by Lorelei Bell
“Too bad.”
Myron did a very inhuman-like move and hauled himself up on his feet startlingly fast. Seeing this, she went into a wide stance, ready to zap him again if he made another move toward her. Shaking the gossamer from his shining eyes, he held out a hand of placation.
“Don't worry, my sweet, you've convinced me I'm quite out-powered, as well as out numbered here.” Speculative amusement played about his eyes. He straightened his jacket and brushed his sleeves off, as though dust coated him.
Zofia merely smiled with satisfaction.
“I don't think I've been whacked quite so thoroughly by a sorceress,” he said, brushing down his pant legs.
“You gave me no choice,” she said, relaxing back into the cocked-hip and crossed-arm stance.
“Understood,” he said. “I simply got a little crazy. The smell of blood just does things to me.”
“So I've seen.” Now she was in a slight panic that he knew she was a sorceress. The whole idea for her being here as an Ugwump was to be able to infiltrate the count's castle and learn things about him for the Witenagemont. Would she be able to convince him not to tell?
“I need for you to keep it to yourself that I'm a sorceress,” she began tentatively, lacing her fingers.
“Why?” he asked.
“I—just because, that's why!”
Pressing his lips together he seemed to consider it. “You meet me for dinner, some night, and it's a deal. You keep my secret, I'll keep yours.”
“Okay. Deal.” Now she would have to go out with him and she was trying to avoid that.
“How's your lip?” he asked, squinting at her mouth.
“I guess I'll live,” she said.
“I can heal it, if you want,” he suggested.
“I don't think so.”
“But it won't hurt quite so much.”
“No, thank you. I don't need your vampire saliva working on me. I'm not that stupid.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you wish,” he said, dropping it. She was surprised he gave up so quickly. Shoving large hands into the pockets of his coat, he looked around himself. “Now what?”
Zofia was wondering that herself. “Biddle, can you tell me where this is, exactly?”
“From what I could gather, by looking around, this is a guest house of sorts, not the main castle,” Biddle said.
“The Nest,” she concluded. That's what Barty had called it. The Nest, from what she had gathered, was connected by a covered bridge to the main castle.
“Is there more to this?” Myron asked.
“Through that curtain to your right—Zofia's left—is the rest of it,” Biddle directed.
Both Zofia and Myron ducked around a heavy tapestry, entering a passage following the same solid rock of the monolith on one side, and masoned walls on the opposite side. Striding along the uneven passage, Zofia allowed Myron to be the brave one and take lead. She followed him through a slightly angled and narrow corridor. She only now decided Myron was probably six-two, as his head nearly brushed the ceiling, and so he tended to slouch in spots, trying to avoid hitting his head on the cross beams.
“Listen,” Myron said as they emerged into a slightly different looking room, one that wasn't quite as squatty, and he didn't have to duck his head.
“What?” she said, and listened. The sound of water trickling came to her ears. “The water sound?”
“No,” he said. “There's something else.” He paused, closing his eyes. “Music.” He moved further ahead, passing a tiny waterfall trickling down the face of the stone, into a small pool, which disappeared beneath the stone floor. Black timbers were interrupted by red carpet. It was really odd to see carpet on the ceiling.
Zofia had to stop and take it in. The peaceful sound seemed to draw her in, and she longed to sit and watch the water just dribble down into the little pond, expecting a frog to hop out, or salamander to slither out of a hole somewhere.
“In here,” Myron called to her. Zofia walked along, still gazing into the small pond, until she could no longer.
“I've heard rumors that this castle is unlike any other castle on all of Euphoria,” Myron was saying over his shoulder, still moving along.
“Yes,” she said, thinking about all that she'd read on it in Barty's book, happy that Stephen had given it to her. “It is.”
“Have you noticed,” Myron said, “there's no windows.”
“Yes,” Zofia said. “I've noticed that, too. But this used to be King Vlad's castle.”
“That's what I've heard.” He made a half turn to look at her. “How did you know that?”
