I saved you, I want to tell her. I don’t want that disdain beaming my way. There was nothing else I could have done in that scenario. But the end result is still the same. She’s a prisoner in my family home, and I’m the captor. Is there such a thing as an unwilling captor? Or am I kidding myself on that part?
“We know you’re not,” Alex soothes, now running slender fingers through the blond waves of Tiffany’s head.
“They weren’t abusing you?” Roze asks, and I have to wince at that question, because it’s clear she’s expecting the worse. Even although Beron and I are doing everything in our power to make the three women comfortable – we can’t let them roam around just yet.
Tiffany shakes her head mutely, but the dull expression on her face suggests the worse.
Eventually, I have no choice but to pull Roze aside, and her friend Alex, and inform them both, quietly, that Tiffany is experiencing what I believe is a reaction to the implant.
“Reaction?” Roze folds her arms. A primal part of my brain regards her posture, her expression, and wants nothing more than to dominate her in some way. I usually let those urges rise and fall. I can’t control that part of my brain, but I can control my actions regarding it. Mostly. It’s not always worked out great in the past. I have gone to places on occasion, solely to give into those urges, to eat, sleep, fuck and dominate. Sometimes I’ve dragged Beron with me as well, to make sure he has something to do, but he’s always so stoic. He refuses to “have fun” like the other men I know, and stubbornly sticks to making sure I’m under protection at all times. He’s my live-in guard, and seems to run on less sleep than I do. I’ve seen him take two hour power naps and bounce up from those completely fine.
I wonder if he stores it all up, and then one day in the future, he just collapses into a year long hibernation or something. Bear shifter physiology’s still a relative unknown for me.
“Yes,” I confirm, hoping that she will understand. Knowing that the news I give her is unpleasant, since most reactions regarding implants tend to result in a fatality sooner or later. But I don’t tell her that.
Just in case there is hope, and the reaction doesn’t end up adopting its worse possible form.
Roze
It’s taking a while to knot itself through my brain, but I think I can understand to a degree that Cato’s not my enemy. He’s in an impossible situation, and attempting to make the most of it. Unfortunately, in the result of him attempting to protect his self-interests, and the aims of his father, it means the three of us have to suffer.
I don’t fully trust his intentions, and he sure as hell can’t trust ours. Because we do want to escape. And now we’re all together in this cave, it gives us time to discuss our future, what we might be able to do – and if we’re in danger from the demon contract if we breach its conditions independently of Cato’s wishes.
“I don’t even get this whole demon contract thing,” Tiffany says, distracting herself by boiling the coffee strainer. She’s been trying out all the different coffees the cupboard has on offer. Cato’s rooms have the feel of belonging to something not fully human. Part of it is accommodated for a bear or a dragon, given the cold stone, the cavernous areas and mossy ground for resting on. The other part I guess is for his human form, but I don’t get why he has so many bedrooms. Dragon orgies? For the multiple bodyguards that might follow him around?
“Never do a deal with a demon,” Alex says, bouncing up and down on her queen size bed. Each bedroom is separated by a wall and a beaded curtain, but otherwise doesn’t offer that much in the way of privacy. The beads make an annoying clatter when walked through. The bedroom I’m currently choosing to sleep in is definitely Cato’s one, because there’s a cupboard with men’s clothes in it (and now some women’s clothes), a male perfume bottle that smells faintly of strong mint and a hint of some spice, and a grooming kit for face hair.
“Plenty of people have done deals with demons,” I say, privately thinking that my previous boss might have. For someone who had worked his way to a full residency, my former boss never actually seemed to have any surgery action, and from what people have said about him – his success rate was low. Something about money or maybe a bribe had been whispered – but only whispered.
I think if someone had shown me to a demon at the very start of my residency, I might have considered a deal. All for the measly price of a human soul. Which I don’t like the implication of, because it suggests there is a heaven and hell, and I’ve been raised up as a humanist for the most part. All about the value of human agency in things.
“Yes, but they’re damning themselves,” Alex says. “And the deals have some kind of expiration date, don’t they? It doesn’t seem to be worth it.”
“A little bit of power and fame is better than none at all,” Tiffany says. “I think it’s worth it.”
“He says if we break the contract, it’ll curse us,” I say, scowling from Alex’s side, watching her bounce up and down, finding it distracting, so that I can barely think. “That breaking a demon’s curse is an extremely bad idea. No shifter, monster or fae would dare.”
So much I don’t know about this world. And I’d just walked into it like a silly tourist, thinking I knew a lot from my internet researches, but in reality pulling up short of the information I needed.
“Obviously we don’t want to spend the rest of our lives stuck here.” I pout my lips, one finger tapping against the knuckle of my other hand. Since that would make things awkward. But without opportunity to call or use the internet, without any news being shipped in, and with the fact that we don’t have aggressive magical powers, and everyone outside these walls has something dangerous with their powers.
To be honest, it looks rather shit.
