by Lorelei Bell
She raised her hand to the knocker, and stopped.
She spied a small note pinned on the door. The note said Please knock.
She rolled her eyes, then rapped twice, and waited. She was about to knock again when the door opened slowly on creaking hinges, about half way. No one stood on the other side to greet her. The door merely stood open. A wedge of amber from the torch-lit hallway behind her silhouetted her form through the gap across the floor. Zofia took a moment to let her eyes become accustom to the eerie darkness.
“Hello?” she called. “Stephen? Are you in there?” Her voice didn't echo as she thought it might. Heart thudding in the silence, she wanted dearly to leave. If he didn't answer within a minute, she was out of here.
A cat's meow came from within the chamber.
“Stephen?” she called out taking a few more steps inside. The dimmest light issued from behind several death masks—the actual skulls of past Witenagemont members—with eyes and nose and grim mouth glowing preternaturally along a wall. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the darker room, she found it was bisected by a curtain of what appeared to be black velvet. Large gold designs shimmered across the black background in several rows. When she stepped closer to examine the opening and the drapes, she realized the design was also human skulls—the official logo of the Knights. Sometimes this skull emblem had a spider web on the dome of the skull. These did not.
Meow. It came louder than before. The cat was in the room with her, now.
Zofia gazed down to find a large, yellow long-haired cat squatting on a knee-high pedestal.
“Oh-h-h…” she said, recognizing the cat at once. But, it couldn't possibly be the same cat which had prowled the castle when she was just a girl staying here, could it? True, some animals did live longer lives here, depending upon their origin and masters. If this was the same cat, it had lived over twenty-five years.
She stepped up to the large feline, using a light tone she said, “Hello, Kitty. How are you? I haven't seen you in so long.” The cat's eyes were greenish-yellow—almost a gold yellow, very pretty. This had to be the same cat, she was sure of it, now. She didn't know its name, but he seemed to answer to Kitty. It purred deeply as she pet it and then it pressed his head and arched its back to meet her touch. His fur was soft and luxurious as she remembered.
“Where's Stephen? Have you seen him?” she asked the cat as though it would be able to answer her. She'd had long, one-sided conversations with this cat many years back. As though understanding her, the cat jumped to the floor and quickly disappeared behind the black curtain. He poked his head back out and meowed at her as if to say, “This way.”
“Okay,” she said, and moved to follow, carefully tip-toeing, as though she really didn't belong there. More like she didn't want anyone to know she was there.
While the antechamber was dark and creepy without furnishings, this next room was even stranger. Several tall, black tapers lent their light from a huge branched candelabra stationed on a tall marble pedestal. All the walls were draped again in the same somber black velvet. Before her stood a small marble dais. Residing upon the dais was a round object. It looked waxy, dark amber in color, and dome-shaped under a clear glass bell. In the low light, she couldn't tell what it might be even at a few paces.
She stepped cautiously around the dais to view the other side, and immediately was rewarded with the sight of a mummified human head. It was none other than Crowe Alexander Restormell. Stephen's father—or rather, what was left of him.
Stifling a scream, she had to turn away, the thrill of having that thing in the room with her ran through her like a cold specter.
“Zofia.” The voice startled her and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Twirling about in place, she found Stephen standing just a few feet away, all gorgeous six foot five of him. He must have Evanished on the spot. One second he wasn't there, and the next, there he was.
Her heart—which had momentarily stopped—now began to throb, despite herself. They were alone. Tillie's warning slammed into her mind again. And after that kiss he'd bestowed upon her just a few days ago, she was beginning to reconsider that maybe Tillie had been right all along. Well, here she was, at his request. But she could resist him.
Sure. Just like she had when he had kissed her. Just say no. No…no…
“Good of you to come, Zofia. And so punctual, too.”
“Stephen, did you Evanish?”
He chuckled lightly. “I did, Kitten, just a moment ago.” A smile bent the corners of his lips. “Father and I were just catching up on some… things,” he added as he stepped up to the mummified head and drew a black silk cloth over the glass bell. “You must forgive me,” he said, turning his golden eyes on her. They gleamed oddly in the limited light. “I hadn't meant to startle you.” Yeah, right.
