by Carmen Caine
He clearly found my lack of reaction amusing. Tilting his head at Lord Rowle, he observed, “Your queen is dismayingly attractive, Lord Rowle. Bellissima. Charming. And keen in the old ways, is she not? Eh?”
A low growl escaped my husband’s lips. He didn’t take kindly to others complimenting my youth and beauty. For the most part, I exploited this insecurity to my advantage, affecting maidenly modesty to quickly retire from his presence and that of the odious men who invariably kept him company.
But not tonight.
No, tonight was different. I needed to know more of this Emilio.
Emilio’s lips curled in a smile, and I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he’d followed my thoughts with startling accuracy.
“She lives too close to the fairy kind,” my husband grated. Turning to me with a scowl, he commanded, “Go. I will come to you shortly.”
I offered my deepest curtsey in response. I dare not cast a spell to change his mind, not with this Emilio watching my every move like a hawk. Instead, I replied, “That is good, for I have wondrous tidings, my lord,” I prettily slipped the lie from between my perfect teeth and lowered my lashes at him. “On the matter dearest to your heart.”
There was only one such matter in his shriveled heart: the thorny one of his heir.
Lord Rowle stared at me in obvious surprise. His hand caught my wrist in a harsh grip. “And what tidings are these?” he growled. “I have been in Scotland these past four months and ‘tis clear you bear no child.”
“Soon, my lord,” I insisted. Words were cheap and to be used. “I’ve learned a most wondrous spell. As your faithful wife, I will provide you an heir. And soon.”
Hardly. No spell could undo the plethora of incantations I’d woven about the man for the past two decades. Even a miracle could not offer him a chance of conceiving offspring and perpetuating the evil coursing through his veins.
But he didn’t know that. His pupils darkened and he let me go, leaving dark red finger impressions on my skin.
With my husband successfully distracted, I nodded at Emilio and quickly moved to the table where the Knights Templar had returned their attention to their meal.
“Good evening, my lords,” I murmured. I found their presence in Castle Llewellyn quite odd, especially since the Order’s reputation revolved around destroying all manner of the supernatural. “Knights Templar?” I couldn’t help but say. “In the company of a vampire? ‘Tis a strange sight to behold.”
I’d scarcely finished my words before I felt Emilio’s cold breath kiss the back of my neck.
“Nay, fair lady,” the vampire said, his lips curving into a wicked grin. “Not in the company of, but led by.”
I did not hide my surprise at that. Astonished, I turned to search his face.
He stood there, smiling down at me with his shoulders jerking in some silent jest.
“’Tis not common knowledge, Lady Rowle,” one of the Knights Templar inserted, a man with a particularly fleshy nose. “Only the upper echelon knows the truth of it. The others? They simply follow the man who wears the mask.” He pointed with a long, knobby finger at a mask on the table.
I squinted at the mask, a curious thing depicting a bearded man. Glancing at Emilio and receiving his nod of permission, I advanced and picked up the curiosity. It was heavy and made of solid gold. As I turned it from side to side, it glinted catching the fire’s flame. Odd. Someone had infused the thing with mana.
Apparently deciding I’d held it long enough, Emilio reached over my shoulder and, plucking it from my hands, placed it on his head. “The Knights Templar follow their leader, il loro padrone,” he announced with overt amusement as he fixed me with his piercing eyes, closer to black now than any other color.
I considered him carefully. With the mask hiding all but his eyes, there was nothing to distract me from seeing the malevolence running through him. I shivered at the sheer darkness of it.
His lashes dropped, and we stared at each other in mutual evaluation, each seeking, probing. I truly cannot say how long we did so. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? However long, I locked gazes with the unholy creature, feeling hollow inside and wondering just how much of my soul he’d seen in return.
Gradually, I became aware of silence, a silence broken when the fleshy-nosed Knight Templar seized a pear from a platter and after polishing it on his sleeve, took a large, crunching bite.
The sound startled us all, but the look in Emilio’s piercing stare startled me more. Unfettered evil. The intensity caused goosebumps to prickle my skin. What did this creature hold?