“I've been reading up on it.”
They stepped past a very long and low-hooded fireplace that took up half the length of the hall they now walked through, and you had to step down to it a couple of risers. A very hot fire crackled in the wide pit. Large cauldrons hung off to the side, deep inside the flue. Before huge, round andirons, squatted stone benches for guests to sit and warm themselves on a cold winter's night. But tonight, the Nest was comfortable. Zofia imagined sitting there with a faceless someone enjoying a glass of wine and cheese. Perhaps having a riveting conversation with Count Saint Germain at her side. The image plumed and then faded, because she didn't exactly know what Count Saint Germain looked like.
So far, the Nest had the look of an ogre's dwelling. Not that Zofia had ever seen an ogre's abode before, but it had the look of one with the large fire pit, big enough to roast just about whatever you happen to drag home—the local farm animal, or the local farmer.
“It's really warm in here,” Zofia commented, and undid her cloak. Myron came to her aid and helped her pull it off. He had already shrugged off his cape, and it draped over one arm. He located a couple of pegs along the wall and hung both outer garments up.
Moving away, his boot heels made a rhythmic dull clicking as he went.
Following the length of the fireplace, the passage opened up to yet another room. A dining area, from the looks of it. It was cozy and very functional all at once.
From low rafters hung the only lamplight, which allowed just enough light to see to eat by. The lamp itself was a piece of art. Intricately carved, a bosomy woman held up two lamps by their wooden bases. The shades were made of colorful stained glass. As Zofia studied the area she realized the lamp threw off too much light for a lantern powered by a gas flame—possibly because she'd lived on First World for so long she hadn't caught the difference at once—these were electric lights. Electricity? How was this possible? Unlike on First World, here, on Euphoria, there were restrictions on inventions of any kind, and the production and use of electricity, as well as the combustible engine, were outlawed. Thus, there were no motorized vehicles of any type (thank Immortals, because she really wouldn't want to see road rage between wizards), and there was no electricity powering anything. In fact, any wizard or alchemist could go to Hamparzum's for even having the plans for such inventions. Yet, here there was electricity. No wonder Count Saint Germain was cautious about outsiders—especially wizards—entering his abode.
The beautifully carved lamp hovered over a highly polished table, four upholstered benches at each side. Noticing that the table was set for one, Zofia moved forward to inspect the silver domed lid, and a decanter of wine, and some smaller decanter of a very dark red liquid. Somehow, Zofia didn't think it was wine. But what it was, she wasn't exactly sure.
“Listen!” Myron spun.
“Yes, I hear it now,” Zofia said, as tinkling harp music floated in from another room. That had to mean someone else was there playing the music.
“Hello?” Zofia called out.
No one answered, but the harp kept on playing.
She exchanged quizzical glances with Myron.
“I'll go and see who—or what—is making the music,” he said. “Meanwhile, you go ahead and open up the letter on the table.”
“Letter?” Once again she glanced toward the table. There was a brownish envelope leaning against th
e domed lit. Her name was written across it in a fine calligraphic hand.
Turning, she observed Myron slipping through a tight corridor, and up a couple of stone risers, his heels clicking out a metronomic sound. She found herself alone, wondering about the food left for her, and the note.
“Well, open it,” Biddle urged.
Zofia jerked, having forgotten about Biddle. Before she could reach for it, he had picked it up, and the letter floated out toward her. She noticed the envelope was sealed with black sealing wax, and the adornment in the wax was that of a dragon. Just like on the banners outside the castle.
She opened the envelope, pulled out a sheet of very nice ivory linen parchment and found the writing was similar to that on the envelope.
Dear Ms. Trickenbod,
I do hope your trip to my castle was pleasant enough. I apologize for not being able to greet you in person. I have, however, personally seen to all your needs. I have made certain that upon your arrival food has been warmed to the right temperature, and awaits your enjoyment. Hopefully you will find everything at your convenience as you retire for the night.
