I felt a flash of jealousy ring through me with this statement. The thought of Zamyael with Zadkiel was infuriating to me. Especially given I knew that he had feelings for her.
“I know you do.” Ishitar’s eyes flew to me as a strange expression crossed his features. I understood that he must have sensed the sudden change in my mood. “And I appreciate everything the three of you have done for me.”
I frowned at him. Given I had already attempted to talk him out of this madness, the boy knew that my displeasure with him, at this point, was more about the fact that Zadkiel and Zamyael were being wounded than it was about his selection of Loki as a mentor.
“We know.” Zamyael smiled sweetly, motherly, at him. “We’re just sad that it’s time for you to leave our care.”
“It was eventual.”
“Perhaps.” Zadkiel grumbled. “I just wish it were someone other than your father’s greatest nemesis.”
“It’s because of Noliminan’s enmity toward Loki that Loki is the perfect solution.” I replied unnecessarily. “His enmity and your Gods be damned pies.”
Ishitar, grinning, lowered his gaze. He gave me a slight nod and then returned his attention to Zadkiel. He repeated the first half of what I had said, making me smile. He knows I appreciate it when he repeats my sentiment to others. It is a reminder to me that, though no one else can see me, I am not, completely, alone.
And it is a reminder to others that I am not, truly, gone.
“Perhaps.” Zamyael agreed, though hesitantly. “Just be careful, Ishy. Promise me.”
“I promise.” It was unnecessary but she didn’t know that. “By the way, Azrael told me to tell you that you look beautiful today.”
“Ishitar!” Rolling my eyes closed, I admonished him.
The last thing in all of the worlds that anyone needed to know was that I coveted Zamyael!
As for my Lady, she blushed. “I’m certain he looks handsome.”
“He does.” Ishitar grinned at her. “He’s wearing a new set of robes that he procured just for you.”
“Damn it boy!”
As my embarrassment flamed, her blush deepened. And, for the first time, her returned thoughts of desire for me were clear. I was both terrified and elated that she reciprocated my adoration.
“Perhaps I should wear a new skirt for him.”
“When I have hands,” I grumbled, belying my true joy, “I mean to throttle you with them.”
“Perhaps you should.” Ishitar, laughing under his breath, and responding to us both, stood. “I must go. But I shall see you on Seventh Moon.”
“Don’t be late.” Zadkiel snarled.
“I wouldn’t dream.” Ishitar promised before leaning over and kissing Zamyael goodbye.
-22-
Wisterian, bent over his desk, started when he heard the cry of the falcon.
He turned toward the window and frowned. His discontentment grew as he marked the creature’s face and realized, at once, who he belonged to.
“Come, Blackheart.” He held his hand toward Jamiason’s bird and forced himself to smile. He wished, desperately, he had a mouse to offer the creature, but he didn’t. Not, he grinned, that it stopped the falcon from stepping toward him with his left leg, where the message was tied, held high. “There’s a lad.”
He reached for the scroll that was tied to the falcon’s leg and flipped it open. As he read it, his lips pursed.
Jamiason, it would seem, was ready to palaver.
-23-
Jamiason heard Blackheart cry and turned toward the window more abruptly than he had intended to. The entire court was filled with vampires and demons asking for his aide. This moment was not the one where he could relieve the falcon of the burden of his message.
He turned his gaze to Marchand and willed the boy to see to the matter. Marchand, made wholly from Jamiason’s blood, bowed and walked away.
Relieved, Jamiason returned his attention to the matters at hand.
-24-
Marchand felt Jamiason approaching his bedchamber long before his Maker knocked upon his door. He knew that the only reason that James was coming to him was to discuss the message from Wisterian.
He didn’t care.
Any opportunity to be alone with the man that he considered to be his father brought him joy.
Before Paul, Marchand had been the favored among Jamiason’s progeny. Not that there was much competition. The only other that Jamiason had ever turned was Louis. And Louis, though Marchand’s twin brother, could be extremely difficult to manage.
Whereas Marchand had come to terms with his lot in life, Louis was furious with the circumstances that had come to pass which put them in their current, unnatural state of being. Louis’ anger came mostly from the fact that Jamiason had promised them on the day that the gold had passed to their father that no harm would come to them.
He hadn’t lied to them. He wasn’t responsible for the fact that the demon who thought he should become Jamiason’s heir had tried to kill Marchand to clear his ambitious path. And it had been Louis’ idea, after Marchand had been mortally wounded, that Marchand be turned rather than allowed to bleed out and die.
Just as it had been Louis’ pleading to Jamiason after Marchand had been turned not to leave him, still human, behind.
There was no question in Marchand’s mind that Jamiason loved them both before he had become their Maker. But his love for Marchand became extremely protective and fatherly after the pair of them had been turned.
Until he found Paul, that was.
Once Jamiason found Paul, he had little and less use for either one of his twins.
At first, Marchand had been wounded by this betrayal. Over time, however, he came to understand that Jamiason had chosen Paul because neither Louis nor Marchand were fit to be his heir. Marchand was too shy and Louis was too volatile. Paul, however, was one of those men who could be groomed for to command.
