“Yes.”
I shook my head. “No wizard would willingly part with his spellbook. Especially not one as old and power-hungry as you claim Isai is.”
“He had no choice. He is bound to obey my direct orders.”
“Bound how?” Anton watched me for a moment. I sighed. “Confidentiality contract signed in blood. Horrible death. Complete candor?”
He nodded. “My family was turned in the Old Kingdom. At the time, I was a prince, soon to be king, but after our transformation, my father… Well, let us say, he did not foresee ever stepping down from the throne. I realized if I were ever going to get the throne—and keep it—I would need powerful allies. An ally at the time helped me with my first step—securing the services of the most powerful wizard known to our kingdom. The details are not important, but suffice it to say, I acquired his spellbook and offered him a trade. He would agree to serve me until I became king, and I would return his spellbook. He agreed.”
I was more than certain his agreement hadn’t been that simple, but I held my tongue.
“I assume Mother Hazel has educated you on how this world came to be?” he said, gesturing toward the window.
“You and the other four princes from the five kingdoms managed to grow a new limb on the World Tree. You started building your own kingdom, but eventually other races and figures found out about it and created their own portals to your realm. Eventually those portals wore holes in the veil between worlds, and everything mixed together. This world was the example she used when she explained retro-causal quantum theory, the idea that the future can affect the past.”
Anton sighed. “How nice that the contamination of my creation provided educational value during your studies.” He shrugged. “Still, one must make do. When I made the decision to stay here instead of remaining in the Old Kingdom, I renegotiated with Isai. I offered him a choice. He could continue serving as my wizard under the old arrangement, which might continue indefinitely, or he could agree to obey any direct order I gave him and there would be a time limit on his servitude. He opted for the latter.”
“How many years?”
“One thousand.”
I blinked. “How… How many years does he have left?”
“Five hundred. He is halfway to his freedom.”
“And you ordered him to give you his spellbook?”
“After the vault was robbed, yes.”
Without his spellbook, Isai was limited to the spells he'd committed to memory. Even a wizard with a really good memory would have a hard time recalling every nuance of a spell. And if Isai was as powerful as Anton claimed, his spellbook would be priceless, compiled over centuries. If the vampire refused to return it…
Anton didn’t flinch, just held my gaze.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said slowly, “what makes you think Isai won’t kill you to get his spellbook back? He must have memorized some nasty spells.”
“I have…safeguards in place.”
“Safeguards?”
“If something were to happen to me, Isai would find himself the target of several very powerful individuals. He would not live to enjoy his freedom. And he would never see his spellbook again.”
I toyed with the zipper on the pouch around my waist. “Wait, if you have these safeguards in place, then why would he risk betraying you? Wouldn’t the same safeguards apply?”
“A century or so ago, he would never have considered it. But as I said before, arrogance was always Isai’s greatest weakness.” Anton leaned back in his seat. “Isai sees enough of my business that he understands how much power and influence I have. But he is not privy to enough detail to fully understand or appreciate how much work goes into it.” He paused and tilted his head. “Consider for a moment an amateur painter envying a master’s reputation and success. There are those amateurs who think, If only I had that person’s time, and resources, and money, I could be just as successful. They don’t appreciate what truly goes into those masterpieces, the creativity, the thought, the painstaking planning.”
“You think Isai believes that if he had your book, he would have instant success comparable to yours. From one book?”
Anton put the pen down and held it to the desk with the tip of one pale finger. “He is wrong. The book is an invaluable resource, yes, but giving someone a set of paints and a canvas does not mean they can give you a masterpiece. Isai never truly understood that because he cannot imagine anyone being smarter than he is. He cannot imagine that I am able to do things because my intellect is superior.” He leaned back in his seat, staring into the distance for a moment. “It is this new world, I’m afraid. It’s not like the Old Kingdom. Everything is easier. There was a time that death and blood were much more real to Isai. But now…I’m afraid being rich is all it takes to feel invincible in this world.”
I studied the file some more, this time reading through the summary of the suspects. “You have this one marked with an asterisk. Flint Valencia. A fey?”
“Leannan sidhe, to be precise. Flint is the most recent entry in the book that was stolen. I had given him until the spring equinox to make his choice on whether to sign. He was…reluctant.”
“What did you have on him?”
Anton leaned back in his chair. “Flint’s people, the leannan sidhe, are a very political people. To survive, one must constantly make connections with others, simultaneously building goodwill and gathering blackmail. Seduction has nothing to do with love and everything to do with power, and marriages are contracts no different from a business arrangement. Not everyone has the taste or the energy for such consistent vigilance and ambition.”
He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but he seemed to be building to a point. “I take it Flint was such a person?” I asked.
“It would seem so. Flint has little desire to engage in societal politics, but he does desire the power and protection such engagement provides. And unlike some who merely complain about their circumstances, Flint discovered a way to get what he wanted on his terms. A way to have all the knowledge he needed to force alliances and fend off attacks, without any of the effort that comes from building the trust that gathering such information usually requires.”
“And how did he manage that?”
