Blood Winter: Immortalibus Bella 3

by SL Figuhr

  She held the mug up to his clamped lips. He reached up and wrapped shaking hands around hers, but hadn't the strength to even try to push the mug away.

  “Medicine, the same as the woman gave you earlier. Please, do resist. It's been awhile since I had a chance to force someone to do my bidding.”

  Mica watched her eyes turn honey fire, the faint luminescent glow beneath her skin, and a peek of her fangs as she grinned. He debated with himself a moment more before allowing her to help feed him the liquid. It tasted the same as earlier. He had a feeling he was safe from her only so long as Colin was useful and didn't cross her in any way. After the medicine came a clay mug with steam rising off it.

  She carefully wrapped his hands around the warm mug, helping him bring it toward his mouth, and tilted it. The rich taste of chicken broth exploded on his tongue. He drank it down and let her take the empty mug from his hands.

  “Would you like some more?”

  “Yes,” Mica answered in dull tones. He lay staring at the ceiling as she left and came back a bit later.

  Once again, she helped him drink the second mug full of broth.

  “There now, don't you feel better?”

  “I'm not a child.”

  “Then quit acting like one.” She set the mug on a small, bedside table before leaning closer to fuss with the blankets.

  Now what does she want? The man wanted her gone so he could try to sleep again.

  Her face was its normal smooth mask, giving no hint to what her thoughts were. After he was tucked in, she rose and gathered up the mug and left him to rest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eron was not sure what had awoken him, but he found himself listening, lying still in the darkness, ready to defend himself if need be. There was only the relentless howling of the wind, the swish of snow, and the snores of the female warriors in the barracks behind his room.

  After the bandits had burnt the first building during their raid, the second one had been hastily thrown up. It wasn't weatherproof by any means. Most days, the occupants woke to thin sheets of snow covering their blankets and the floor, and twice to ice. The large braziers which burned all night and day, tended to by a slave, did little to help alleviate the biting cold.

  The building rattled from a particularly strong gust of wind, and he felt cold, feathery flakes land on his face.

  Great, snow is leaking in again. The roof thatching probably needs repairing. Why did I agree to subject myself to the same conditions as the females I'm training? Oh right, I was stupid yet again, the immortal thought.

  He tried to turn over and go back to sleep but couldn't. Eron forced himself out from under the covers, instantly regretting his decision as he started to shiver uncontrollably.

  The man forced his feet into his icy-cold boots, strapped his sword to his side, took his cloak off the bed and wrapped it around himself, and cringing, slipped outside the door to the barracks. The wind nearly ripped the door from his grasp. He managed to force it closed before turning and observing the training ground.

  Breath left his body as the cold knifed through him, and he fought to take air in. It burned his lungs and nasal passages.

  “Next time, ignore your thoughts and stay in your semi-warm bed,” Eron muttered to himself, breath leaving in plumes.

  His eyes narrowed, already feeling dried out from the wind, and he was pretty sure his ears had instant frostbite.

  He scanned the darkness before him, a slim crescent moon of no help. A sound came to his ears, perhaps the same one which had awoken him. He strained to listen as he cautiously moved, not wanting to hit a patch of ice and go down.

  There! The sound came again, a faint snap, as of fabric rippling in the wind. He moved slowly, eyes doing their best to see in what little moonlight there was. He nearly walked over the cliff edge, and only just stopped himself in time. The increased tugging of the wind and the sound of the ice grinding past in the river far below alerted him to the danger he was in.

  “Fuck me!” He was startled enough to shout out loud. Good one, moron; now whoever is out here knows you are too. Brilliant.

  Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him back away from the edge. He fought briefly before realizing they were like steel bands.

  “You can let go. Even I'm not talented enough to be able to topple off the side from this distance,” he deadpanned.

  “Foolish man! You are free; you don't have to fake your death to leave. If you don't want to stay here, just say so. I will find someone else to take over the females’ training.” Illyria's voice held anger and bitterness.