For the first time in my life, I felt fear.
The next moment, Emilio lowered the mask, revealing a strange smile as Lord Rowle’s heavy hand clamped down upon my shoulder from behind.
“Go,” my husband ordered, grabbing my chin to angle my head towards his. Anger and jealousy warred upon his face. He moved his fingers to pinch my cheeks, forcing my lips to open rather like a fish, and then bending his head, dropped his mouth over mine in a dominating kiss.
The action evoked nothing in me, not even disgust. I’d long since learned how to remove myself during the physical moments in our relationship. He wasn’t a fool. He knew I saw him as a duty and nothing more, and that knowledge only fed his jealous cruelty. But when one is truly dead inside, feigning enthusiasm becomes impossible—even for a powerful latchling such as myself.
“We have a matter to conclude,” Lord Rowle said when our lips parted. “Go. I will join you shortly.”
I forced a smile and curtsied, once again assuming the role of dutiful wife by adopting a humble demeanor. “As you wish, my lord,” I murmured.
But this time, I was truly grateful to go.
As the Knights Templar rose and bowed, I smiled at them all before making a hasty retreat and, quickly ascending the steps, retired back to the shadows whence I came.
Emilio watched me go. I felt his eyes watching my every move.
Once out of their sight, I picked up my skirts and ran.
Marie met me at my chamber door. Taking one look at my face, she gasped, “What is it, my lady? What has happened?”
I couldn’t tell her. The poor soul didn’t know the truth of anything, not really. She merely saw me as the unluckiest young witchling alive to have garnered the misfortune of a forced marriage to Lord Rowle. Never would she have understood that I’d orchestrated the entire thing.
“’Tis nothing, Marie,” I replied calmly, sending her a warm, comforting smile. “But I do need my cloak now and my amulet.”
Her kind eyes widened. “But—”
“Now,” I interrupted with a quiet authority.
Her shoulders sagged. She knew she’d lost. Obediently, she retrieved my amulet from the jewelry box, a small crystal vial suspended on a silver chain. The vial glowed, a rich, deep blue. Mana. Mana of the finest variety. Carefully, I pulled the stopper and allowed one drop of the precious magic to escape and bead on the tip of my finger. Speaking the soft words of binding, I applied the mana bead to my forehead right above my third eye.
As it soaked into my skin, Marie returned. “Your cloak, my lady,” she whispered, thrusting the garment into my hands.
I’d spent many long years crafting the cloak and only Marie knew the secret of it. To everyone else, it was a wonder of fur, feathers, and tails decorated with beads, all finely woven, embroidered, and tied. To myself and my faithful lady-in-waiting, it was myriad creatures I had mastered. The countless forms I could assume.
Charmed shifters rarely mastered more than a dozen shapes in their long lifetimes. But I? As all witches and warlocks could, I possessed the ability to mask, to bend light, and offer the illusion of another form with the help of mana.
But as a latchling, I’d accomplished much more. I’d discovered that if I bound my illusion spell to some part of my chosen animal, I became the mask like any Charmed shifter would. Thus, I’d woven numerous feathers upon my cloak. I’d patched it with many furs. I’d tr
immed it with the tips of tails as fringe, and ground teeth and claws into beads. The result? A work of art, truly, and in more ways than one.
“I must hurry,” I murmured under my breath, running my fingers over the various rat and mouse tails to the many furs and feathers woven throughout. “Shall I scamper or shall I fly?”
“Fly,” Marie insisted as she always did. “’Tis the fastest way you may return to safety, my lady.”
This time, I quite agreed.
“Very well,” I nodded, running my fingertip over the feather of a snowy white owl.
“A fine choice, my lady,” Marie nodded in worried approval. “The snow still lies heavy upon the ground. Few will even see you.”
I scarcely heard her. Throwing the cloak over my shoulders, I found the white feather once again and pressing it betwixt my thumb and forefinger, whispered the words of binding as I opened my third eye to the mana and cast the masking spell.
The next moment, I felt myself shrink as my body shifted into that of a small white owl.
