky just grinned, clearly pleased with himself. If he’d been a dog, I’m sure he would have wagged his tail.
“Thanks,” I said, bending to inspect the blades.
I hadn’t been that particularly nice to Ricky. Perhaps I should make an effort to be a little nicer.
He chose that moment to giggle again.
It grated on the nerves and any thoughts of being nicer were instantly washed away. He wasn’t that easy to like. But then, wasn’t that the definition of an “imp”? They were basically like little demons, not cuddly puppies.
I’d just slid the last knife back into my boot when a new tiny voice whispered in the room. “Even the most powerful can be undone by their arrogance,” it said.
I froze.
“What’s up, doll?” Ricky asked, noting my distraction.
“That voice,” I said, searching in all directions.
He was confused. “Vooooice?” he repeated, drawing the word out.
“You didn’t hear—” I began, but shut my mouth when the voice spoke again.
“What’s inflexible breaks in the end,” it said.
“There!” I announced triumphantly to Ricky.
But he couldn’t hear it. I only half believed him. With Ricky, there was always a chance that he was lying for some reason or another.
I scowled.
But the voice wasn’t done. Again, it spoke. “There are times that we must fight for what we want, even if we turn to savagery ourselves.”
This time, I got a better sense of direction. It sounded like it had come from under the picture frame. Drawing a knife, I used the blade to cautiously lift the edge.
It certainly didn’t look like anything was there.
Ricky even crawled underneath and announced an, “All clear.”
With a quick jerking motion, I flipped it upright. It was just an old painting of some somber brown-haired woman standing in a red dress holding a book of some kind. A castle sprawled on the hill behind her.
I peered closer.
There was mana in the canvas weave. It was old, aged like fine wine. And as I stared at the face, I suddenly recognized it as the one I’d just seen in the silver chalice, a minute before.
“Greetings, child,” the woman in the portrait whispered.
I drew back, alarmed. A possessed painting? I turned to Ricky, “She’s talking. You heard that, right?”
He gave me an uncomfortable smile and looked as though I were a patient in a mental hospital. “Eh … you’ve had a trying day, love,” he offered with a forged sympathy.
“Only you can hear me, child,” the woman in the portrait interrupted. “I’m trapped in the Nether Reaches. Only those who have wandered there can hear my voice.”
I turned back to her, uneasy. The Nether Reaches. So, it was a real place.
“This is your chance to escape from this room,” she continued in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s almost dawn. The vampire’s warlock is on his way up to lock you in for the day. If you slip out now and to the attic, you can escape his spell. Go! Go now! Do not hesitate. Give wings to your feet, child!”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never had a conversation with a portrait before. But it really wasn’t a time for questioning.
I decided to just take her advice.
“Let’s go now, Ricky,” I said, heading for the door.
Surprisingly, the door was indeed unlocked, and I charged out into the hall. The place looked empty. I could see the first morning rays of sunlight flooding through cracked windows, illuminating the interior of the dilapidated old building with vivid shafts of blazing light. I was almost tempted to just dash down the stairs and make a run for it, but just like the painting had forewarned, I heard the Terzi warlock’s voice below.
“Assuredly, she’s weakened into harmlessness, but I warrant it’d be wise to spell her door again just to be certain,” a man’s voice filtered up the stairs. “Can’t be taking any unnecessary gamble that might let the master down, now can we?”
“Crud,” I swore under my breath.
I dove for the steep attic steps, climbing as fast as I could while on tiptoe. With Ricky close on my heels, I slipped through the attic door just as booted feet arrived below.
It had been close. Too close.
I took a deep breath and glanced around.
I stood in a narrow cobweb-ridden attic with two gabled windows. It was mostly empty, except that one wall was lined with stacks of paintings. There must have been over a hundred old paintings. I could smell the mana hanging in the air, an odd collection of fragrances and ages.
Lucian had been working for a portrait. Was it one of these? Were they all possessed?
As Ricky swung from the rafters like a monkey, I headed for the paintings.
The woman’s voice came again. Muffled this time. It took me a minute to find her in a medium-sized portrait that had been tossed up in the rafters. Reaching up, I pulled it down and dusted its aged surface.
The same woman but younger this time. She sat on a stool in a dark room, light from an open window illuminated her opulent fur-trimmed gown and the small leather book in her hands.
“I must say, it’s so refreshing to finally be able to speak with someone,” she told me with a lovely laugh and pointed to her book with a sad smile. “I’m so weary of reading these quotes all day long. There’s little else to do though.”