  Eron broke free from her arms and turned to face her. “That wasn't my intention. I thought I heard something, and couldn't get back to sleep. So I decided to see what it was.”

  “I am the only person awake who is out here. I doubt even the bandits are stirring from their holes.”

  “Well, now that I know you do your nightly stalking the perimeter of your land for trespassers to drain, I won't bother getting up.”

  “I do have guards for the job; why would you choose to inconvenience yourself?”

  “I haven't felt like a popsicle in hours. I miss the sensation.”

  She ignored his joke, staring off toward the town, a faint furrow marring her brow. He shivered violently, wrapping his arms around himself while he waited for her to say something more, but she didn't.

  “Popsicle status achieved. I'll be going.” Eron started to turn away, but her voice stopped him.

  “Come inside to my office, please. I have . . . concerns, and I would like your advice.”

  His breath plumed out, not expecting her to admit she didn't have all the answers. “You? Need help? Shocking! So that's why it's so cold: all the ice in hell has come here. Sure, why not? It's not like I've got anywhere else to be.”

  Illyria's office was warm, and bathed in the flickering light of flames from a stone fireplace. The immortal laid his wool cloak on the couch. A small, carved wood table in the corner held a brass tray with small brass goblets and a clay, wood-stoppered jug. Eron poured himself some of the liquid, bringing the bottle with him and setting it down on her worktable as he sank into a chair before it. She seated herself behind her table.

  “Mica is much sicker than his brother realizes,” she began.

  “Death’s door?” Eron joked.

  The vamp’s hesitation had anxiety growing inside him. Despite the fights the two men had had since arriving in Macinas, he didn't truly wish ill of his oldest friend.

  “If he won’t let anyone care for him, yes. I don’t think he understands how close he is. I thought perhaps he would ask Colin to make him immortal again, but he hasn’t.”

  “He may not know his own thoughts and feelings adequately on the subject,” Eron replied. It would be just like that mule-headed asshole to let himself die to prove a point.

  While her face showed no expression, her eyes held a deep pool of sadness in them. “He will not get a chance as things stand now. We must convince him to rest and try healing.”

  “Now would be a good time to show him the full extent of your powers and will. Make him do what you want. He's human. I don't care how much he may hate it, or what fights he and I have had. I'm not losing the stubborn ass.”

  “His stubbornness is one reason why it may not work. The other is his illness. I fear to take even the smallest sip of his blood, which would help me imprint my will on his. I . . .” Illyria trailed off, uncomfortable with her thoughts.

  Eron set his goblet down. If she had this much reservation, his friend's health had indeed dangerously deteriorated.

  “I'm not making him immortal, not without his consent. Colin would agree, however much it might pain him to lose his brother.”

  Illyria looked down at her hands, eyes shaded by her half-lowered lids. “There is one other thing that might convince him to take his health seriously. But I would need his consent. And yours. And you would have to be willing to help.”

  He le
aned forward, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Which would mean?”

  The vamp looked him in the eyes. “We retrieve Donny's soul gem ourselves and end his torment.”

  Eron kept his expression blank with a great effort, while inside he felt the stirrings of his darker side. “Why would you leave your empire-building for the length of time it will require? You may come back to nothing but ashes if certain people get their way.”

  Her smile was feral, eyes a blazing golden honey. “When they do, they will discover Nicky's wrath but a candle flame compared to the fire of mine.”

  The man regarded her a moment, weighing options in his head. “If I agree to help, I expect some compensation.” He let his words hang a moment. “Nonnegotiable.”

  They regarded each other silently, she no doubt evaluating his offer. “What kind?”

  “I will need to consider what I want, which will all depend on how you plan to achieve this goal and the amount of my involvement.” The immortal kept his eyes steady on hers. “If and when we get Colin and Mica's blessing, I will tell you at the completion of our quest.”