“Please take great care, my lady,” Marie fretted as she ran to the shutters and threw them wide open.
I stretched my wings, quickly adjusting to my new body and then, spreading my feathers, launched myself out of the window and into the star-studded night sky.
A Stone from Hell
I flew high in the night sky, circling Castle Llewellyn’s mighty turrets and towers with their black-and-gold banners whipping in the wind. My wings beat the cold winter air as I climbed higher, never stopping until the castle below seemed nothing more than a child’s toy far beneath my feet. For several long, indulgent moments, I enjoyed the freedom and rode the wind as a simple, carefree owl, relishing the soft moonlight caressing my feathers and the smell of crisp, fresh air.
But not for long. Duty beckoned.
With a prolonged sigh, I pinned my wings to my sides and dove for the castle, gliding silently over the battlements and looking for an open window. I found several, but chose the one in the small tower near the kitchens. Gliding low over the herb garden with beds and hedges long bereft of life, I swooped through the open shutters and, spreading my wings, sailed down the spiraling stairs. At the bottom, I nearly flattened a maid lugging two buckets of water. She screeched and dropped one of the buckets. I flew away, her curses ringing in my ears as I took advantage of the shadows and made my way back to the hall.
Gliding over the rafters, I flew as close as I could, peering into the gloom below.
Nothing had really changed. The Knights Templar sat at the table, their knives clinking against the silver platters of roast goose and cabbages as Lord Rowle studied his chessboard, goblet in hand.
Emilio had returned to the shadows.
“I do not trust her,” the vampire’s voice echoed around me as I landed upon a rafter in a soundless rustle of feathers. “The gifted are a threat to us all. Perilous. Pericoloso.”
Lord Rowle lifted his head and eyed the shadows over the rim of his cup. “I will have my heir first,” he replied.
So, I was the topic of conversation.
“And after?” the vampire chuckled softly in anticipation.
Lord Rowle cocked his head. “Do not think to order me, Emilio,” he warned.
The vampire hissed and stepped into the light. “Delays are dangerous. I have waited centuries already. Da quanto tempo.”
But Lord Rowle wasn’t one to be pressured. Rising to his feet, he spat, “Then you should be quite the expert. You’re welcome to go back into hiding.”
A chill smile pulled at the vampire’s lips and turning to the Knights Templar at the table, he ordered them to withdraw. The last one had scarcely exited the hall before Emilio returned to stand beside my husband. “The mana running through her veins is uncommonly rare,” he said.
At that, Lord Rowle rose to his feet. “Find another,” he ordered in a barely civil tone.
I knew very well that Lord Rowle did not defend me out of love, honor, or duty. He saw me only as prime breeding stock. His response didn’t interest me, but I couldn’t say the same about Emilio’s questions. For what purpose did the vampire wish to use me?
As silence stretched between them, I lifted a thoughtful brow.
It could only have been the slightest ruffle of feathers—nay, not even that. But yet, somehow, that movement caused the vampire below me to tense. Immediately, his gaze riveted to the rafters. He sensed me. That much was clear.
Uncanny.
He had to be much more than a vampire—but what?
After a few moments, he leaned forward and extending his fangs, whispered to Lord Rowle. “Make haste with your heir. Subito.”
My husband didn’t respond.
“But I have something I wish you to keep for me. Safe. Molto sicuro. Molto segreto,” Emilio announced. “One moment.”
He disappeared in a flash and two seconds later returned with a wooden chest. Setting it down on the table, he unlatched the lid and flipped it open. From my vantage point, I could see the chest contained what appeared to be a round, stone pillar only a few feet in height. Someone had engraved intricate Celtic designs on its surface. Spells, clearly. And old ones.
Fascinated, I risked hopping closer.
Again, Emilio cast a swift, curious glance up at the rafters, but fortunately, Lord Rowle chose that moment to speak.
“And what is this?” he asked, eyeing the stone with a scornful twist of his lips. “It comes from the Dark Reaches, does it not? How did it come here?”