When Jamiason reached Marchand’s room, he didn’t knock. Marchand was not offended by his rudeness. As his Maker, and his King, Jamiason knew he was welcome and that the invitation was not required.
“Unfavorable news?” Jamiason asked, though the question was pointless.
Marchand smiled at him and shook his head. “Wisterian has agreed to meet with you.”
Jamiason sighed his relief and slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Thank all of the Gods.”
“Will you tell him you mean to help him?” Marchand asked, truly curious.
“No.” James shook his head. “It’s best no one knows.” His lips thinned as his cobalt blue eyes flew to Marchand. “I need to employ you.”
“As my Maker, any command you give me is mine to obey.” Marchand shrugged. Jamiason, still frowning, looked swiftly away. He rarely ever used the magic which would force either one of the twins to obey him as their Maker because he abhorred the idea that they could not refuse him. “Tell me what you will of me and I shall give it to you.”
“I ask as your father.” Jamiason muttered. “Not your Maker.”
“Six and half of twelve, James.” Marchand chastised him, though softly. “And you know it.”
This made Jamiason smile.
“You will visit the Oakland Grove and tell Aiken that I request him to vacate so we can use the neutrality for our meeting with the elves.”
“As you will.” Marchand agreed. “Do you think he will comply?”
Jamiason pondered this for a long moment before giving Marchand a perfunctory nod. “His people litter the lands of Anticata. One tribe or another is bound to be caught up in any war that is waged.”
Marchand lowered his gaze in understanding. “I shall leave at next sun fall.”
“Thank you.” Jamiason reached for his hand and squeezed it. “For never questioning my motives.”
Marchand felt a tepid smile cross his lips at that sentiment.
Because, really, who was he to question a God about his motives?
-25-
He often found it queer that his people would care. After all, he, himself, was a scroll lacking bastard. Never mind that he had never taken to wife and, thus, all of his children were bastards.
Yet, for whatever reasons, Triyana was the only one who had been ostracized for it.
Aiken had hoped that Prince Pialoron would have looked past her missing scroll. But he, like all the others, had rejected Triyana. Though his reasoning had nothing to do with her lack of a scroll, his daughter had taken the rejection poorly.
“How is Lord Loki?” She asked, her eyes turning swiftly away.
Aiken chuckled under his breath and gave her a cautious grin. “He bides.”
She bit nervously on her bottom lip as she made her move on the board. “Will he come and visit soon, do you think?”
“He comes and goes as he pleases.” He watched her with an unsettling sense of curiosity.
She licked her lips and raised her gaze. “Do you think he would walk through the meadow with me.”
Aiken’s eyes narrowed. Though he generally found Loki’s ability to bed a woman at his whim amusing, he didn’t care for the idea that Loki might consider adding one of his daughters to his ever growing gaggle of geese. “I think I would prefer that he doesn’t.”
“Fete.” She snorted. “Really. What must you think of me?”
“That you’re a peach that’s nearly ripe for the picking.” Aiken muttered. “Loki is my dearest friend.” He felt his eyes narrow again. “But I don’t trust him around my women.”
“Oh, Fete.” She batted her hand at him. “I can’t stay honest forever.”
“No.” He agreed. “But you will do so until I’ve found you a proper husband.”
“Then you mean me to become a spinster.” She whined.
“No.” He sighed. “Triyana, you’re only just blossoming. You have plenty of time to find a husband before being considered a spinster.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I believe that Prince Pialoron will come around. He just needs time to grieve his Shitva.”
She glared at him for a moment and then turned her gaze away. “It isn’t his Shitva that is keeping him from marriage.”
“It is.” Aiken assured her.
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s his eunuch. I’ve heard rumors that the water fairies have a penchant for their slaves.”
“Unfounded.” Aiken’s lips pursed. He abhorred the practice that the water fairies had adopted of trading eunuchs as slaves. As for the rumors that they forced them to their beds, they were completely without merit. Never mind that the tribe that Prince Pialoron came from was mired in tradition and old world ways. “What have I told you about propagating gossip?”
She sighed and waved to the board. “It’s your move.”
Aiken considered her for a moment and then turned his attention to the board. He was just ready to slide his merman into place when his eldest daughter, whom he intended to abdicate his crown to so he could, finally, renounce his mortal veil, stepped into the room.
“Fete.” He turned toward her, smiling as his eyes trailed with fatherly affection over her features. She was tall, like him, with long, dark blue hair and eyes and a beautiful blue scroll that matched that of her mother. She was the prettiest of his daughters. There was no denying it. “We have a visitor. He says he was sent by Lord Scrountentine.”
Aiken felt a lump immediately rise to his throat. “Good news or ill?”
“He wouldn’t say, my Lord.” Karma replied.
“Vampire or demon?”
“Vampire.” She was clearly confused by this question. “An extremely young vampire.”
“A fledgling?” Aiken’s brow rose. “Newly turned?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean . . . He was clearly human.” Aiken nodded. “No more than fourteen when he was made, I should think.”