  She nodded slowly, eyes gleaming while an amused smile tugged one side of her mouth up. “Very well. My blood oath on it.”

  * * *

  A slave finished helping Mica complete his use of the chamber pot. A second slave finished remaking the bed with clean sheets. She left, taking the soiled linen with her. The first helped the sick man walk the few steps back to his bed. Mica leaned heavily on the man's arm, toppling onto the soft mattress. A violent coughing fit wracked his body. It was many moments before he could catch his breath enough to curl under the covers.

  The remaining slave walked to a washbasin and cleaned his hands, mindful of the careful instructions his mistress had given him, even though he didn't believe half of what she said about germs. Next, he began to prepare the medicinal drink. A small table held a squat, bulbous oil lamp. Beside it was a metal trivet he placed over the top of the flame once it was lit. Next, a clay bowl he filled with clean water and set on top of the trivet. It took a while for the water to heat. While he waited, the slave sat down on a small wood stool before the table. He pillowed his head on his crossed arms. He dozed off, jerking awake at the sensation of steam against his cheek. The slave sat up, reaching for a pair of wooden tongs with which to pick the bowl up and pour the hot water into a mug. With that done, he set the tongs aside, taking up a covered clay jar and tapping out some of the contents into the water before stirring the mixture with a stick. The slave had started walking across the room to the bed with the clay mug when the door opened.

  “Ah, Willeg. I will take that. Thank you for your diligence. Why don't you take a short break—say, half an hour—and then come back.” His mistress dismissed him.

  He bowed, handing over the mug, and left the room. Willeg noted the slave training the women warriors with the duchess, and his curiosity made him linger outside the closed door. The male slave, a new addition to the household, had been purchased from Gri a fortnight ago. His duties kept him close to the sick man's room. He did not have much time between working and sleeping to learn more about the raven household. Willeg pressed his ear against the sturdy wood door, hoping to find out what was going on. He almost fell into the room as the door was suddenly jerked open.

  “Listening in when you've been told to go on break can be bad for your health.” The dark-haired man's tone was grim. “Do as you're bid, or I'll have the warriors I'm training use you as a target for our bow and arrow lessons.”

  Willeg blanched. “Beg pardon.”

  He hurried off down the hall, the intricately woven wool runner muffling his steps. The slave knew he’d made no sound to betray his presence. One of them, either the duchess or the man, must truly practice witchcraft, like the gossips spread. The look in the man's eyes led the slave to believe he would ask for Willeg's life from their mistress. She would probably agree, too.

  Eron closed the door, shaking his head in disgust after the retreating slave. “He's gone now. I don't trust him. Listening in at keyholes? Can you be sure he won't, accidentally or otherwise, harm our friend?”

  Illyria gave the first genuine smile he had seen all evening, “I have made him very aware of what deliberate failure on his part will entail. I do like your threat—much more creative than the death I promised him.”

  “I have had over eight thousand years of practice.” He approached the bed.

  His friend glared at them both, but didn't speak as Illyria made sure he kept drinking the medicine. When he was done, she fluffed the pillows up and he collapsed backward.

  “Aren't prisoners allowed to sleep at night?” Mica wheezed out.

  “No, but patients are. For a small consideration I can upgrade your status,” she replied.

  “And this is why we can't have peaceful conversations,” Eron butted in before they could further snipe at each other. “Old friend, you're dying. So shut the hell up for once and fucking listen to advice. And you,” he rounded on the vamp, “stop with the snark. There're other people you can torment who I'm sure are much more deserving.”

  Both Mica and Illyria's mouths tightened in anger, but they gave short nods. Eron plopped down on the end of Mica's bed, as she sat in the only chair in the room.

  “I have a question to ask of you, and I want you to answer me truthfully,” Illyria began. “Is the reason you won't let yourself rest and heal properly because of Donny's remains?”