“Yeah,” I murmured under my breath. Had I
suffered brain damage? I mean, I’d had a stake driven right through my heart. Suffering some side-effects should be expected.
“But I haven’t given up hope,” the painted lady continued pleasantly. “In recent weeks, I’ve even been able to reach my treasured comb made of ox horn. The curse is weakening, at long last! The Terzi simply underestimated the strength of my beloved Lucian!”
“Lucian?” I seized the name. “You know Lucian—Lord Rowle?”
“Do I know of my dear Lucian?” She actually laughed at that. “He is my favorite descendant, you sweet child! Although, I’m ashamed to concede I’ve lost count of the generations betwixt us … nevertheless, he is a son of my grandson all the same.”
“Then … you’re the Lady Rowle from Heath’s story—the one who was cursed?” I gasped.
The mirth on her face died and she bowed her head.
Ricky chose that moment to swing down from the rafters above. Hanging upside down, he waved his hands in front of my face. “Heelllloooooo! Off your trolley? Anyone in there? Cassidy—is there a Cassidy Edwards in residence?”
“Hush!,” I scolded him, brushing him away a little too well. “I’m trying to carry on a conversation here.”
“Oh, I can see that,” he agreed amicably enough from where he’d splatted against the wall. Sliding down, he continued to speak. “But the question is why? They’re just old portraits, love. Not even worth filching. They’re worthless. It’s time we got you back to the villa for a bit of help, eh? Talking to a bowl of fruit? No matter how you look at that pear, it’s not a lady.”
Tossing him a look of supreme irritation, I turned back to Lady Rowle.
“Yes, I’m Lady Rowle, Lady Elizabeth Rowle,” she said the name with great sadness. “A Terzi warlock captured my soul in a painting—a curse of the strongest kind. He was a master painter, and it was the end for my family. When my dear husband discovered what had happened … when it couldn’t be broken … he lost the will to live. We were undone.”
“I’ll take you with me,” I said, reaching for the canvas.
“No, your imp is right,” she said, sighing heavily. “It isn’t that simple, child. These paintings are useless. It’s the one in the Terzi stronghold that must be set free.” And then a look of horror crossed her face. “The Terzi warlock! Hide!”
I whirled around, just as Ricky gasped, “Someone’s coming! Hide!”
But there was no place for me to hide. I lunged for my knives, but it was too late.
The attic door crashed back, revealing a short, chubby bald man. I couldn’t smell him, but I didn’t take any chances—after all, I couldn’t smell Lucian, either. Maybe it was a warlock thing.
My blades flew in quick succession and with unerring aim, straight at him … and then through him, burying themselves in three loud thumps on the wall behind.
I blinked.
A moment later, I caught a distinctive whiff and the real short, chubby bald warlock arrived, carrying a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.
I’d been duped.
“Projection,” he explained with the most irritatingly insincere smile that I’d ever seen. “Can’t tell you how many times that’s saved my life.”
“Clever,” I snapped.
I didn’t like feeling powerless. I wondered if I could summon a bit of whatever had taken me over before, but I didn’t know even how to begin. And I was pretty sure it was an all-or-nothing thing, anyway.
The warlock didn’t approach me. He just stood there, scribbling in his notebook.
“Get out of my way,” I opened my mouth to say. But to my surprise, I didn’t utter the words aloud. My lips hadn’t even opened.
It took a moment for me to realize that I couldn’t move, not even an inch.
“Ah,” the warlock chuckled. It made his double chin jiggle a bit. “It’s too late for that, you know. You’ve left a lot of personal items all over this place. Unwise.”
Holding out his hand, I saw several strands of auburn-colored hair—my own. He flipped his notebook then, revealing a sketch. A portrait. Of me.
“It’s just a quick spell,” he explained, tucking the hair into the notebook and then the entire bundle under his arm. Lacing his fingers together, he cracked his knuckles and said, “It’s enough to keep you bound until evening. I daresay Dorian doesn’t want you out and running about quite yet.”
I’d been spelled.
Helplessly, I watched the warlock waddle over to the window and squint outside.
“Will that werewolf ever learn?” he mumbled as if to himself. “He’s never going to find us, the fool.”
As if on cue, I heard a howl.
Heath’s howl.
Were they coming for me?
Hope sprang in my heart—hope that was dashed the next moment when the warlock reopened his notebook to draw again.
It was a far more developed picture than what he’d sketched of me. A detailed, well-shaded rendering of a massive werewolf. Heath. I wanted to shout, to warn Heath that he was being spelled. No wonder he’d seemed kind of useless. I guess it hadn’t been his fault.