“Ah.” Aiken fell back in his chair. “He’s sent one of his twins.”
“His twins?” Triyana asked.
Aiken ignored her question and turned to Karma. “Bring the child up, met paken.”
“Yes, my Lord.” She bowed to him and turned away.
He watched her go with an affectionate grin before turning to Triyana. “Leave me, girl.”
She nodded her compliance, though she clearly didn’t want to leave. She had never met a vampire, Aiken knew, and she was curious to meet a boy of any race that was near to her same age.
Never mind that he’s nearly three hundred years old.
He passed her a thin smile as she, finally, stood. “Good night, Fete.”
“Good night, met paken.” He replied. “Lay your head down to dreams that are sweet.”
She nodded and took her leave.
Some several minutes later, Karma returned with one of the twins at her side. Aiken had only ever seen them from a distance. As such, he wasn’t sure which twin stood before him.
He rose and stepped toward the pair. As he did so, the youngish looking man lowered his doe like brown eyes, bent at the waist and gave Aiken a proper, respectful bow.
“Emissary Lord Darklief.” His voice was strangely enchanting. It still held the melodic tones of the incredibly young. “Thank you for agreeing to hold palaver with me.”
“I assume you come with a matter of import?” Aiken replied, trying to keep his tone level and kind.
The child gave him a wan smile and a curt nod. “I am Marchand Deboines.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Marchand.” This was truly meant. He was happy to have finally met one of Jamiason’s twins. “I understand that Jami has sent you.”
“Lord Scrountentine.” He nodded, his brow slightly furrowed. “Yes.”
Aiken nodded and flicked his gaze to Karma. “Leave us.”
“Yes, my Lord.” She gave the appropriate curtsey with false skirts and made her way out of the room.
When she was gone, Aiken turned his full attention to Marchand, who was very clearly trying not to follow her bare bottom out of the room with his eyes. Aiken was less than amused by this but chose to ignore it. “Please, Marchand Deboines. Won’t you sit?”
“I shouldn’t wish to take up too much of your time.”
“It is no matter.” Aiken assured him. “Any news from Jami is welcome news.” He licked his lips, swallowed and then asked, “How does he fair?”
Marchand’s smile grew tight. “Ill, I’m afraid.”
“Ill?” Aiken leaned forward, suddenly concerned.
“I don’t know if you know Iykva.”
“I do.” Aiken frowned. He had always been leery of Iykva.
“He has declared that he intends to strike war upon the elves.” Marchand’s dark brow was furrowed. “My Maker is extremely concerned because . . . Well.”
Aiken waved a hand at him. He understood why Jamiason was concerned far better than this young man ever could. “Why does Iykva want to war on the elves?”
“I am uncertain, my Lord.” Marchand’s tone had a slight tremor to it. “My Maker believes that it has to do with the fact that the angels weren’t granted the same burdens as we were. But what Iykva is saying is that he believes that if he gathers the elfin children together he can farm them as a food source.”
“What on which moon that is good could come of that?” Aiken growled.
“Nothing, my Lord.” Marchand swallowed. “But they believe that if they drink the blood of the elves, then we vampires will, ourselves, become elves.”
Aiken’s lips twitched. “It is a plausible theory.”
“It is.” Marchand agreed, raising his gaze as he braved to ask the burning
question. “Would it work?”
“Who can say?” Aiken shrugged, thinking that it had certainly worked when Evan had bent his neck to Jami. “It’s entirely possible.”
“Even if it did,” Marchand lowered his gaze again, “it’s immoral.”
“That it is.” Aiken found himself smiling at the boy. He decided, as the child braved to look at him again, that he liked him. “What does Jami need from me?”
“Well,” Marchand gave him a shy smile, “He wants to meet with Wisterian. He believes that Iykva owes it to him to lay down his demands before actually making his strike.”
Aiken’s lips thinned again, though he nodded, “Seems the reasonable thing to do.”
“He’s asked if they can meet here.”
“In the Oakland Grove?” This request came as a profound surprise.
“Yes.” What small bit of confidence he had seemed to have left him completely. “He understands it is an imposition on you as you would have to vacate. But he wants a place where Iykva wouldn’t dare to make an attack on the young Prince.”
Aiken sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What a mess.”
Marchand nodded.
“Is Jami’s goal really, at the end of the day, the protection of the elves?”
“I believe that it is.” Marchand didn’t hesitate in his response.
“Very well.” Aiken muttered. “They may meet here.”
“Thank you, my Lord.” He seemed relieved.
“But tell Jami this.” Aiken leaned forward, locking Marchand’s gaze with his own. “If his goal is truly the protection of the elves, I will help him.” Marchand nodded. “In order for me to do so, he must make one small sacrifice.”
“Which is?” The boy was immediately concerned.
“I gave Paul Kinney a bauble.” Aiken explained. “A very powerful bauble.” Marchand lowered his gaze and bowed his head. “I did so when Jami asked me to look over the carrot top.”
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