Seduced by Pain: A New Adult Paranormal Romance of Shifters & Witches (Rose's Trilogy, #2) (The Seduced Saga)

by Kimberly Kinrade

  So that was why the Inn Keeper had suddenly turned on us. Greed. My heart sank as I contemplated the ramifications of the Inquisition finding its way to here. We had been safe before, but this changed everything. Where would we send those in exile? What would become of them, of us all?

  I galloped through the quiet streets, worry weighing heavy on me for Philip and for our city and our charges.

  We made good time, the sun sending out its first tentative rays of light as the horse slowed to a stop in front of Philip's estate. A beautiful red-head swung open the front door, just as I slid off the horse and helped Lisette and her child down. She ran to me, as much as she could with her own child growing in her, and hugged me hard. "I've been worried out of my mind." Her green eyes scanned the lane that lead to her brother's home. "Where's Philip? Is he okay?"

  "He should be joining us soon. Giovani betrayed us and your brother had to fight off some thugs. They shouldn't pose much of a challenge against him though." I hugged her again. "It's good to see you. We need to get them to bed." I stood back to introduce our new friends. "This is Lisette and her son Jean-Paul."

  Lisette curtsied. "Bonjour."

  I held the reigns on the horse. "Lisette, this is Elizabeth. She's Philip's sister and my dearest friend. She'll take good care of you and your baby."

  Elizabeth frowned. "You look exhausted. You need to come in and rest."

  I shook my head. "I can't. You know I can't. I'm already late and my brother is going to be angry as it is."

  She sighed, a guilty expression flashing over her face before it disappeared. "Well, he did send a message asking about you. But honestly, Danika, Darius is an overbearing ass. You don't have to do what he says. You're so much more powerful than him!"

  "In our hidden world, perhaps, but not in the regular world. To them I'm just his widowed sister who is forced to work as a mid-wife, while he is the great and rising physician to the wealthy." We'd had this conversation too many times to count, but Elizabeth never gave up.

  Her eyes narrowed, and I knew what would come next. "Marry Philip. You know he'd have you in a heartbeat if you but gave him the slightest indication you wanted him in that way. Then we'd be real sisters and we could live here together and do the work we were meant to do."

  I would have given almost anything to live that reality, but it wasn't to be, and Elizabeth, who believed the world could be anything we chose it to be, would never understand. "I have to go. I'll see you soon."

  I draped my leg over the horse and left my friend behind as she ushered the new mother and babe into her home. The pull of their lives, of that home and the safety and freedom it would afford me was strong. But I didn't love Philip in that way, and knew that I never would. Even still, our friendship and deep caring might have been enough, if not for the other who waited for me in the near future. My heartstrings had already bound to his, sight unseen, and I couldn't change the course of our destiny, I could only hope to shape it enough to save at least one of us from a fate worse than physical death.

  Disagreeable Things

  Andriy Zorin

  21 October 1519

  "What is the city but the people?"

  —William Shakespeare, Coriolanus

  Venice stank. Like most cities, it stank of the people that populated it. The smell of dung and dead things spilled from the canals—appropriate, in a way. The canals were, after all, the roads of Venice. Roads had horseshit. The canals had people shit.

  They had barges too, packed with goods by day and festive drunks by night, and Gondolas. The boats, sharp and flat like blades of grass, streaked through the water, carrying ladies who enticed the men with their flesh, and Gondoliers who recited poetry old and new. Even when the streets were empty—but of course, they were never empty—winged lions and griffins listened on, forever etched in stone by the meticulous hand of an artist. Some statues had been forged from bronze, others stolen. They say the Horses of Saint Mark came from Constantinople. The armies of Venice sacked the city during the fourth crusade and dragged the horses back to their city, placing them on the terrace of the façade of the Basilica, where they forever graze. The city had statues and boats and colors and foods as various as the seasons. And this season, the fall wind touched everything with a slight chill, like the air from a window in a stuffy room. It was quiet nice.

  It didn't make up for the shit.

