by Lizzy Ford
Trial by Thrall
TRIAL SERIES, EPISODE TWO
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By Lizzy Ford
www.LizzyFord.com
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Cover design by Lizzy Ford
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KINDLE EDITION
Published by Kettlecorn Press
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Trial by Thrall copyright ©2015 by Lizzy Ford
www.LizzyFord.com
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Cover design copyright © 2015 by Lizzy Ford
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
“Why am I not surprised?” I gaze up at the towering building and read the huge sign hanging over its entrance.
F.A.E. Pharmaceuticals
I guess it makes sense for a drug lord to run a pharmaceutical company. I’m once more questioning how the other clans seem to have made billions while my father lived in comparative austerity. I went to college on a scholarship, and we shopped at Target for my clothes growing up. It wasn’t Goodwill but it wasn’t the mall either.
This is the least of my concerns this morning. I shake my head and go to the side entrance marked, Employees Only. Tristan brought me a badge and packet with onboarding instructions last night during the most awkward dinner ever. He was polite and so distant, I couldn’t get a sense on him at all.
It’s more than the situation, the temporary bond between the Kingmaker and a complete stranger, confusing me. My week with Ben was a wakeup call in many ways, and I’m stuck between trying to understand everything that’s happened and needing to move on, so the pain of it all can’t catch up to me.
One of these men is a potential threat to me and the Community. I can imagine someone like that being as withdrawn as Tristan. Then again, I can see Ben being that guy, too. He’s got the aggressiveness and shrewd mind for it. If he felt his wolves were threatened by anyone or anything, even me, he’d unleash hell.
They’ve both been charged by the Trial process to deceive me, I remind myself. I fell hard for Ben and trusted him. I’m not going to do that with Tristan. I want nothing to do with being exposed or vulnerable to anyone ever again, and I definitely don’t want to make the wrong choice when it comes to choosing a sound leader for the Community. If I let my emotions decide, we’re all screwed.
I’m not going to fall for Tristan. I don’t care what happens. I’m prepared for this trial, unlike my first. I won’t be caught off guard again.
I swipe in through the guard gate and then pull up the instructions Tristan emailed me on my phone. Instead of looking for the conference room where Tristan is meeting me, I locate the nearest bathroom.
The ground floor of the company is a maze of hallways and offices. It’s brimming with people this morning, most of who are wandering to and from the cafeteria with coffee cups. Everyone smiles at me, which I’m assuming means they don’t yet know who I am – the dreaded Kingmaker, here to potentially take their beloved leader from them or whatever it is these people think Kingmakers do that makes my family generally despised by all.
I’m too distracted to smile back at anyone. I find a bathroom between the Sales Department and Human Resources Division and duck into it. Hiding away in a corner stall, I pull out the Book of Secrets.
Earlier this morning, on my way rushing out the door, I stopped to check the Book and see if anything new was written over night, now that I’m officially on my second trial. Two new chapters appeared: the first, the References index listing all the books about the fae my predecessors have so diligently recorded over the past twenty generations. This chapter is thirty pages long, since the fae are the second oldest clan in existence. I hastily located and grabbed the last book on the list – which should be the most recently written, if this list is similar to the one I found for werewolves – and then flipped to see if new chapters were viewable in the Book of Secrets.
Given the Book’s inconsistent and maddening performance to date, I didn’t expect to see anything, but a second chapter, entitled, The Final Trials followed the References.
Only one line was written in this second chapter, and it’s this sentence that has me rushing to hide out in the bathroom this morning.
Safely out of sight of everyone, I open the Book and turn to The Final Trials, hoping there’s more information than what I read earlier.
Of course, there isn’t.
“One clan will perish.”
One freakin’ sentence. That’s it. No explanation, no dates, nothing. This line is in the middle of the page, too, which means there’s invisible writing all around it that I can’t yet read.
Talk about getting serious fast.
I really hate this book right now. I’m on the verge of something important, and apparently, it’s done sharing for today. It makes me ill to my stomach, or maybe, I’m feeling sick because the milk in my morning coffee was bad. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week and couldn’t afford to go if I wanted to.
I stare at the page before me, willing more writing to appear.
None does.
Slamming the Book of Secrets closed, I shove it into my backpack and then pull out the thick tome detailing Tristan’s life. He’s close to six hundred years old, which means the book in my hands is three inches thick and has been worked on by no less than four of my predecessors.
With a quick look at my watch, I realize I’m already late. After a bad night of sleep, I awoke with a headache and buzzing in my ears, which I’m blaming on magic. The Book of Secrets is living up to its moniker, and I’m starting off this trial tired and pissed.
Frustrated already, I tuck the book away and leave the bathroom. My directions lead me to the eighth floor, listed on the floor plan as the executive floor, and I pause outside a closed door.