After you have dined, simply follow the harp music through the corridor off the side of the fireplace, and you will locate your bedroom. All of your personal belongings have been brought in, in the same manor as yourself. (I will explain this phenomenon later, and I beg your indulgence until then.) These dwellings should suffice you, I hope, during your stay.
In the morning my man servant will bring you into the main castle, and show you the tasks for which you were hired. I regret, because of my busy schedule, I will not be able to meet you until much later on in the day. Perhaps I would be able to beg your forgiveness over dinner at the inn, if you would be in agreement with this?
Your most humble servant,
Count Saint Germain
P.S. I have taken the courtesy of leaving your new acquaintance, Mr. Grimes, with ample supply of his dietary needs. It is in the smaller bottle, next to the wine decanter. When he is ready to leave, he may exit by the usual means.
A small chill crept up Zofia's spine as she set the note down on the table. Her gaze lifted to the crystal carafe containing the very deep crimson liquid, stationed next to a wine glass at the other end of the table.
She was not imagining it. The darker liquid did seem too dark and too thick to be mere wine. It was blood.
“Ick,” she said low. Grimacing, she looked away. She'd had to procure blood for Dorian, when he was a vampire, by going to the local grocery for beef liver. While that had been strange enough, this was far more bizarre. For one thing, where had this blood come from, unless Saint Germain himself were a vampire and had drained someone of a couple pints of their blood? Two, how did he know that she had met Myron, a vampire, before she'd gotten here, or that she would be with him when she entered the Nest?
“Bad news?” Biddle asked in a low voice.
“No. Just strange, as is everything to—” she cut off her own words as she heard Myron's boot heals coming close. He appeared at the narrow corridor, into which he'd disappeared moments ago.
Running his fingers through his locks, he beamed at her. “Very nice bedroom,” he said. “And you'll be happy to know your trunk and all your luggage have all somehow been mysteriously transported there.”
“And the harp music?” she asked.
“A harp. It's playing all by itself. Very curious,” he said with a shrug.
“That, along with everything else. Look, the count has included you in on my meal.” She pointed at the bottle of blood.
Myron's smile was replaced by a deep frown. Cobalt-blue eyes becoming large, he stepped toward the small carafe. Opening it, he tipped it to his lips, and then lowered it. His tongue licked his lips and he smiled. He tipped it and took a longer taste. When he pulled it away again and gasped, his fangs had grown. He held the bottle up as if in salute. “To Saint Germain.”
Zofia squinted at him. “It's real? I mean human blood?”
“Very much so.” He took up the glass and poured himself a goblet of the red stuff. Then looked up at Zofia. “You haven't dined as yet?” he said, sounding startled. He motioned toward the table. “Please, please,” he moved to seat her, but there was no chair to help her into, only the bench. She easily slid onto it, behind the plate of food awaiting her.
“So, what's this all about? Saint Germain knew you were coming? How?” she asked, unveiling the food. Out wafted a cloud of steam. It smelled vaguely of peacock, but wasn't nearly large enough. It was not domestic, whatever it was.
“Saint Germain hired me,” Myron said, as he seated himself and took up the goblet of his meal.
“He did? Well, surprises never fail here!” Zofia said, poised with utensils in hand.
“Yes. He hired me to come and meet you at the coach, and he payed me to make sure you got up to this—place, whatever it is.” He flicked his hand at the general area, and then took a sip of his blood.
“Why didn't you tell me this in the beginning?”
“What? And spoil all my fun?” He chuckled, then quickly added, “Besides, you might not have believed me—a stranger—was there to escort you.”
“Yes I would have,” she argued.
“And I repeat, it would have spoiled my fun.” Their eyes met across the table.
Zofia had to avert her gaze. She supposed his reason for not admitting he had been sent by Saint Germain to take her on to the castle was genuine. Quirky, but genuine. However, she felt it had more to do with the fact he was a vampire, not a mere gentleman doing a genuine act of kindness.