  I rubbed my nose and walked across Piazza San Marco, a town square so unlike the winding streets of Venice and so full of human. Before me stood Saint Mark's Basilica at nightfall. Seldom did a Venetian vessel return from the Orient, without adding to the Basilica clumps of some ancient building, as if it were a castle made from sand and not from stone. Lead-covered domes topped the chapel, and marble carvings and columns, older than the structure itself, covered the interior brick walls. Four roman emperors, the Tetrachs, held each other in the south west corner. Five round-arched portals led the way inside. Frozen in stride, the Horses of Saint Mark looked down upon me with their old eyes, as if saying, "You do not belong here. You are not wanted." They were right. But when anyone other than me is right, they are wrong. I entered the house of god. The Nephilim Tribunal lay within.

  "They will not want to see you." Ezio strode beside me and clutched his coat. Only nerves drove a man to hold things so close. Only nerves turned a man's fingers bone-white. "We should go back to the country, maybe Florence, no?"

  I shook my head, still walking. "The election is here, not in Florence."

  "That's the problem, my friend."

  "If you wish, you may wait for me out here." I gestured at the interior dome and the mosaic above.

  Ezio harrumphed. "You know that'll never do, my friend. Wherever you go, I follow."

  "And I'm glad to have you with me." I clapped him on the shoulder and walked behind the columns on either side of the inner dome.

  The choir lofts were empty at this late hour, and only two men walked upon the floor, whispering prayers to their god, heads clutched in their arms. As they wandered out of sight, I traced my hands down the wall and found a loose piece of stone. With a hard push, it sunk in, and a stone door opened, revealing stairs going down under the Bascilia. They led to the Tribunal.

  "I have a bad feeling, my friend," Ezio whispered.

  I grinned and descended the stairs. "Let's hope it goes away then. You wouldn't want to lose your appetite. I hear the feast tonight will be… how would you say it? Fantastic."

  "What feast?" Ezio followed me, each step a heavy thud, as if he carried a burden on his shoulders.

  I suppose I was a burden. "Prince Dante is getting married tonight."

  "And we've been invited?"

  I smiled my secret smile. "Not exactly."

  "But we're still going to go."

  "You know me too well."

  We arrived in the Under Dome. Here, not murals, but paintings draped the walls, and torchlight told their tales. At the end of the hall, three doors stood under marble arches, all a different kind of color.

  Obsidian, darker than the night sky, plated the archway on the right, and sapphire banners hung from its teeth-like spires. Black steps rolled out from the doorway, swathed in sheen, yet the door itself devoured all light, as if the mouth of a gluttonous beast. The air hummed, and it seemed to growl at me.

  The archway to the left glittered. It was gold, all of it, as if an empire had melted down its wealth and poured it over the auburn door. Crimson banners guarded the way inside. The Court of Sunrise kept their riches within.

  Color split the central archway, lathering the left side in gold, casting the right side in black. The banners followed form, red on the left, blue on the right. It was beautiful. It was The Court of Twilight and seat of the High King.

  Sunrise, Twilight, Nightfall. I would rule them all.

  We approached the center door, and a figure, leaning against the wall, covered in armor both gold and black like its charge, shifted the spear on its shoulder. It spoke with a woman'
s voice, full of honey and subtlety, like a Goddess. "Why have you come here?"

  I decided to call it a she, and she deserved a bow. "My lady, I am Andriy Zorin, heir of Erebus, son of Nightfall. I am here to claim my seat on the Tribunal."

  She-Goddess snickered and unclasped the chainmail over her mouth. The dark red lips—she had to be of Sunrise—made a pleasant sight, and I started to notice the curves of her armor, woman's curves. "Call me The Watcher. The last man to call me a lady died a very unpleasant death."

  "How unfortunate."

  "For him."

  I imagined The Watcher drive a spear into a man's gut and rend it free, spilling bits of intestines on the marble, and my own stomach clutched as if in defense. "Did the man try to get past you?"

  She puckered her lips as she paused, and my hands got a little hotter. If the rest of her body matched that mouth, she was beautiful indeed. "He tried to court me."

  I made a note to never court The Watcher. "May we pass?"

