Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2)

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  And felt absolutely nothing. Inside, the darkened room’s furniture was hidden by dust covers. Its positioning though confirmed that the room was likely as his daughter had left it. Still he received no sense of her.

  Tell me what happened to you, Cassie, Ashincor called with his thoughts. Who was it who did it?

  Nothing came to him. Sighing, he walked through the first room, a sitting area, and into the study. Pulling the dust cover aside, he saw his daughter’s old desk from Linse Castle: Theilien rosewood, gilded, with a white onyx top. Tentatively, he reached out and touched it.

  Feeling his daughter’s presence, Ashincor gave out a sharp cry of joy and despair. The desk had been hers for so long that the images it revealed showed her at various ages. But what he sought was not here. The effort it took Ashincor to pull his hand away from the desk brought a grimace to his face. Readjusting the dust cover, Ashincor went into the bedroom.

  The canopied bed was easy enough to recognize from under its covering. As was the night table and couch. The other furniture seemed equally ordinary, save for something along the wall opposite the bed. He pulled away the covering, revealing a mirrored vanity and chair.

  His chest tightened at the sight of it. The make-up and beauty applicators had never been put away. All sat there on the counter, ready for use. His face ashen, Ashincor gripped the back of the chair and pulled it out. With his eyes unblinking and staring into nothing, he lowered himself unsteadily into the chair. Slowly the lights along the vanity mirror came to life.

  Ashincor was almost sick as he saw his daughter in the mirror, sitting where he sat now, as a lady-in-waiting, one of her cousins, helped ready her for bed.

  “Might Lord Derrick be returning from the Academy for holiday soon?” the woman asked as she brushed her mistress’ hair. Ashincor had forgotten her name.

  “The Imperial Academy rarely celebrates holidays,” the Countess-Grandia replied. “But maybe I can come up with a reason for Seffan to summon him after his mid-term examinations.”

  “Well, you may have to summon Lord Derrick yourself. Your husband, bless him, seems distracted lately. Sometimes he forgets that Lord Derrick is gone.”

  “Seffan has been... busy,” the Countess-Grandia agreed.

  Ashincor Linse stood from the chair and staggered. Leaning against the wall for support, the patér steeled himself for what was to come. He knew what this mirror would show him. He knew it as surely as if he had already watched the scenes. But he had to see it. He had to know for certain what he knew in his heart, even if he had no idea what purpose it would serve now.

  Pushing himself from the wall, Ashincor returned to the mirror. In the reflection, he saw the room as it was before, with his daughter asleep in her bed. He sensed a heightened psychic energy in the room. The Countess-Grandia stirred. There was a soft smile on her face.

  From the door connecting her suite with that of the Count-Grandee, Seffan Possór entered slowly. Ashincor could see him, but he had no sense of him.

  Seffan cloaked his presence even from his wife, the patér thought.

  The Countess-Grandia moved again as Seffan drew near, but did not awaken. Seffan stopped at the bed and looked down at her. At that moment, another figure entered the room: A short, round shadowy figure with long pointy nails. The figure came up behind Seffan, but he did not turn. Ashincor could hear words being chanted that he did not understand. At peace in her slumber, the Countess-Grandia hugged one of her pillows and whispered something softly.

  With a sigh, Seffan Possór revealed a hidden blade, and in one fluid motion, slit his wife’s throat.

  - - -

  Vialette shivered as she approached the doors she had secretly entered earlier that evening. “My aunt wants to see me in there?” she asked.

  “It is unusual, my Lady,” the servant conceded. “But that was her command.” He opened one of the doors for her. Vialette nodded with only marginal gratitude.

  Once again Vialette felt drawn into the darkness as the door closed behind her. This time however, small lights illuminated the way to a room beyond the rows and rows of dolls rising from floor to ceiling along both sides of her path. Walking forward, Vialette banishing all thoughts of Soror Barell and Derrick, trying to seem untroubled as she fought to keep herself calm.

  Despite an inner sense that told her not to, Vialette looked at the dolls as she passed. They were of various ages and sizes, dressed in different types and styles of clothes. Although it was sometimes hard to distinguish between them, neither sex predominated over the other. What surprised her as she continued walking however was how life-like some of the dolls appeared.

