Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

  She waited. Jacques had gone back upstairs and returned with another pile—there's more books upstairs?

  She watched him slip past her in his quick gate. “Jacques?”

  “Oui?”

  “How long have you been here, with Saint Germain, that is?”

  He darted a glance her way, large eyes narrowed, making him look wary. She remembered how yellow they had been last night. He turned her way. A chill slithered down her spine and she somehow, just barely, kept herself from shivering at the memory. Nostrils flaring, he looked like a wary dog, sniffing at an intruder in his territory. She didn't much care for his body language either; arms akimbo, knotted fists at his waist, head held so as to look down his significant nose at her. If she didn't know better, she would swear that she had been the attacker, last night, not him. Maybe it was a case of him blaming her for his behavior. Yeah, right, like that would get him anywhere in the Court of Witenagemont.

  Lips pressed together for a heartbeat while she took stock of the situation, she realized that maybe now wasn't such a good time to get all warm and fuzzy with the alpha wolfman. But she just couldn't leave this situation hanging between them. She had to clear the air. It wasn't entirely his fault he was a wolfman, after all. Werewolves were born that way—from Were parents. Wolf-men—or wolf-women—had been bitten by a werewolf, and couldn't change all the way into a wolf, but remained something in between. Usually they didn't remember anything of what they did, and always they are out of control, and very dangerous, as they killed anything in their path. They were definitely outlawed by the Witenagemont, and if any were found Wereing in the Provence, they would be dealt with severely. There had to be a reason Jacques was here, in Saint Germain's castle. The possible reason came to her gradually. Saint Germain was harboring a known wolfman. It was a crime that was punishable with a stint in Hamparzum's—for both Jacques and Saint Germain. She wondered if Saint Germain knew how serious this was.

  And now she knew. This just wasn't going well for her. As a Knight she had to report it. But she just couldn't betray Saint Germain like that. Not until she got to the bottom of all this.

  But first things first.

  “Jacques, I want you to know I'm not angry about last night,” she said with a note of good will in her voice that she hoped would carry through and mollify him in some way.

  Eyes narrowed even further, he took a deep intake of air, and upon expelling it, he said, “Good, madam, I am 'appy to know zat.”

  “But you seem to be upset over something,” she ventured further, hoping this wasn't going to end in an ugly way, as he really wasn't going for her pity approach at all. “I hope it isn't something I've done, or said—”

  Jacques stalked toward her, through the maze of books, his wary face still pinched. The man might stand only about five-five and weigh just around one hundred and thirty pounds on the outside, but he scared the pea soup out of her. She held her left hand, index finger pointed, just beneath a bit of parchment to hide it out of sight. It shook, and so the paper shuttered, but she couldn't help it. If he attacked her—wolfman or just man—he was toast in the literal sense.

  Stopping at her table, he leaned over it, both hands braced to either side as he let his large head sag just enough so that they were nearly eye-to-eye.

  “Madame,” he said, squinting at her hard, “you are imposteur.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She didn't have to know Arpiesian to understand what he had just said.

  Heart pounding hard through her veins, she stared back up at him and said, “What do you mean? Are you saying I'm a fake?” How could he know she wasn't who she claimed?

  “Madam,” he said with a sneer, “I sensed that you were no mere 'uman, the moment you set foot into ze castle, eh?”

  “I'm not sure what—”

  “Vous êtes une sorcière—You are a sorceress!” He was pointing a finger at her, right in her face. Knowing what he claimed to know, he was taking a big chance of pissing her off. A finger in the face isn't taken lightly by anyone with Powers. Possibly, he wanted her to turn him into a toad. Either that, or he was incredibly stupid. How much more problems could he want, already being a wolfman, knowing she was a sorceress and could turn him with just a thought into a toad? Could a toad turn into a wolf-toad when the moon was full? The thought gave her a chill just thinking about a toad that had teeth that would attack—how would you see that coming?

  Jacques nodded, showing his teeth—which she noticed were large, and mostly crooked, but pretty much human at the moment. It wasn't so much a smile, as a grimace. “I was not so certain, before. But, after last night, I am sure of eet.”