Now that I can wear polyester again, I’m in a chic, simple dress I hope passes as somewhat professional. If nothing else, it’ll keep me cool during the heat wave we’re having in the middle of autumn.
I knock and wait.
“Go on in. It’s your office.” Tristan’s voice is low and soft.
I face him.
Dressed in a business suit that skims his torso, he’s smiling and stops a few feet away. His awkwardness is adorable. Unlike Ben, he’s not plunging straight into claiming me. I mean, Ben showed up naked to our first date.
I get a much more guarded vibe from Tristan, as if he’s been around long enough to know why people hate Kingmakers or he’s as concerned as I am about becoming emotionally vulnerable to a stranger. He reminds me of a famous actor or male model, someone I’ve seen in a magazine. I’m trying to place which one. His chiseled looks and large eyes are both fitting for a man who makes a living off his looks, and also a little different. His beauty isn’t cold like most models. He seems approachable.
“I get my own office?” I ask in the tense silence.
“You do.”
“Cool.”
“I thought it’d be easier for you to conduct interviews or whatever you need to do,” he says.
“Thanks.” I try to open the door. It’s locked, and I smack into it. �
��Shit.” My face flares hot in embarrassment. Only I would run into a door on my first day here.
“I’m so sorry.” Tristan draws near. He smells fresh, of mint and chamomile tea, and reaches around me with a key. His hand grazes mine. A flare of cool magic floats through me. I shift to the side to give him room, but his left hand rests on the small of my back, a light touch laced with elusive fae magic, to keep me in place. “It was supposed to be unlocked.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not grading you yet,” I joke.
He meets my gaze, his face inches from mine, and pauses in his movement. I have a feeling he doesn’t like what I said, but it’s instinct, because he doesn’t appear offended. In that split second, my gut tells me there’s a great deal more to the aloof fae leader beside me, a streak of iciness in the otherwise cool flow of his magic.
I find myself falling into sparkling green eyes the same hue as the lush grasses of Ireland where his people originate. This fae magic reminds me of dancing in moonbeams on a warm summer night, a combination of magic and euphoria, laced with brooding darkness, that turns the experience from peaceful to exhilarating. At any second, the night can swallow the moon, leaving the brave dancer at the mercy of the waiting shadows.
Would I dance or would I stay home and wait until the safety of dawn?
I dance. Always.
His magic recedes, as if it – or maybe, he? - hears my silent answer. I blink out of the spell.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at him, ensnared by his gorgeous eyes and the subtle dare from enchanting magic, neither of which I understand. It takes effort to remember what we were talking about.
“Oh, right,” I add, cheeks even warmer. “I’m the one on trial, not you.”
He gives me a faint smile. His gaze slides away, and he opens the door.
What exactly just happened? Did he test me? Did I pass? Does it matter either way? “Sorry I’m late. I was …” How do I explain it? Feeling bat shit crazy and trying to read a book that has no words? Why do I suddenly feel … off? “Anyway, it was a weird morning. I won’t be late next time.”
“Leslie, you’re fine. Seriously,” Tristan replies. “Do what you need to. I’m not here to pressure or disturb you.”
I glance at him then back, surprised to see he’s genuine. Whatever happened in the hallway, it’s over, and he’s once more aloof. Whether it’s his subtle charisma or magic, I find myself relaxing.
“So … any major pet peeves?” I ask, mind on Ben’s complete hatred for betrayal. “Or fae-only rules you don’t want me trampling?”
“Avoid pure iron. It can be lethal to us in large enough doses,” Tristan answers. “The fae are a gentle people. We value life, and nature, above all else. The two are inextricably linked in our belief system. We’re vegetarians for that reason. To take any life, even for food, is the greatest crime in our culture.”
No cheeseburgers for a week. I should be able to do that. “I go from a carnivore to an herbivore,” I quip. “Anything else?”
“You’ll figure the rest out as you go.” There’s a flicker of something in his gaze I can’t place.
I’m usually all about learning things the hard way, except when it results in being kidnapped and dragged out to the forest so someone can try to kill me. However, if the fae truly value life, I should be safe this trial.
Except I get the vibe I may not be entirely safe from him.
We look at one another too long.
“I’ve got meetings all day with the Board of Directors,” Tristan says. “My executive assistant, Conor, has instructions to do whatever you ask of him. Just dial star six on the phone if you need anything.”
Nodding, I glance at the desk. It’s very formal, and everything in the office is perfectly placed, with tons of empty space, to the point I’m reminded of a doctor’s office waiting room. It’s not my style at all, though I love the office’s view. We’re high enough to look out over the city and see the blue velvet waters of the ocean beyond the buildings.
“I can meet you for dinner,” Tristan adds. “You can start to interview me then, if you’d like.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“Call Conor or me if you need anything, and keep the badge on all day.” He motions to the badge I dropped on the desk. “No one will bother you.”