  She shook her head and pushed off the wall, speaking with an edge not directed at me. "Prince Dante is receiving his trial."

  "And you can't interrupt such a momentous occasion. I completely understand." I creased my eyes and softened my voice, as if sharing words between friends. "However, it would be a shame if Dante was elected. There are such better candidates."

  Even more anger filled her words. "I agree. Tiberius should win, but the old fool isn't even running. So Dante will win almost uncontested, and he has no respect for the old ways."

  "No respect."

  "The pig thinks he can have anything he wants."

  "Anything he wants."

  "He should have never have even been made Lord of Sunrise."

  No one had told me that little detail. "It is frowned upon for a Lord to seek the Twilight Throne."

  "Exactly. They say he communes with the church, you know, and The Pope."

  More news. I rubbed my chin and said nothing.

  "If he's elected, our entire faith will go to the mud."

  I used my soft voice, laced with passion, again. "Our faith is stronger than that. Isn't that right Ezio?"

  He jumped, as if from sleep, and raised a weary fist halfway in the air. "Yes. Our faith is stronger."

  "Stronger!" I roared.

  The Watcher shook her head. "What is it with you? Please be quite. There's a ceremony going on in there."

  "My apologies. I just get so invigorated." My hands waved back and forth as if in real shame. I didn't feel it. I couldn't remember the last time I had. "How much longer are the proceedings?"

  The Watcher sighed and slouched back against the wall. "Hours. And I'm here on ceremony, not for actual protection."

  "A waste of skill, though not of beauty."

  The Watcher frowned. I forgot: don't court The Watcher. So I did my shameful act again.

  The frown faded. "You can wait."

  "Thank you. I understand. You can't let us in."

  "No."

  "But you're not here for protection."

  "No."

  "Only on ceremony."

  "Yes."

  "So if we were to… "

  A smile crept on The Watcher's lips and a gleam entered her eyes. "I think I'm going to take a nap." She slouched lower on the wall and lowered her head.

  And we walked on through.

  ***

  The Throne Room reflected its exterior, torn in half by two factions and their colors. The first floor stretched long and wide, covered in a black and gold carpet, lined with suits of armor on either side. The second and third floors held balconies from which you could view the hall. Members of the Tribunal used it while making judgments. Those pleading, or on trail, used the first floor and seemed puny amidst the vast hall. At the far side, a circle engraved with glyphs and cycles of the moon marked the carpets end and the place where the elected High King would ascend to the throne. No other way could The Twilight Throne be reached. It had been carved from obsidian and gold fused together, with a base like giant rock, and the mixture hung suspended in midair, a shimmer of white heat around it. If a Nephilim flew close by, their wings would burn off. Some say, they'd never grow back.

  Unless, you were the High King. Then you'd stand within the circle of glyphs, the Moon Dial, and a path of stairs would rise toward the throne. The white heat would not touch you. The seat would not graze you. And you… you would rule all of Nephilim.

  ***

  I would be king. No matter what The Watcher thought, Prince Dante would not go uncontested.

  He rested on one knee at the center of the hall, no doubt accepting the trial he would have to perform to prove his worth. Whatever it was, the Tribunal spoke of it no longer. Instead, they turned their gaze to me.

  A voice like parchment, thin and old, drifted from a second balcony. "Who comes here?"

  In this hall, hundreds of feet below ground, the air squeezed around me and drained my lungs, leaving the smell of smoke behind. My muscles tightened. A hint of sweat touched my brow. I was about as deep in a city as you could be. At least it didn't smell so bad.

  I put on my biggest smile and sauntered to the center of the room. As my face reached the light, gasps dropped from the balconies.

  "Count Zorin." The old man spoke again, and I could see him now, above me. Tiberius. Pale skin, full of lines and grooves like wet bred, clung to his hollow eyes. Whatever hair he once had on his head, had transferred to his beard, which ran past his waist and twisted in thick, rope-like cords. Black robes veiled his body, though by the looks of his veined hands, it was a slim thing, worn away by age. Not many Nephilim showed long years, but those who did often displayed cunning and intelligence. They had sought out immortality at their old age, and they had found it. Tiberius had not only found it, but become the Lord of Nightfall as well.