  That's what this was all about. He knew she was a sorceress, and she'd been pretending she was not. No wonder he was ticked. His senses as a wolfman obviously were heightened. He had tasted her scent (she wasn't sure how that difference could be detected), and now was calling her out. Fine. Two could play at this.

  “And you're a wolfman,” she said steadily. “You're in the Provence and could be arrested for Wereing over the boundaries.” Technically he wasn't inside the Provence, but in the enclave. But if he stepped one toe outside the castle boundaries, he was illegal, plain and simple.

  Smiling tightly with knowledge, Zofia sat back in her chair. Crossing her arms over her chest she said, “I could report you, you know. I would think that a Knight of the Witenagemont would love to drag your sorry little wolfman ass to Hamparzum's.”

  “You wouldn't dare—” he snarled.

  “Give me a moment to think about that,” she said, thrusting her gaze ceiling-ward as if she were thinking about it. “Yes. I would dare.” Leaning forward, she placed both hands in front of her, feeling she had the leverage here. The most that might happen, if Saint Germain found out she was a sorceress, he might fire her. But she didn't think so. What would happen to Jacques was far worse. No one wanted to go to Hamparzum's, not even for a day. Demons, imps, vampires, and evil wizards were tossed in there along with everyone else who wasn't even half as bad. Worst of all—there were no bars, no individual cells, and no place to hide, and no one to tell your woes to, because no one came to visit—tough troll nails. There were no guards, no three meals a day, no lawyer to argue your way out, and no MTV. It was nothing like First World jails at all. In fact it wasn't a jail at all, but a dark, formless place where everything evil was imprisoned, and kept inside its boundaries with the Powers of one strong sorcerer. She could see Jacques' determination dissolve like ice in hot water.

  Even though she had the upper hand, Jacques still stood before her, and took one big breath that expanded his chest, then let it out through those huge nostrils. He made a knowing nod. “That is fine, if you send me to Hamparzum's, that is fine with me. But I will tell Saint Germain that you 'ave not been 'onest with 'im.” He shook that finger again. “If you 'urt Saint Germain in any way I will not be responsible for my actions!” He turned and stalked out, liberally dosing the room with flamboyant gestures as he swore colorfully in both Arpiesian as well as broken English. He knew more swear words than she did.

  Brrr.

  She automatically thought about his threats. Would he merely bite her, turning her into a wolf-woman? Or tear her throat out and leave her for dead? Neither one was a pleasant thought. But she could tell just by this one confrontation with him, Jacques was nothing but loyal as a dog to Saint Germain. He'd go to Hamparzum's for the man, and that was saying an awful lot for his devotion to him. She was a perceived threat to his master, and in a way she couldn't blame Jacques for becoming very upset, but still, he shouldn't have gone for the jugular like he had. Did he think he had room to accuse?

  Now she was forced to work fast in getting her work done for Stephen, before her cover was blown. What more would a man like Jacques try and discover about her? She didn't think he would stand idly by and do nothing. He would ask around about who she was. Myron had come to learn she was a sorceress, and now Jacques knew. And, so did the rogue wizard, by the way. So
, if Saint Germain eventually found out, she didn't think this knowledge would blow her cover as a Knight. No one knew why she was here, except for Stephen, and maybe Dorian. And now that Jacques was suspicious of her, he might keep an eye on her. That would really put a damper on her spying.

  It was high time she got some serious snooping done, before everyone figured out who she was and why she was there.

  Chapter 26

  Zofia was midway into her morning when Percival appeared in the room—almost as if he had Evanished, he was so quiet on his feet (and this aggravated her to no end, since she couldn't detect him until he was almost upon her), and announced, “The master would like to see you, madam.”

  An awful sinking feeling slid through her chest as she blinked up at Percival. Dragon crap! After her confrontation with Jacques earlier, this could not bode well. She didn't think the little snit would go rat on her so quickly.

  “Alright,” she said, standing demurely. “Where is he?”