  Mica glared at her, face going purple. Eron wasn't sure if he was angry, or trying hard to hold his coughs back. His answer came between hacks. “Don't . . . speak . . . his . . . name.”

  “Answer the question, damn it!” Eron barked out. “Your brother doesn't deserve to lose you because you're hardheaded.”

  “That, and Nicky.”

  “Would you trust me to retrieve the boy's soul gem and put him to rest?” Eron asked.

  “I made the calculations. It'll take a year, at least.” Mica motioned for some water.

  Illyria poured some from the pitcher on the side table and handed it to him. They watched their friend's hands shake with the effort of holding and lifting the goblet to his lips.

  “There is a faster way,” the duchess idly remarked.

  “Got a spare plane and fuel tucked away in your castle?” Mica squeezed out. He didn't like the flickering looks Eron and the vamp sent each other. “There is no way . . .”

  “Mica, I don't know if you recall, but I have the power of flight. I can carry Eron to where ever he needs to go to see the job is done. It would not take long. Your friend just wants to know what Donny's soul gem looks like. The only problem would be in finding the correct spot where the warehouse once stood.”

  “No.”

  Eron shook his head, fighting back his anger. “Why not? It's what you want.”

  “No, I don't want her to know the location of the motherhouse. I don't want either of you knowing what shape his soul gem takes,” Mica ground out, teeth clenched, veins standing out in his neck.

  Eron propped one hand on his bent knee, leaning forward. “She can't get to them. Only we can.” He hoped it was still true. After the guardian had answered Colin's summons and battled the demon, the immortal wasn't sure it, too, hadn't been destroyed. It had certainly seemed it at the time.

  “No,” the mortal insisted.

  “Mica—”

  “I said no. Get out, and leave me alone,” the man further insisted. He feebly kicked his foot under the covers at his friend's leg.

  Eron sat, silent, scrutinizing Mica while his friend coughed and hacked. The immortal stood up and walked two steps to Illyria. He put his hand on her shoulder, looking at his friend. Said in a pitiless tone, “Do it. Make sure you take the knowledge of what the gem looks like.”

  “No!” Mica's denial was filled with horror.

  “I thought it a reasonable request to make of you, given how sick you are. Just remember, you brought this on yourself.” Eron folded his arms acros
s his chest.

  “Mica.” The siren whisper floated through the air as his field of vision filled with honey gold fire. Hands like steel bands clamped on his upper arms to hold him still. “Mica.” His name a sweet song.

  Dimly the mortal was aware he’d ceased to struggle as he sank deeper into those flames. One last “no” slipped from his lips as he was pulled down into the warm depths of the fire before him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Does it have to be a big gem?” Donny worriedly asked as he and his teacher walked along the city sidewalks. “'Cause I really wanna do this, only—well, you know I haven't got a whole lotta dough to spend.”

  “No,” Mica replied. “You don't have to use a gem if you don't want to. But it must be made out of durable material. Many immortals create their pieces themselves, incorporating themes which have special meaning to them.”

  The young man perked up. He tore his eyes away from the crowds of people around them. “Can I ask what you used? Material-wise, I mean.”

  “I was a blacksmith, then a soldier, then a farmer. I used a little bit of metal objects from each of those occupations.”

  “I can't even begin to imagine what your soul gem must look like,” Donny replied in awe.

  Mica gave a quick smile. They continued walking, turning their conversation to mundane matters as the crowds of mortals grew thicker, going about their midday business. The older man led his protégé up to his loft. In his present lifetime, he chose to be a builder and restorationist. The bottom floor of the building currently housed a cafe offering specialty coffees, teas, and pastries. The second through fourth floors held two luxury apartments apiece. The loft had been tucked under the sloped attic eaves. Mica owned the whole thing, one of his earlier projects from before the area became gentrified. The men stepped out of a small elevator into a tiny foyer. The immortal led his friend inside and put a pot of coffee on. Donny wandered the space aimlessly. He had been here before.