  Then she saw that one of the dolls’ faces was partially caved in, with its arms and legs twisted to inhuman deformity. And the doll was not alone in its fate. Others had different cruelties inflicted upon them as well, ranging from missing limbs to what looked like discoloring skin growths. Some even appeared to be infected by disease that ate away at their small bodies. In her mind, Vialette heard the cries of babes and children, intermixed with the moans and pleas from broken adults. She turned away from one of the dolls, its face curled and eyes wide in a death grimace, as a second set of doors opened before her.

  “Come in, Vialette,” Lilth Morays called, her voice echoing out from her chamber. Repulsed by the dolls, Vialette hastened into her aunt’s presence.

  “Good morning, Godmother,” Vialette said. To her surprise, her aunt seemed to be hovering in the air. Below her was an unformed mass lying on a table.

  “You are right, Child,” Lilth replied, amused by her niece’s greeting. “It is morning.” Lady Morays seemed to waft across a sudden expanse. “I hear you have asked to change rooms. Is not your current room comfortable?”

  “The dolls,” Vialette began, a rise in her throat choking off her words, “keep... crying.” She glanced at the table again. Was that a lump of clay upon it?

  Lilth smiled, the teeth along the right side of her mouth showing between her red painted lips. “The mechanisms inside them are old,” she breathed. “I told you before, a slight change in air pressure can set them off. If I were you, I would not pay any attention to them. I myself just let them cry.”

  A cold spasm fanned up Vialette’s spine at her aunt’s last words. With all her effort being used to keep herself from shaking, Vialette could only nod.

  “Tell me, Child,” said Lilth as she neared the table, her voice seeming to swirl around her niece. “Have you ever seen those rows of dolls outside before?”

  “No, Aunt Lilth,” Vialette answered truthfully. The Viscountess’ fingers appeared to gently tap against the table, but Vialette could hear her aunt’s long pointy nails dig into the wood with each drag across its surface.

  “You did not by chance go anywhere this evening, did you?”

  “No. I have been in the Palace all night. I was in the garden earlier though.”

  Lilth gave her a brittle smile. “I mean here, Dear, in my private rooms.”

  “I have never been in this room before,” said Vialette.

  “And the room just outside this one?” Lilth demanded, tired of her niece’s childish evasions. “Were you in that room earlier?”

  Vialette was caught and lowered her head. “Yes, Godmother,” she replied. The ensuing silence felt like an eternity to Vialette’s wildly beating heart.

  “Curiosity can be dangerous,” Lilth said finally, pursing her lips. As Lilth moved away, the table disappeared into the room’s darkness.

  “I am sorry, Aunt Lilth,” Vialette ventured. “I did not mean any harm.”

  “It is all right, Dear,” the Viscountess sighed, feeling weary. “You should not have been able to enter so easily. Some security adjustments are in order here, I am afraid. But run along. It is probably time for your morning meal.”

  “Will you be joining, Aunt Lilth?” For some reason, Vialette felt proud asking the question. The fly inviting the spider to dine.

  “It is too early for me, Child,�
�� Lady Voxny replied, turning away to fade within the room’s darkness as well. Vialette heard a distant voice add, “I still need my rest.”

  - - -

  VIII

  The more Lilth considered her situation, the more she disliked keeping her cousiné alive. Sukain still refused to ransom Curin first, which meant confining her second son to Crucidel. Even allowing him out of his rooms required strict precautions, unless they were simply going to kill any of the lowly servants who saw him. But controlling her son was not the problem.

  Despite the threat of her spiritual sisters, the NDB, Brotherhood and Consortium might still expose her and Jordan’s abduction of their royal cousiné. That possibility needed to be removed. Idly, Lilth glanced down at Derrick, watching the slow and even rise of his breathing. There was an untroubled stillness in his face, one that she instantly resented.

  “It is your fault,” she told the sleeping Derrick. “You are no Possór. You are but the dropping of a Linse whore.” Derrick stirred as she stood from her chair.