  “I will take you to him,” Percival said and turned swiftly to lead her from the room. The long, silent march through the corridors felt oddly like one of those times she had to go and face the headmistress of her school for some infraction—like when she turned Neomie Templar's hair into green snakes. It had been hilarious—and it had kept everyone who disliked her at bay, because of her explosive temper, which was worse when she was young. She was asking for it, after all, making snide comments about Zofia being an orphan. Besides she was certain Neomie had hexed her so that she would trip when she walked, so Neomie had it coming. But who had to clean every frigging table in the dinning hall, and then wash all the linens? Not Neomie, that's for sure.

  This wasn't exactly like that, but it was close. Maybe she should have given Jacques a memory hex, even though they were illegal—but not for Knights! (She remembered reading about some of the hexes that Knights could do, and regular sorcerers couldn't do legally. Which was one of the coolest thing about being a Knight.)

  Fine. She would get this all behind her, give Saint Germain the story she had rehearsed in her head, hope he'd buy it and be done with it.

  Percival led Zofia back through the central atrium, and up the corridor which she had not been able to explore fully. It was the same hallway which Saint Germain had taken her, just a short ten feet deep, to his apothecary lab, where he'd mixed up that concoction for her last night. Good, she would finally see where the hallway went, and not have to go snooping unnecessarily. The corridor wound aimlessly like all the rest did. There were stone steps that went down and then up, and then down again. She understood, now, that the castle being built on top of the large megalith, had to meld with the behemoth's contours.

  Finally, Percival stopped at a heavily carved, double door made of oak, it was rounded at the top. It was unlike any other doors she'd seen throughout the castle. With white-gloved hands, Percival reached for the twin, ornate brass handles, and swung both doors open. He stepped off to the side and announced her.

  The room was aglow from a large marble fireplace and several beautiful lamps. The room was floor to ceiling bookshelves. Another library! Zofia mentally absorbed this, decided that these books were not as old, and so in better repair than those she was currently working on. Dark leathered tomes with titles mostly done in gold. There had to be easily a thousand books housed in here. She hoped her investigation would come to a screeching end before he had her catalog all of these.

  Before the massive fireplace resided a dark leather couch with brass nail trim. In one corner was a matching leather square chair, and a matching ottoman. The room was very masculine in design and furnishings, right down to the smell of old leather, books and the musk of man.

  Slouched slightly at the mantle, Saint Germain stabbed at the fire with a poker when Percival announced her. He turned slightly away from the fireplace, the poker still in hand. His hair was perfectly pulled back. He was dressed entirely in black, today, but not in his usual eighteenth century attire. He wore a 21st century suit and a gold silk tie. Both looked expensive—not your off the rack stuff, either. The suit fit him like a glove and Zofia had a hard time pulling in her eyes. The First-World gold tie was the only bright color upon him. She thought he looked a little like a banker, or a very rich business man. There was something utterly attractive about him today, she couldn't quite determine what it was, however. Perhaps seeing him in some other millennium clothing.

  “Thank you, Percival, that will be all,” Saint Germain said, and the servant disappeared on silent feet again, barely making a click with the doors as he closed them. Saint Germain must pay him really well for all those little extras, Zofia thought distractedly as she watched Saint Germain replace the gold handled poker into the holder, next to what appeared to be a gold griffin, one of two matching fireplace andirons. She couldn't help but admire them, and stare at their grimace out into the room. Were the eyes actual rubies?

  Saint Germain's eyes had not lifted to her. The silence was killing her. She wanted this over with. The sooner the better, so she decided to take the proverbial ball in her hands.

  “You wished to see me?” Her voice sounding oddly cold and lost in the room padded with wood, leather, ink, and paper.

  “Yes. I'm sorry to have to take you from your work,” he said in an apologetic tone as he moved toward an eight-sided black lacquered table and reached for a gold chalice. He still did not look at her, but went back to the mantle. He seemed to appraise the contents of his drink for a few seconds before taking a long draw from it.