Dark Reaches? I angled for a better view, astonished such a thing could be possible, and I mentally echoed my husband’s question: how did something from the domain of demons and the unspeakable come to be on Earth?
Emilio’s lips split into a grin. “You are indeed a powerful warlock, my lord,” he acknowledged. “But I may not speak of its origins. Non ancora.”
Lord Rowle didn’t appear to care. Giving the stone one last look, he returned to his chair and leaning back, rubbed the bridge of his nose and exhaled a mighty breath. “You must tell this Mindbreaker my patience wears thin,” he clipped. “I will not dance in the dark much longer.”
Mindbreaker? ‘Twas a name I found vaguely familiar but I couldn’t say why.
“Rest assured, he will reward you with riches, my lord,” Emilio replied softly. “Ricchezze.”
“My lords,” a voice murmured from the shadows near the door. “I bring the flask.”
Emilio turned his head and a sly grin slid over his face. “Then come,” he said, moving to the table to rap his knuckles on its polished surface.
A comely lass with dark copper hair and a winsome figure approached, bearing an engraved, squat metallic flask with a matching goblet. I didn’t recognize her. Clearly, she belonged to the vampire’s retinue.
My husband’s lecherous eyes roved over the fall of her gown as she set the flask on the table and unstopped the lid.
I recoiled at once. Not because of my husband, of course. I cared little what he did and with whom. No, it was the stench of dying mana that caused my reaction.
Blood.
Someone had filled the flask to the brim with human blood.
As I watched, the lass poured the red liquid into the goblet and offered it to Emilio with a deep curtsey. Even from this distance, I could see the silent fear on her face.
Accepting the goblet, the vampire took a sniff. “Pah!” he spat, tossing the thing over his shoulder and onto the floor. “I prefer something fresh. Come, I thirst.”
She only had time to widen incredulous eyes before he was on her. I heard a sharp crack and the next instant, her head titled back at an awkward angle. As his fangs sank into her flesh, she began to convulse, her fingers turning rigid.
Anger choked me. I wanted to vomit. But I knew it was already too late. I could do nothing to save her. At least her death had been quick.
A coughing, gargling sound pulled sharply from her throat as he dined on her blood, growling like an animal all the while. H
e didn’t take long. After what seemed like mere seconds, he threw back his head, his eyes rolling in ecstasy.
“Dine elsewhere,” Lord Rowle grated in low, gravelly tones.
Emilio merely laughed. Dropping his head, he returned to his victim for one last, long lick of the blood oozing from her veins and, satiated, dropped her limp body to the floor.
She slumped in a lifeless heap, empty—or nearly so. The few crimson droplets trickling down the side of her neck announced he hadn’t drained her completely. He’d left her life spark untouched, thus withholding from her the choice of becoming a vampire. A Chosen One. But with him as a creator, perhaps it was just as well.
I smothered a curse at the senseless slaughter.
“Tasty,” Emilio chuckled, dabbing the dark stain of blood from the corners of his mouth.
Even from where I hunched on the rafters, I could smell the revolting stench of dying mana dripping from his fangs.
“May I remind you that speed is of the essence here, Lord Rowle,” he said in an almost lighthearted tone. Apparently, his feeding had put him in a good mood. “Neither I nor the Mindbreaker will suffer delays. Nessuno. Non uno. By Wolf’s Blood Moon, we must be ready.”
“You err in your judgement. The burden is upon you,” Lord Rowle replied. His eyes glittered in the hall’s gloom, reflecting the candlelight in their dark depths. “Find another. I do not bend to suit your master’s whim.”
The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “There may be one—perhaps two,” he admitted, his good mood still holding. “But if that fails, I will look to you. You will deliver. Assolutamente, you will deliver.”
“Go,” Lord Rowle dismissed him with a terse command.
To my surprise, Emilio flashed away, leaving the strange stone in its chest still resting upon the table and the drained body on the floor.
My husband didn’t move nor did I.
I stayed there lost in thought, wondering just what manner of creature Emilio might be as Lord Rowle slouched in his chair, absently sipping wine from his silver goblet from time to time.