“He used a forbidden ritual to bind the soul of one of his own people. He trapped the man’s soul in ink, and used it to tattoo his victim’s name on his flesh. The binding allows Flint access to his victim’s knowledge and memories, in essence, giving Flint precious information it took a lifetime to gather in mere hours.”
Ice slid into my blood, and I pressed my hands flat against my thighs, physically centering myself. “That is an evil spell.”
“It is.”
“What proof do you have?”
“I have the gun he used to shoot his victim, with his fingerprints on it. I also have the bullet with his victim’s blood.”
I frowned and crossed my arms. “He didn’t take the gun with him? And he left the bullet? That seems…careless.” I wanted to add it also sounded suspicious that Anton just happened to be on hand to gather the damning evidence, but I held my tongue.
Anton guessed what I was thinking. “Flint did not perform this ritual only once. He wears the names of three victims that I know of. My spies heard rumors of the first victim, and when I learned what he was doing, I made it a point to keep an eye on him. It took time, but when he performed the ritual again, I had someone nearby to interrupt. They disarmed him, then allowed him to leave with his tattoo.”
“But not with the evidence.”
“Precisely.”
The chill in my blood spread down my arms, and I shivered. “I’m not familiar with all the details of such a spell. But it is my understanding that Flint would get the information he wanted by speaking telepathically with the souls trapped in the tattoos.” I tried to swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “His victims are aware they’re trapped.”
“That is Isai’s theor
y as well,” Anton agreed.
“If his people found out what he was doing, they’d kill him. There are few sins greater among the fey than trapping someone’s soul, or their essence.”
Something passed through Anton’s eyes, and for just as second, he looked at me with a little too much intensity, a little too much…expectation. The look was gone before I could call him on it.
“Yes, they would kill him immediately, I would think,” he said. “With the evidence I possess, there would be no need for a trial.”
That thought made my skin crawl. Everyone deserved a trial. “You said it would be almost impossible for someone to locate a specific book. Why do you think Flint might have done so?”
Anton tapped a few keys on the laptop sitting in the corner of his desk, then turned it to face me.
The quality of the screen was so clear that I had to squint to make sure I wasn’t looking out a window. Anton pointed to a man near the elevator. He had one hand braced on the wall, his body bent over a slim brunette dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a red silk shirt. His muscles bunched as he leaned over, straining his black button-down shirt. When he turned his head, I caught a good look at his smiling face, the strong line of his jaw, aquiline nose, and dark eyes shining with mischief. The blue jeans he wore clung in all the right places, but weren’t so tight that you missed how incredibly soft they seemed. Even watching the video, I found myself wanting to feel the denim, trace my fingers up the leg…
“That is Flint Valencia. And the woman he is with was one of my guards.”
I leaned closer to the screen. Flint was not what I’d expected. He wasn’t a long, lean man, and his ears were blunt and rounded. He looked too…rough to be sidhe. Too thick. The man on the screen oozed masculinity, the careless, brutish kind of masculinity that made women—and probably some men—think of being snatched off their feet, dragged down to the ground, and taken like an animal in a fit of mindless passion that was more sweat and grunting than silk sheets and pretty words.
My hand brushed the keyboard. Startled, I blinked, realized that at some point I’d risen from my seat and leaned over the desk to stare harder at the leannan sidhe. My breathing was labored, and sweat coated my palms. Anton studied me, and though I saw no judgment on his face, it was clear he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone.
I sat abruptly, not bothering to even attempt a recovery of my pride.
“His power is greater than any leannan sidhe I have ever known,” Anton said calmly. “Concentrate on the effects you’re experiencing now. Imagine how much more powerful they will be should you speak to him in person. Take precautions.”
I nodded halfway through the sentence, still trying to force my heart rate to slow down to normal. “Good idea.” I grabbed the file, needing a distraction to get my chaotic thoughts back in order. “If one of these people stole your book, wouldn’t they have tried to use the information against you by now?”
“I believe they have not attempted to use it yet because they have not figured out how to open it.”
“How do you open it?”
Anton tapped the slick screen of a smart phone lying on the left side of his desk. “You have three days. Find the book and the thief before then.”
So he's not going to tell me how to open it. I lifted the file, drawing a finger over one of the neatly labeled tabs. A murdered woman. Three murdered guards. A missing book. A list of suspects long enough to choke a dragon. Three days to find the thief. My first case.
Excitement bubbled inside me, urging me to accept, to sign the contract. This was it, my chance to follow my own path, and damn what Mother Hazel said. I pressed my lips together, smothering the hasty response. Despite my desire to live my dream, I was not a fool. This was more than I’d bargained for, more than I’d expected for my first case. This…this was politics. Old Kingdom politics. Vampire politics.
“Mother Renard, it is my understanding you live off the respect of your village and a small allowance from your mentor.”
I bristled. “You make me sound like a teenager. I receive a stipend from Mother Hazel, as is my due as her apprentice until I’ve found my professional path.”
Anton's lips parted, but it wasn’t his voice that answered me. A different male voice interrupted, cutting him off.