“Thanks.”
I watch him leave. Is he purposely keeping his distance or hiding something? Or does he really not want to do this with me? What exactly is that edge I sense behind his smile?
The door closes quietly behind him and I sling my backpack into one of the two leather chairs facing the desk. I’ll never understand why desks face away from the windows and debate for a moment where I feel like sitting. The office has its own attached bathroom, a kitchenette, couch and small conference room table. The desk has a dead plant in one corner, a closed laptop in its center, and a phone. The office is clean and also appears not to have been used in quite some time, if the poor plant’s shriveled leaves are any indication.
Tristan has given me an insanely nice office but I’m not comfortable in it. My style is a bit more chaotic with clutter everywhere and an organization system only I understand. I like an abundance of stuff and there’s nothing remotely interesting in here to draw my attention.
My headache is persistent despite the painkillers I choked down on the way out the door. The subtle buzzing is too faint for me to identify what it is and too loud for me to completely ignore it. It’s just the right volume to irritate me.
I grab a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge then sit down in the leather chair beside my backpack.
Ben was so forward with me, I didn’t have to wonder where I stood. Tristan is on the other end of the spectrum, friendly and polite. I can’t tell at all if he’s physically attracted to me or interested in going through with the trial as true mates with all this bond entails. Twice I’ve seen a glimmer of something more in the depths of his eyes. Amusement maybe, as if he’s enjoying watching me fumble around.
He’s difficult to read and has been around long enough for me to believe this might be on purpose. What’s clear: sleeping with Ben seems to have woken up the Book of Secrets. Dinner with Tristan got me a new list of references and one agonizing line about certain doom. If sleeping with him will fill in the chapter mysteriously named, The Final Trials, then I’m happy to make the first move to find out what’s next.
I pull out the biography on Tristan and flip past the first three fourths of the book. My predecessors were definitely men and women of their eras. Some of the writing is so angled and sweeping, I can’t read it without a great deal of study, and there are far too many thou and hasts and other archaic English words for me to decipher. I spot one chapter in Latin as I flip through and shake my head.
“How did anyone ever figure this shit out?” I wonder aloud.
My father’s writing, while brutally dry, is at least readable. I mark the page where his neat writing starts and then pull out a notebook I bought specifically to create a cheat sheet of this trial process for my son or daughter. The first rule is already listed, and I pen another.
Leslie’s rules for the trials:
1. If a werewolf says she’s going to kill you, she’s serious.
2. The Book of Secrets will purposely fuck with you.
I feel better after writing it and set the notebook aside to read about Tristan. I skim the first few chapters my father wrote. He picks up the narrative of Tristan’s life about a hundred years ago.
“Wealthy family. Go figure.” I scan a few pages before reaching anything interesting.
“The Industrial Revolution birthed the modern world but for the fae, spelled danger. The fae, above the other clans, are connected intimately to nature, perhaps even an extension of the singular spirit that runs within nature, and saw their position within the Community erode with the source of their power base. Their numbers have dwindled, and surviving to adulthood as a fae is not likely for more than one out of every two fae
born. Fae magic is derived from nature, and it requires a certain amount of wild land to sustain each fae. With less wild lands available to support each fae, there are less fae who survive.”
I frown. An infant mortality rate that high is worse than that of any third world country I’ve ever heard of. I check the date for when this entry was written. It’s about sixty years old. Turning pages until I’m closer to the end, I pause again when I reach the part about the creation of F.A.E Pharmaceuticals.
“Established twenty years ago. Leader in the industry. Responsible for curing a billion different diseases, vaccinations out the ying-yang,” I murmur as I read. “’The skin, hair, and bones of the fae hold curative properties. As technology advanced, the fae learned how to profit off the bodies of their dead.’”
What exactly did my father think the fae do? Grind up their dead and make pills out of them?
My father was wrong about Ben culling his own wolves. As much as I loved Daddy, I’m starting to think I never really knew him. What turned a reasonable man into someone who believed the worst about everyone around him?
Creatures that claim to value life aren’t going to make pills out of the dead bodies of their own kind. Skeptical of my father’s information, I’m struck by a different thought.
What the hell did my father think of me? To my face, he was loving, if distracted all the time. Did he hide so much about the clans and what it means to be a Kingmaker because he thought me unworthy or incapable?
Or … did he actually know how much trouble I got into on a regular basis through high school and college and decide I couldn’t be trusted with any sort of responsibility?
What happened to him to make him so bitter? I can see him hating one clan after my zombie mother’s death, but all the clans? Did each clan somehow manage to offend him to the same extent the zombies did? What happened to him that he believed the supernaturals were incapable of emotion and willing to sell their own dead for a few bucks?