On the other hand, she was very happy that Saint Germain had given him something that would appease him, and at the same time assuring that he would not make her his midnight snack—which nearly happened anyway. Despite it all, Zofia found she had a raging appetite, and dug in. They enjoyed their individual meals in companionable silence for a few moments.
Patting his lips, Myron burped discreetly into a cloth napkin.
“My complements to Count Saint Germain,” Myron said, placing the napkin down.
“I think you've already said that, in your own way,” Zofia said as she lifted her own wine glass, which held a red, medium-sweet wine that had gone very well with the fowl. “I second that sentiment.” She nearly drained the rest of her wine and held it by the stem with the fingers of both hands. “You have a room for the night?”
“Yes, I'm staying at The Golden Dragon. It's well known to satisfy even the most finicky customers.”
“Golden Dragon? Which inn is that?”
“It is on the other side of the village,” he said. “Vampires come through here regularly, so they have windowless rooms at the inn. That's one reason why I stopped here.”
“I see. Is that how you met the count?” she asked, pouring more wine into her glass.
“At the Golden Dragon? No.”
“How then?”
“Ravenwood Inn, of course.”
“And he just hired you?”
“I responded to an add.”
Sipping her wine, she nodded. Seems the count put out a number of adds lately. “So, how are you getting out of here? I mean, the outer gate is locked.”
“Through the door, of course.”
She stopped and looked at him. “You'll turn into a bat, I suppose, and then fly back down to the village?”
“That's not a bad idea,” he said. “Thanks for that.”
“No problem. My hus—” she stopped herself. She'd almost said husband. She eyed the wine and set the glass down. If she didn't want to begin spilling her guts to him, she'd best not drink any more of the wine. Dorian had been able to turn himself into a bat while a vampire. She supposed Myron could do the same.
Myron finished his refreshment. The glass now held a very dark sheet of the red stuff down the sides. Bluckh. She was glad she wasn't hired to do the dishes.
He stretched to his full height. “I must take my leave of you, madam.” He made a slight bo
w to her.
She stood, feeling relieved he was not going to linger any longer.
“A very good evening to you,” she said.
He bowed once again and made his way to where he'd hung their coats. She stepped around the dining table, following him.
“Thank you,” she said watching as he pulled on his coat. “I mean for getting me here safely.”
He turned, smiling. Those blue eyes of his drank her in. “You'll not refuse me dinner, now that I've learned what I have learned about you?”
“I've no choice, do I?” She fed him a lop-sided smile. She didn't like the situation, but what could she do?
“None whatsoever. However, if I do not see you soon, do not expect me to wait forever, because I won't.” With that he turned, and swiftly exited down the hallway which had brought them into this room, his cape fluttering around his feet. She watched him make his way down that thin corridor, and past that wicked-looking fireplace, then duck through the tapestry. She listened to his retreating steps, threading his way through the entry. Then the sound of a door opening and then close with a heavy bang made her heart pound with deep concern. Had he really left? She should have made sure.
“Biddle, did he leave?”
“I will check,” he said. She felt Biddle whoosh past her, the tapestry being thrown back, drop and sway.
“He is gone, madam,” Biddle reported flopping the tapestry back once again.
She couldn't help but go to check for herself. She arrived at the front door, but instead of muscling it open, she opened it with an incantation. Just as the door swung open, she saw Myron flying over the large gates—not as a bat, but as himself—his cape flapping like wings as he went. If he'd wanted to, he could have lifted the both of them over the gate, she realized now. Heck, if they'd both been honest with each other, they both could have dispensed with the lies and just gone over the gate on their own powers.
At any rate, the ley lines had to be very strong here, as reported. Whatever Portal had opened up and deposited them inside the Nest, was fairly strong. She wasn't sure what type of Portal it could have been. There were several types. She should have asked for a book on ley lines, while she'd had a chance. She just hadn't thought of it. Funny that Stephen hadn't either. But maybe it didn't really matter. A Portal moved you from where you were to another spot. Hopefully these were lateral Portals, where you merely went from one place to another—and not those which transported you into another world entirely.