  Lilth psychically paralyzed him before taking his arm from beneath his sheet. Fastening one of the restraints hanging from the headboard above him to his wrist, she bound his other wrist, and then his neck. Working downward, she pulled his sheet back to affix another strap around his ribs, before finally binding his ankles. Smiling at her handiwork, Lilth trailed her right hand up Derrick’s sheet-covered leg and across his bare skin until it rested over his heart. Sitting back down in her chair, she placed her left hand over his forehead, and entered his dreams.

  Derrick took a sharp breath as his arms and legs jerked frantically within their confines. Beneath her palm, Lilth felt his heartbeat quickening. She darkened the twisted images she fed him even further, crafting them to touch the greatest fears locked away in Derrick’s mind. Fighting some hellish monstrosity Lilth had conjured from the depths of her imagination, Derrick’s movements became more erratic. Silent screams emanated from his thickened neck as he choked against the strap around his throat. His body writhed as his heart pounded furiously, in the throes of a pulsating agony from its intensifying ordeal.

  Still manipulating the horrific vision in Derrick’s mind, Lilth fed on his terror as she breathed in the acidic smell of his fear-induced sweat. Her head fell back as she swayed with an overwhelming euphoria, one that welled from her loins to dazzle the nerves throughout her body. The maddening pain. The obliviating horror. She drank it all in as she worked to sustain Derrick’s suffering. With a steeled hold over his heart, Lilth used her psychic powers to squeeze and release, keeping it beating long after it would have ceased on its own. Bending over, Lilth licked the sweat running down to the hollow of Derrick’s throat. Tasting its heavy saltiness, she ran her tongue over her lips. It might well have been his blood.

  Reduced to quick shallow breaths, Derrick continued battling unseen devils, having no place of retreat, and no choice but to face them. But even with Lilth’s infusion of strength, he was tiring. The thrashing of his arms and legs were now more the result of overwrought nerves than willful control. From experience, Lilth knew that Derrick was nearing the point of no return, where his mind would simply burn out in order to avoid further torment.

  The bindings over Derrick’s ankles snapped at a particularly violent spasm. The one at his waist went next. As his flailing legs threatened to kick her, Lilth ended her game and ceased her images. Derrick fell limp within his remaining bonds, his staggered breathing and the twitch of over-stressed muscles his only movement. Slowly she relinquished control over his heart rate.

  With his breath and pulse evened out, Lilth undid the strap around Derrick’s neck before giving him the blessing of a dreamless sleep. Bathed in perspiration like the glistening Derrick, Lilth Morays sat back in her chair, exhausted. Still, she felt a wonderful serenity that soothed her once tensed muscles and brought peace to her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she drifted into her own slumber, as Derrick shivered in the room’s cool air beneath his sweat-saturated sheet.

  - - -

  “I do not know if I can do this,” Vialette projected, once more using the physical link provided by the doll of Soror Barell.

  “You must save him,” Barell pleaded. “No one else can. They will kill him.”

  “Aunt Lilth...”

  “Vialette,” Barell said softly. “You saw Derrick. Did you scan him as well?”

  “Y-yes,” Vialette whispered, turning her head away from the doll.

  “He had no Mental Shields, did he? No psychic defenses at all?”

  “None.” Vialette stifled a sob. “He cannot use the Disciplines.”

  “And what did you find when you searched his memory?”

  “He does not know who he is.” Tears streamed down Vialette’s face, despite her effort to control herself. “And he has been tortured.”

  “And who tortured Derrick, Vialette?”

  Vialette shook her head. “No,” she whispered with her thoughts, her hands trembling as she clung to the doll. “She said that she would never harm the Family. She made me promise never to hurt the Family. It must be someone else.”

  “She has broken her word, and having seen what she has done, you now know her for what she is. Answer me, Vialette! Who tortures Derrick?”

  “Aunt Lilth!” Vialette cried silently as her legs gave out from under her. If the other dolls in the room reacted to her collapse, it escaped Vialette’s notice.

  “You must leave this place, Vialette,” Barell said. “Think on how you will answer your aunt when she questions you again. There is still much for you to know, but we have no time.”