“I was right about Cato being famous though,” Alex says, and I let out a soft snort. Yay for consolation prizes, I guess. I leave my friends talking to one another, attempting to plot all the things I’ve plotted already, and walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I’m thinking of taking a shower because my body’s cold all over, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, although it’s pointless, I flatten and neaten my greasy hair, because it’s hanging from my head like limp rope.
There’s a small, injured spider in the sink, feebly scrabbling to get out of the copper sink, and I feel an itch to heal it. By injured, I see that it has two legs missing altogether, and now I’m suddenly curious to discover if my powers can translate to saving creatures with a completely different physiology. Mammals have things we can target and repair – so can anything with a vertebrae – but this little thing here has no bone structure at all.
Just as well. It’s why we’ll never get spiders as big as buses. They wouldn’t be able to support their own weight.
Magic thrums out of me, weaving through the spider. Looking from the inside of the spider is an interesting experience, to say the least, but growing the two missing limbs takes almost no effort at all. It’s a house spider, usually cheerfully hanging in the corners of people’s houses in webs that are nowhere near as intricate as some of those we see in the gardens, and it crawls up my hand, slowly, calmly. Even when I move and place it near the tiny window that provides ventilation after a hot, steamy shower or bath… it just lazily scuttles out.
Maybe I can become a Disney princess if I find other creatures to heal. Back to the mirror at hand, I check out to see if I’ve developed any offending pimples, and pull a few stupid expressions.
The image of myself in the mirror blurs as I lean closer, and the brown eyes transform into green. Startled, I freeze, trying to register what the hell just happened, and who the woman in the mirror is, because she’s not me.
Green eyed. Long, dark, flowing hair, like waves cascading over her shoulders, and with skin so pale white that I’m not sure if that skin’s seen a drop of sunlight. She wears clothes from another era, furs and stitched together clothing that looks more suited to surviving a hard winter.
The face
is beautiful, but cruel, with the sharpness of an eagle. When the eyes blink, and seem to take me in, I clap a hand to my mouth. This must be some fae or mythological creature, but appearing in the bathroom window?
Tapping the mirror from her side, the woman has her brow furrowed in concentration, until, with a distinctly clear and imperious voice, she says, “Who are you?”
Oh boy. “Who are you?” I reply, because my brain’s shut down and I think the limits of what I can tolerate with this magical bullshit are being reached.
The woman puckers her lips, which are red, like they’ve been painted with blood. “Unless you want you and your descendants to be cursed for a thousand years, I suggest you refrain from backtalk.”
Oh. Okay, then. She does look like the sort of person who could conceivably curse descendants for a thousand years. Or the kind of person someone might have attempted to burn at the stake if we travel back in time a few centuries or so. “I’m Roze Chaplan,” I say, nervous, wondering if people appearing in mirrors is a common thing in Halberg, because I sure as hell never saw something like this in the brochures. Maybe this is how they speak to each other? Screw the phone, just buzz the mirror and wait for someone on the other side?
“A human,” the woman says, with a faint air of disdain. Her eyes are hooded, adding to the permanent scowl of arrogance she wears upon her ethereal face. “You stink of it. A human that desecrates the grave.”
I’m not sure I like the way this conversation is going. “I’m sorry: what?”
“You pilfer magic. You wear the bones of one of the sacred dead in you. Of a person killed before their time, ripped apart like a deer between wolves.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say truthfully, though some of her words stir dim suspicion in me. Pilfering magic… she must be talking about my implant. There’s also a more archaic feel to her word selection. “Who are you? Why are you appearing in this mirror? How are you appearing in this mirror?”
The woman regards me for a moment, as if she can’t believe I’m really this stupid, and it grates on my nerves a little. She says something that sounds like “Mor-e-gan.” She pauses, waiting for me to comprehend it, but that’s not happening.
“How do you spell it?”
Her eyebrows knit in irritation, but she does spell it out. “The Morrigan,” she says. “Surely you’ve heard of me?”
I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone who put “The” as an actual part of their name. I guess she thinks she’s special or something. “Still not ringing a bell.”
A small huff of irritation leaves her lips. “And you have no idea what you contain in your body?”
“Uh… I know I have an implant,” I say, not sure if I should be talking to this scary apparition in the mirror, whose eyes glitter like glossy, black beetle shells. “It was forced in me. I was… taken. Kidnapped, and they put the implant in me and sold me with its magic.”
The Morrigan squints those eyes, nostrils flaring as if she’s trying to smell the lie in my words. Evidently, she decides I’m as dumb as I look, for she says, “Unfortunate for you. The seed of corruption runs deep. There will be blood spilled. But perhaps it will not be yours.”
And she vanishes. Just like that. I’m left staring dumbly at the mirror, partially shocked, and partially annoyed that she just disappeared without an explanation. At all. Like, who the fuckity fuck is she? Why did she appear in the mirror? Why speak to me and then just abandon the conversation like I’m one of the worse first dates ever?
There’s knocking outside, a fist rapping on the bathroom door.