“That's okay,” she said, finding her heart still lodged in her throat.
“You, of course, remember my father, don't you?” His eyes slid back her way as he adjusted the silk over the glass.
Okay. Just play along. She knew if she didn't it might seem disrespectful.
“Yes. Of course,” she said, clasping her hands in front of herself, and didn't take one tiny step forward. This was close enough, thank you. After all, it wasn't as though his father was able to see any more. He'd been murdered by an alchemist who was possessed by nine demons. Being possessed wasn't the alchemist's crime. He'd had the unusual penchant for seducing women to his home and poisoning them. For the life of her, Zofia had never understood that part. Why would a man go to all the trouble of seducing a woman to his house, only to murder her? But then, when a person was possessed, nothing they did made any sense.
“Why don't we go into the next room so we can get started.” Stephen said, stepping toward the black curtain and drawing it open for her.
Taking another deep breath, and letting it out slowly, she stepped into the next chamber. This room was slightly larger, the wall was concave and covered in handsome tapestries. Obviously this was the outer wall of the tower. It was a much less gloomy atmosphere from the last two. A low fire burned in a large, elegant marble fireplace. Beside it sat a deep crimson upholstered couch. The velvet cushions looked comfortable, and deep. It had a hand-carved dark wood frame and sat at an angle to the fireplace, facing out into the room. There were no other furnishings, save for a small round table that was host to a large silver tray with four silver goblets on thin stems, and a crystal carafe with what looked to be wine, and there were munchies on the side—grapes, cheeses, small breads—set for them. No skulls or mummified heads lurked anywhere, but this was now the least of her problems. The room looked cozy, and way too private. The wine bothered her. A lot. Nearly as much as that little couch.
“This is much better, don't you agree?” he said. “Not quite as dreary.”
“Yeah,” she threw him a side glance. Waiting for him to make the move that would have her on the couch in record time.
“Have a seat, won't you?” He gestured toward the love seat.
“Stephen, I—“
“Oh, before we begin,” he said, stepping closer. She glanced over at him. He turned, hands grasping her shoulders he rotated her around to face him. He towered over her and she now tipped her head back in order to look up at him. Warm hands slid up to the base of her neck, and then her throat—what was he doing?—she trustingly stood there, feeling invasive fingers run up and down her neck.
“Stephen, what—?”
“Shhh,” he said, head bent slightly toward her, head cocked. “Ah, yes. Just as I thought.” Hand on her neck on the right side, it stopped moving and he brushed the hair away from her neck for closer inspection. His fingers now drew her head slightly to the left. Their faces were now inches apart as he bent his own down further. She held her breath, watching him out of the corner of her eyes. Then she realized with a horrible sinking feeling, he was examining the bites.
Dragon poop! Cringing inwardly, she squeezed her eyes shut, almost ho
lding her breath.
“They look infected,” Stephen said finally. A worried look crossed his face as he straightened. “I'll have Baruche, my alchemist, take a look at them. He'll no doubt have something to put on them.” His hands left her neck as he stepped back, giving her a severe look. “You really should have told someone about this.”
“I-I'm sorry,” she said, dropping her head in shame. “I-I don't know what to tell you.”
His hand came under her chin and raised it so as to look into her face.
“Zofia, I will not begrudge you your very private moments with Dorian,” his voice soft, like hot cocoa with a dollop of whipped cream floating on top. “After all, you had not seen him in so long. Believe me, I do understand the needs of the flesh.”
Master of understatement.
Nodding, she bit her lower lip. His hand still clutched her chin and wouldn't release it.
He made a low chuckle and continued. “I must say, the spell you and your aunt cast was ingenious. I'll be confiscating her Grimoires as soon as I find them, by the way.” Him and Paradeep.