  I flung my hands on my hips. "I have returned, my Lord. Please, show me to my council-seat."

  Tiberius' face betrayed no emotion. Not when he didn't want it to. Then… he laughed. "You dare claim a seat among us, whelp? Your father would weep in his grave."

  I clenched my teeth. "My father would want me to have what's mine… my Lord, or so I would believe. I am his heir, and thus the heir to his seat on this court."

  "He would disagree with you, if he were here. You are a disgrace to his name."

  His words started a fire in my veins. "Do you presume to know my father's mind, Tiberius? Was it not he, who taught you our ways, who supported you in joining this court? I trust you simply misspoke."

  The laughter left his face, leaving no emotion. "Yes, thank you, Count Zorin. I only meant to offer opinion on the matter. After so many years away from court, I do not think you will enjoy it."

  "That is for me to decide."

  Tiberius raised a goblet to his purple lips and sipped. "Yes, but now is not the time to decide anything. A trial is being bestowed." He gestured at Prince Dante, who now stood on his feet, but had not spoken. The man grinned.

  I rolled my eyes and raised my hands at the balconies. "Now is the time. As my father's heir, I qualify for election and ask to be trialed as well."

  Whispers filled the hall as members of the court debated with their attendants. Ezio groaned behind me, and Tiberius raised his goblet, regaining silence. "You have not yet been inducted into the Tribunal. To run for election would be improper."

  "I agree," said a voice, and then more echoed the call.

  I grit my teeth. The Tribunal followed tradition and rules like dogma, but perhaps their hatred for me surpassed even their need for order.

  Prince Dante lifted his hand. "My Lords, as a member of this court, I say let him be trialed."

  "I agree with the Lord of Sunrise." A man with golden curls, Antonio, tapped an equally golden cup. He was Dante's brother, and his words slurred from drink. "Let him be trialed, and let fate decide if he is worthy."

  Other members nodded their approval. They liked this Prince Dante, and so I hated him.

  "So be i
t." Tiberius stuck his cup against the balcony like a gavel. "Are you ready to accept your trial, Andriy Zorin?"

  I nodded and thanked the fates for my luck.

  "Then kneel."

  I fell on one knee, the sweat dripping off me.

  "Show your faith to this council and its people. Earn ascension and prove a king. Will you accept judgment?"

  "I will."

  "Then your trial shall be thus. A Grand Inquisitor is arriving in Venice tonight. His mission, as we know it, is to eradicate the Unsired and Wingless within the city. Rid us of him, and you shall have proven yourself worthy. Do you accept your trial?"

  My knees wobbled, and I stared at Tiberius. "A Grand Inquisitor? This is suicide."

  "This is your trial. You may refuse. There is no dishonor in that."

  "There is no honor in this trial. One does not simply kill an Inquisitor."

  "One worthy to be High King will find a way." He grinned, no doubt to kindle my rage. It worked.

  "I accept my trial. May the Inquisitor shudder in his sleep, for I will see him in his grave." I stood.

  Tiberius nodded. "So be it. Now, venture forth and prove your worth."

  I bowed and walked away. No ceremonial claps followed me out the door, only Ezio grumbling about Inquisitors and trials. He was right to complain. To kill an Inquisitor and live would be impossible.

  But Tiberius never said kill.

  Still, not killing meant talking, and I preferred the former. As we rounded up the stairs, the rage inside me boiled and with it hunger. I wished to blast the steam at Tiberius, who doomed me with his trial, and Dante, who thought he could beat me at this game. That's all it was, after all—a game to see who should be king. And they dealt me a losing hand. I wanted to cut theirs off. If they'd been there, I would have.

  But instead, the stone door opened, and a portly man gazed at me, draped in the white garbs of a priest. "Who are you, my son?"

  "The devil, Father." I showed my face, and the old man dropped his scepter. He'd caught me in a bad mood. More's the pity. Venice stank of the people that populated it. One less person made it smell a little better.