  “No time?” Vialette asked, her thoughts in dismay. “For what?”

  “For Derrick’s life,” Barell continued, “will you share with me?”

  “Yes,” Vialette replied, answering before she realized it. Her tears no longer flowing, Vialette exhaled into a meditative calm, and opened herself to the Soror.

  Vialette stiffened as her consciousness made contact with the Soror’s. On the fringe of her awareness, she sensed the other dolls in the room asking what was happening. The sharing was over however as abruptly as it began. In those brief moments, Vialette learned what she needed to know to save Derrick: What to do, when to do it, and who to ask for help. What was not explained, and what Vialette already knew, was that her own life would be at risk.

  The sharing completed, Soror Barell’s presence faded from her thoughts. Vialette immediately felt the other dolls watching her. Clearing her head from her exchange with the Soror, she looked about the room and felt their collective psychic power building. The other dolls straightened in their respective places.

  My God, Vialette realized. They are going to call Aunt Lilth.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered, reaching out to the rows of dolls surrounding her as she projected her feelings of compassion and mournful regret.

  The dolls hesitated.

  “I am sorry for what has been done to you. Sorry that though I have walked here before, and saw the results of what my aunt did to you, I did not really know your plight. It was all before me, and I did not recognize it.” Fresh tears glistened on Vialette’s cheeks as she turned to look at different dolls around the room. There were so many. “Forgive me.” Vialette sighed deeply. “Forgive me.”

  Slowly the dolls sagged back to their original positions on their shelves. This time, they would not call their dark mistress.

  “Go,” said a collective voice in Vialette’s mind.

  Gathering herself, Vialette stood up and left the room. She stopped at the door. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes brimming once again. “I swear I will try to find a way to help you.”

  “Go now,” the sad voices answered.

  Vialette lowered her head in a bow and closed the door behind her.

  - - -

  “Listen to me, Ansel,” Ashincor wheezed. Having made his way to an open corridor outside the Countess-Grandia’s former apartments, he had needed help to get back to his room.
The Patér accepted a cup of warm liquid from Marcea Curreck as his eyes remained focused on some unseen sight before him. “I need you to do some things for me.”

  “Yes, Master?” Ansel sat in a chair beside his master’s bed.

  “First, contact the Patér Rector at Ferramond. Ask him to send a truthseer to the Palace as soon as possible.”

  “Madam Curreck?” Ashincor still did not shift his gaze.

  “Yes, Patér?”

  “Can you delay moving the items from my daughter’s rooms?”

  “For a day, Patér. Perhaps two.”

  “Tell the Patér Rector, Ansel. Someone else was in the room when Seffan killed Cassand. I think I know who it was, but I need a truthseer to confirm it. When the truthseer arrives, notify Madam Curreck.” Ashincor turned to the royal housekeeper. “Can you show the truthseer to my daughter’s rooms?”

  “Yes, Patér,” the housekeeper replied. Ashincor turned back to Ansel.

  “Ansel, I also need you to continue the investigation we discussed earlier.”

  “But, Master, I—”

  “You know what we are looking for, Ansel. You can share your findings with me later.”

  “As you wish, Master.”

  “Meanwhile I must focus my every thought on saving Derrick.”

  “Master, were you not told to stay out of—”

  “HOPIS will never find him, Ansel. My own truthsense tells me that it is not even about finding Derrick now. I must find a future path that will save him, and I have sensed the hand of another who has seen such a path. I must seek that person out.” Ashincor’s eyes flickered. “Go now, Ansel. Speak with the Patér Rector. I wish to talk with Madam Curreck privately.”

  - - -

  Having only the knowledge gained by sharing with Soror Barell, Vialette hurried down the hidden passageways of Crucidel. The idea was unsettling if she thought about it too much: seeing the world through the living memory of another. The night glasses she wore only added to the sense of unreality. She was in a dark and foreign place, a place unknown to her and where she did not belong, letting a stranger control her steps. But Derrick did not belong here either, and Vialette let his image be her focus as she forced herself to continue.