His gaze flitted over her briefly. It was casual, but Zofia felt the heat from it all the same. There was nothing casual or indifferent about the way Stephen looked at her. His sexuality was one of legend. It was said that he may have had at least five thousand lovers in his lifetime—not all at once, of course, but pretty close. Many of them were other men's wives. It was a practice which was not frowned upon here on Euphoria, as it wasn't against Code to take a lover, as long as it wasn't a demon or a vampire. And Stephen didn't have to glamour any woman to have sex with him. They lined up for him. He was a busy man, night and day. She wondered how he had time to conduct his Witenagemont business, or when and if ever he got to sleep.
“Let me come to the reason for our little visit, Zofia,” he said.
“Yes. Please do.”
His cool fingers drew her chin a little further toward him, and his head bent down. Her heart seemed to do a drum roll. Her eyes closed in anticipation, knowing what his kiss would do to her. Would she be able to stand on her own two feet afterward? Or would she collapse in his arms, as she had that day, whirling with the aftershock? She awaited that exquisite feeling of euphoria that would flow around and through her.
There came a deep, satisfied rumbling in his chest. “If only we had time, Zofia,” he said as if reading her mind.
She opened her eyes, saw those strange gold-green eyes unblinking, glittering in the candlelight. The black pupils dilated, making him look nearly feral, and very hungry. Before she could anticipate his touch, he dipped toward her. The tip of his tongue slid across her lips. Sudden tiny shocks reverberating down her spine, and up her legs to meet somewhere in the middle. Breath held, she waited for him to press his lips against hers and send her over the edge, like he had a few days back.
And he let her go. Damn.
She opened her eyes, and tried to focus on his face—it was a bit fuzzy. The room did a few lazy turns and then she heard him call her name.
“Zofia?”
“Hmm?” she said.
“You are about the meet The Four.”
“Four? The four what?” she asked, totally perplexed, still whacked out from his kiss.
“Not the four, but rather The Four,” he replied. “You're last on their list, as a matter of fact, and we need to get you finished before tonight.”
“Tonight? Finished? What's going on tonight?” she asked, now recovered enough to cast him a worried look. Were they about to throw her into Hamparzum's before the Feast? Her heart now thundered for a totally different reason.
“The Induction, of course,” he said, smiling widely enough to show teeth that were perfect and white.
“The Induction? What's all this got to do with me?”
“Everything, Zofia,” he said. “You are one of the inductees.”
“What? Me?” She pressed her hand to her chest. “How? I-I mean, I'm a sorceress—”
“Yes. There hasn't been a sorceress who became a Knight since Iola Tremayne,” he said.
“Are you sure? I mean—it's a dangerous job, being a Knight,” she said, wringing her hands now. At the moment, she wished he had brought her up here to make violent love to her instead. That she could handle. This was all together a scarier proposition.
“There has to be some mistake!” she insisted, feeling a rush of dread go through her.
“No. No mistake,” he said. “The Four are very eager to meet and speak with you.”
“Who are these people, The Four?” she asked.
“You are about to meet four members of the Seraphim,” he explained patiently. “The Four may be able to overlook your one Taboo, but you will most likely have to explain in greater detail about the other.”
“The other—“
“Taboo.”
She chewed on the corner of her mouth. Of course he knew about that one too. “You mean about having –uh—sex with the Head Soul Snatcher?” (Now why couldn't she have told this to Dorian, just like that?)
“Yes.” His eyes glanced off to a distant corner, in fact he seemed to be looking beyond the walls of the castle. “They're coming now,” he announced abruptly, and moved to usher her to one end of the room. Leaning toward her he said in a low voice, “Now, whatever happens, let me do the talking, unless you're spoken to directly, that is.”
Zofia gaped up at him. Her brain went into overdrive. Four of the Seraphim were coming here to question her. She reviewed quickly what she knew about them. Seraphim were the first to revolt in the heavenly realm and retained physical bodies, but were imbued with very special powers. They were wholly responsible for what and who Zofia and her kind were. Basically, the Immortals were direct descendants of the Seraphim. The Immortals thus had very similar powers, but were at least half human. Zofia wracked her brain for the meaning of all this. She'd never heard of any group of Seraphim called The Four. And this was really making her nervous. At least she knew they would look human. She hoped.