“You say that so calmly. But we both know how much those ‘stipends’ from our mentors grate, don’t we? They lord them over us, control us by threatening to reduce it or take it away. A stipend is a leash fashioned of coins, chains that weigh us down, drag in our wake and announce to our would-be peers that we are servants instead of our own masters.”
I pivoted in my seat, seeking the voice’s source. Tension curled my nerve endings at the thought that the vampire’s office was not as secure as he’d claimed. Someone had listened as I made a deal with the devil.
“Dimitri, I have asked you countless times not to eavesdrop on my business dealings.” Anton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This is unacceptable.”
“What’s unacceptable is your security. Aren’t you always telling me that security must be rigorously and routinely tested? Better I’m the one to find these weaknesses than one of your enemies.”
“Debatable,” Anton muttered.
“I’m sorry, who is that?” I asked.
Anton sighed. “Mother Renard, meet Dimitri Winters. My son.”
“Call me Dimitri, please.”
I slumped in my seat, grateful the chair’s high back and padded arms kept me from pitching over. “Your…son?”
“Yes. Say goodbye. He was just leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dimitri said. “I want to chat with Mother Renard.”
“Please call me Shade.” The vampire prince has a son. Dear Goddess, he has a son. I gripped the arms of my chair, grounding myself in the present. Now was not the time to reflect on what the vampire’s progeny meant for the world. For all I knew, Dimitri wouldn’t even take after his father. I’d heard only good things about Anton’s wife, Vera. Maybe the boy had her genes. “Um, I feel rude not knowing what direction to face when I speak with you?”
“It’s just a mic, no camera, so it doesn’t really matter,” Dimitri said.
I glanced at Anton. “When you told me who has a right to be down in the guard room before the vault, you didn’t mention your son.”
“That’s because he is not supposed to be down there.” Anton pressed a button on the intercom. “Kevin?”
“Sir?” came a voice from the speaker.
“Schedule another sweep.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a slight pause. “Dimitri?”
“Yes.”
Kevin sighed. “All right. I’ll get all three teams in.”
There was a snicker over the other speaker. “You’ll never find it,” Dimitri said, sounding smug.
“I’m sorry, you said you wanted to chat with me?” As much as part of me wanted to watch this odd father-son interaction play out, another part of me refused to forget that I was in the office of a man who was a prince and a vampire. Anton had spilled enough blood to wash away most of his enemies. And he’d drunk a good portion of it.
“Forgive my rudeness,” Dimitri apologized. “Yes, I’d like to speak with you. You see, I understand. I know who your mentor is. Being Baba Yaga’s apprentice cannot have been easy.”
I shivered despite myself. Baba Yaga. One of Mother Hazel’s oldest names, and the name mortals feared the most to speak. Hearing it spoken out loud filled my mind with images of headless horsemen, human skulls mounted on fence posts with fire in their eyes and mouths. Meat cooking in the oven, filling the house with the scent of a fool who had dared demand aid from the old crone in the forest.
“Let me guess, Dimitri continued. “She made you train for decades, but always avoided the lessons you were most desperate to learn. She designed every task to make you realize how unprepared you were to live on your own, how much you needed her teaching. You fought every day to learn enough to pr
ove yourself, prove you didn’t need her parenting anymore, prove you could survive—could thrive—on your own. And now you’ve succeeded, but that stipend… That allowance is the final chain.”
Everything he said reverberated in my head. He understood. He really understood. I glanced at Anton. I suppose if anyone would understand what it had been like to study under Baba Yaga, it would be the son of the vampire prince.
Dimitri spoke the next words with the soft, awed voice of someone sharing a great secret. “There is a way to escape. Financial freedom. That is the last step toward independence.”
I strained to listen over the roar of my own pulse in my ears. The way he spoke of financial independence… I wanted it.
“Take my case, and I will pay you handsomely,” Anton said, riding the coattails of the promise in his son’s voice. “You will have the money you need to start your detective agency. And you will not need another penny from your mentor.”
The words “I’ll take the case!” tingled on the tip of my tongue as soon as the last syllable left his lips, but I bit them back. I wanted to be free from any dependence on Mother Hazel, Goddess knew I did. But something about his tone made me look a little harder at him. He smiled.
“This is not a manipulation, Mother Renard. And let me tell you, contrary to what my son seems to believe, I too understand. My father was a vampire as well. King of Dacia. I know what it is like to live off someone else’s fortune. And I know what it is like when you finally escape it.” He pushed the contract toward me. “It is a feeling I highly recommend.”
This time, when the pen bit me, I was ready for it.
CHAPTER 6
“Hi, Mr. Valencia, my name is Shade Renard. I’d like to speak with you, so if you would call me back at your earliest convenience, I would appreciate it.”
I left my phone number and jabbed the end call button before collapsing into the deep cushions of my couch. The nervous energy buzzing like a disturbed beehive inside me didn’t calm right away, the anxiety that had begun with the first syllable of Flint’s voicemail message still gripping my insides. Goddess, he had the very definition of a bedroom voice. Whiskey smooth, but rough enough to make you imagine calloused hands squeezing soft flesh. Never had the words “leave me a message and I’ll get back to you” held so much promise.
Deadline (Blood Trails Book 1) Page 9