“Roze. Roze!” It’s Cato’s voice, and I startle out of my confusion, enough to yell at him that I’m coming out in a moment. When I do, his silver eyes lock with mine, and he looks harassed, frightened, even. “Are you okay? The magical sensors in my suite triggered. Someone used magic – powerful magic. Are you okay? Did anything happen?”
At first, I’m tempted to tell him that nothing happened. To keep this… Morrigan or whatever a secret. Why does he deserve to know? But I also see Alex and Tiffany hovering anxiously in the background, and Beron sniffing around the suite, like he expects to find the culprit who used unwarranted magic.
“I… had a visit,” I say, and Cato’s thin eyebrows arch upward.
“By what? Who?”
“She called herself The Morrigan or something,” I say. I state it casually, but the moment the name slips out of my mouth, the color in Cato’s face drains, and he looks like a pale ghost of the Cato a moment before.
“Are… are you sure you heard that name?” he says carefully.
“Yes. I asked her to spell it out.” By his expression, I’m guessing people don’t ask Morrigans to spell their names out. “She did seem a little offended I didn’t know about her.”
“Why did she appear to you?” Cato says, and his worry is so evident, that for a moment I forget that I’m supposed to be hating him. I’m guessing it’s slightly concerning when random magical people appear in the mirror. I tell him as best as able what she said, though I’m sure I butcher the word she used; Cato and Beron look even more concerned when I’ve finished.
“So what’s a Morrigan?” I ask.
“The Morrigan,” Beron says, his low, grumbling voice filling the awkward silence that followed my statement, “Is an ancient Irish supernatural creature. She’s known as the Phantom Queen, and used to be the ruler of the Celtic Alliance in Ireland. At least, until she disappeared about fifty years ago. No one’s heard of her since. Until she appeared in the bathroom mirror, apparently.”
“She’s a ruler? A queen?” I gape, fascinated by the implication, and Cato nods.
“There was an incident. Celtic supernatural creatures have some of the most potent magic in their bodies, and they were being hunted. Holy resting places being disturbed so they could dig up the bodies and take the bones. Word was that they killed The Morrigan and harvested her bones to form implants for the illegal magic trade. Pretty nasty business. Huge succession problem in the Alliance. Took them about ten years of civil warfare before the Dagda took over.”
Again, these names mean nothing to me. I’ve only researched a little about the Northern American magical creatures – I have no idea about the ones in Europe or the East. “Okay, so that’s interesting and all. But that still doesn’t explain why she appeared to me.”
“Gentleman,” Cato says under his breath. “He’s dealing in Irish bones. So not only is he an immoral demon selling magically enhanced humans on the black market, but he’s probably raided a recent burial site and picked up some bones from there. And not just any bones, but bones The Morrigan appears to. So you might have a piece of one of The Morrigan’s children inside you, Or The Morrigan herself,” Cato says, and I go cold at the implication.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. The Morrigan is dead,” Cato says. “But if she’s reacting to the magic being used… perhaps her power runs far beyond death – or maybe she never was killed at all. She was considered one of the most powerful beings of the ancient world.” He pauses. “She didn’t curse you, did she?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Good. The Morrigan was particularly famous for her curses. Don’t want to get on the bad side of that one.”
I don’t want to get on the bad side of anything. Again, I’m struck by a powerful urge that I should have never entered this place: this icy cold city full to the brim with magical secrets, villains in the cracks, a bustling black market trade in humans, organs and magic, and what sounds like exploitation of preternatural creatures as well.
The person implanted inside me, whoever they were – it didn’t occur to me that they might have been a victim as well. I assume they were robbed, taken from those already gone.
Not taken from someone after murdering them.
Chapter 6
Gentleman
Hatred ripples through Gentleman’s soul. He quivers in fury, staring at the
precious spot where The Morrigan’s skull-plate once stood on proud display. He’d paid an obscene amount for that bone. Anything belonging to The Morrigan didn’t come cheap. The magic in such bones was so potent, so exceptional, that the bone needed to be sealed in anti-magic lining, lest it influence the place it rested in with negative energy.
And now the bone was gone.
“Are you sure,” Gentleman says, with an icy bite in his tone as he turns to his transplant surgeon, Antonio, “that you never touched the bone?”
“I’m sure,” Antonio says, cringing before Gentleman, who finds such subservience disgusting. If it wasn’t for Antonio’s prestigious skills and high success rate in placing the implants in the humans, he would have been killed long ago.
“And it never occurred to you, in administering the implants, that it was odd that one of the ones you selected from was a skullplate? It never occurred to you, when you told me that we had a healer, that you suspected the bone you used for that human happened to contain more potent magic than the others?”
“It reacted perfectly,” Antonio whispers. “When I tested it with that human’s blood, it was a match. No complications with the surgery at all. Never had a procedure so clean.”
“But how did it get there?” Gentleman roars, slamming his hand against the reinforced glass cabinet. “How did it end up in your pile of ghoul-bones, engraved and implant ready, instead of being on display here?”
Bought By The Masters Page 6