“What do you say, my dear?” The warlock turned on me suddenly. “Shall I break his leg? His neck? Blind him?”
I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t move.
But then, I heard a voice I hadn’t realized just how much I’d really missed. A deep voice. A mocking, sarcastic one.
“I’d say you should draw attention to his mouth,” Lucian’s distinctive tones carried through the air. “And give particular focus to the fangs.”
The Terzi warlock paled.
And then, to my utter relief and delight, Lord Lucian Rowle stepped into the attic.
It Matters
Suave and aristocratic, that’s what Lucian was, and handsome as sin. Thick black lashes framed his astonishingly clear blue eyes. He was fit. Extremely fit. Dressed in a gray shirt and with his dark hair loose around his shoulders, he stalked into the room, casually placing one foot in front of the other in a leisurely gait.
Lucian and Dorian were as different as night and day, after all.
Dorian, a man of raw power—the epitome of strength and passion.
Lucian, a man of confidence and polish, displaying an altogether different kind of strength, but one just as powerful. He was the kind who was always ten steps ahead of everyone else.
As far as passion went … well, I’d bet he wasn’t any less accomplished than Dorian. And at this very moment, the way he just stood there unruffled, poised, facing down the Terzi warlock with the corner of his lip curled into a smile, I thought he just might hold an edge over the Scottish vampire.
With an amused purr of a laugh, Lucian impaled the bald-headed man with a glance as he continued his casual approach. Spreading his arms with an easy grace, he asked with a thread of mockery in his tone, “And what do we have here? An art student hiding in the attic?”
The bald-headed Terzi quailed before Lucian’s advance, clearly knowing he was at a disadvantage. He did briefly fumble with his notebook, but his hands shook so hard that he dropped his pen.
“It’s not what it seems—you’d do well to—to—really, I should be going—mercy, I beg you. Mercy! Show Mercy!” The man tripped over his own tongue.
Lifting a slow finger to his lips, Lucian shushed him to silence and came to a stop in the center of the attic.
“You’ll not be harmed,” he said in a commanding tone before softening it with menace to add, “Yet, anyway.”
The bald warlock turned white.
“I’ve a message for your master’s ears,” Lucian continued in deadly tones. “Tell him that I protect what was, what is, and what will be mine. Now, be gone before I’m tempted to show you the meaning of real power!”
The chubby warlock bolted for the door, but Lucian blocked him with a single arm. Still staring straight ahead, he informed the man calmly, “I’ll take that.”
The Terzi warlock knew what he meant. He didn’t even try to object. Gro
ping for the sketchbook tucked under his arm, he threw it at Lucian and fled.
Lucian caught the book with ease and with a yawn, flipped it open.
Clearly, he had a reputation. I couldn’t help but admire him. More than a bit.
Still frozen, I waited as he casually thumbed through the notebook.
Minutes passed.
It was torture. I wanted to shout for him to hurry, but he just took his time, standing there to inspect each sketch in a thoughtful manner, at times tapping his finger on the page.
It was aggravating. Did he fancy himself some kind of art critic?
“Ah yes,” he finally murmured under his breath.
Rip. Pieces of paper fell to the floor.
Apparently, he’d just found the sketch of me. I gasped as I was freed and pitched forward, momentarily losing my balance. My arms tingled, as if they’d fallen asleep.
Another rip. More paper fell to the floor.
A fragment drifted down to land at my feet. The rendition of a wolf’s head. Heath. Whatever curse the Terzi had been weaving over the werewolf was apparently now broken. Perhaps it had been the cause of his dull sense of smell.
Rubbing my arms, I swallowed. “You came.”
Lucian didn’t look at me. He merely kept flicking through the sketchbook. After a moment, he arched a cool brow. “And you find that surprising?”
I did, actually. Especially after the letter he’d written to Dorian.
“The letter,” I began.
He looked at me then, silencing me with a cool, appraising look. “Words are tools to be used, sometimes as diversionary devices.”
I blinked. I wanted to ask how anyone could ever trust his words then, but I felt drained. Instead, I just admitted, “I thought you broke our contract.”
“All the better and more convincing then,” he said in an infuriatingly terse tone.
I studied him, wondering just where the real Lucian resided. How many layers had he built around him? If someone were to peel through them all, what would they find underneath? Anything?
Ricky chose that moment to creep out from under the paintings.
“You took your sweet time, imp.” Lucian shot him a withering glance.
My imp flattened his ears, but replied, “Nothing of value, guvna.” He pointed a spindly finger at the pile of paintings he’d just exited. “Not what you’re looking for.”