  Heart beating like a drum, she watched him patiently. The way he was drawing this out began to eat at her nerves. Whatever Jacques had said to him maybe it was hard for Saint Germain to believe it and accuse her of it. Whatever it was, he seemed not to want to discuss it, but was forced to. Like a father admonishing a cherished child who had done something really bad, and he would have to punish her so that she would learn not to do it again. This is going to hurt me worse than you…

  “Is that your Elixir?” she wondered, hoping to sooth him into some sort of relaxed mood so that he would feel more comfortable. Why she was worried about what he felt like? She was the one who had been sent for, not him.

  “It is.” He set the goblet down on the black table and motioned toward the couch. “Pray sit with me, Zofia.” The invitation, finally, to sit.

  She strode across the stone floor, her heals clicking noisily—almost intrusively—until she reached a white bear rug. The huge head of the beast faced away from the fire. Mouth open, baring his large, yellow teeth, black glass eyes reflecting light from the various lamps throughout the room.

  Leather moaned slightly as Zofia sunk into the couch's cushions. Saint Germain remained standing next to the fireplace, the poker in his hand again. He jabbed at the burning logs. Sparks shot up the flue in an almost hypnotic display, and was gone.

  “Who is Dorian?”

  Shocked, Zofia swallowed hard and stared back at him. He glanced up from the fireplace—finally.

  “H-how did you—where did you hear it?” she sputtered, totally taken off guard. Her mind raced, trying to figure out how he'd come by the name. She hadn't uttered it in anyone's company, nor did she have it written anywhere that she knew of. If anything, she would have expected him to ask who Stephen was.

  “You spoke it… when you woke this morning.” He turned his head away from the fire and glanced back at her. “Is that your husband's name?”

  “My ex-husband,” she corrected. Oh, boy, that was close. It seemed hot in the room, suddenly, and she fidgeted a little with her collar. Maybe she could loosen the knot on her camisole? She fidgeted with the knot, found she'd double tied it, and became slightly vexed by it. Finally, she managed to loosen the neck and retied it.

  Saint Germain continued to jab the coals in the fireplace as though they had somehow affronted him.

  “He knows, of course?” he said. “You've told him?”

  “About what?” She was confused now.

&nb
sp; “Your condition,” he clarified.

  Ah. She averted her gaze, let it drop to her lap, thinking quickly what was the best answer. “No, I never really had the chance.” Which was true in every respect.

  “How long have you been divorced, if I might ask?”

  “Not long—” Tears sprang to Zofia's eyes. A tight lump lodged in her throat. Wonderful. Being pregnant, her emotions were ten times more volatile. But, she could see how her tears now pulled on Saint Germain's emotional strings. She had to go with it, hoping she didn't go overboard with the act. Well, it wasn't an act, really, was it? With a strangled cry of despair, Zofia flung herself across the leather couch, hiding her eyes. The leather squeaked obnoxiously at her motions. She didn't have to pretend with the tears, however. They came in a gush. She had kept it in far too long.

  She felt Saint Germain hover over her for a long moment. His black shoes glistened from the firelight entering the periphery of her right eye. Finally, he settled himself beside her, his weight bringing another squeal of protest from the leather cushions.

  “Truly, I meant nothing by my words, Zofia. I have bitterly upset you beyond reason, and that was not my intention. I was merely curious. Forgive me.”

  Saint Germain's words pulled her from the clutches of self-pity. She looked up up at him through tear-glazed eyes. Swiping a curtain of sienna hair away from her face, she said, “No. You aren't the cause of my tears, Franz. But it's alright. I'll be alright. You've obviously got somewhere to go, all dressed up like that? You go ahead and be on your way.” To First World, that is.

  “No, no. I cannot go and leave you here alone with your grief as your only companion. Your tears trouble me to such an extent I wish to horse whip whomever has caused you such despair!”

  She had difficulty not throwing her arms around him for caring so deeply about her.

  “Really, there's nothing you can do.” She turned away, daubing at her eyes. Had Dorian not left her like he did she knew she could not have put on an act like this. She didn't like the idea she had to air her dirty laundry, but if it pulled Saint Germain closer, all the better. Goddess, she hated herself for doing this.