Sulfur suddenly imbued the air around them, making Zofia's skin crawl. There came a certain agitation of the atmosphere around her, like a slight tremor. Yes, the floor beneath her swayed slightly making her grasp onto Stephen for support. Her heart thumped in her chest. Which of the Seraphim was coming, and why did it smell and feel like a demon hole had just popped open? She didn't want to panic, but she couldn't help it. There was a fine gray line between demons and Seraphim, after all.
Stephen stiffened beside her. Even he was set on edge by what was about to happen.
There came a pop, followed by a crispy sound, like leaves burning. A perpendicular fire ring appeared in the middle of the room suspended as if by an invisible rope. The fire hoop opened wider and wider. The heat that issued from it was like standing next to a bonfire. Zofia had to step back and turn her face away, the heat's intensity was like a bonfire. The floor trembled again, as before, but more so. She definitely felt some warping of the here and now, as though they stood upon a powerful ley line. The sound was deafening, like the roar of a freight train and then a voice warped over the sound as it faded to a low roar and then was gone.
Through the flames stepped a very large man. His skin was the color of coffee. He wore bright crimson pantaloons with a gold sash around his large girth and a gold and red vest that covered very little of his heavy chest and protruding belly. A hooked nose with broad nostrils dominated a round face, his wide mouth with thick lips stretched across it to suggest a smile. Almond shaped eyes as dark as ripe plums took them both in. But, as interesting a fellow as he was, his hat was the most interesting part about him. Red and gold, it was shaped like a sultan's hat, but little red flames danced around the rim. Obviously this was some sort of optical illusion, because the hat was not being consumed by the flames. Feet clad in scarlet slippers, the very long tips curled backward. He wore an assortment of gold jewelry everywhere; on his fingers, arms, ears as well as a nose ring. The strangely dressed Seraph stood taller than
even Stephen. It was quite possible he stood over seven feet tall.
“Lucifer and Asmodeus!” the Seraph's deep, booming voice cried, “Let us get this meeting underway. I have tons of things to do!” He had a slight accent, even though he seemed to be speaking very clear English, but he rolled his r's as he spoke. She guessed his preferred language was possibly Latin, or something even older.
With both hands on his chest, and arms crossed, Stephen bowed deeply. “Beelzebub,” he said. “Welcome to my meager realm.”
The large, dark-skinned Seraph squeezed his eyes at Zofia, looking more than slightly insulted that she merely stood there staring at him. But she couldn't help it. She'd never seen a more interesting man before. It wasn't until Stephen grabbed her arm and pulled her down into a bow that she realized she was supposed to bow (duh), and she remained in that position—doing her best to imitate what Stephen was doing with his arms and hands—until she was given permission to straighten.
Beelzebub made a clearing sound deep in his throat. “Stephen, you keep a cold castle!” he exclaimed loudly. His voice boomed, nearly hurting Zofia's ears.
Zofia heard a sudden sound, like fire on a torch being dragged through the air. She stole a glance and saw Beelzebub shoot flames from his fingers and cast them into the fireplace. Flames jumped enormously in the hearth, licking the frontispiece of the mantle before dying down just a little.
“Ahhh! Much better!” Beelzebub exclaimed. “You both may rise.”
Stephen poked Zofia, and she rose back to her full height, as had Stephen. She saw the gargantuan standing before the fireplace, holding out his hands as though he'd just stepped out of a cold environment and tried to get warm. She didn't know Seraphim could become cold or hot, or uncomfortable. But probably it was because they had human bodies, they would feel cold, heat, pain and pleasure—pleasure being one of the things that had led them to revolt in the first place.
Zofia tugged on Stephen's robe. He glanced down at her. “Beelzebub?” she mouthed to him.
“Yes. Don't get too close,” he advised in a low whisper. He made a head jerk toward the Seraph. If memory served, as far as she knew Beelzebub was prince of the Seraphim, next only to Lucifer, who was otherwise known as Bringer of Light.