by Raquel Lyon
“Connor would make a cool vamp,” Todd said with a grin.
“Two things...” Beth said, dismissing Todd’s statement with a shake of her head. “One, it seems a long time for the venom to remain potent, and two, where has he been for the last three years? Surely he’d have come home. If I know Connor at all, there’s only one place he’d want to be, vampire or not.” She glanced across the table, and Piper followed her gaze to Sophie, who remained silent.
“But wasn’t he a werewolf?” Piper asked. “How could he change from a werewolf to a vampire?”
“Good question,” Beth said. “Maybe some sort of hybrid? Sam?”
“It’s been known. And it’s only one theory. We’ve put out feelers. Newborns tend to leave a trail of destruction. If he turned vamp, there’s a good chance we’ll track him down.”
“What’s your other theory?”
“Well, it’s widely known that werewolf parts are a rare commodity for practitioners of black magic. His body—”
“Enough! All of you.” Sophie pushed her plate away with distaste. “I won’t have Connor spoken about in that way, and I don’t even want to think about the images you’re forming in my head.”
“Sorry, Soph,” Beth said. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“I wish you hadn’t. I had memories, you know. Good memories. Sad... but good. Now they’re all messed up.”
“Look. Forget Sam’s last icky theory and concentrate on the possibility you might get to see Connor again—even if he might want to rip your throat out.”
“I already see him, Beth. Every day. Everywhere I look—here in the house, in the wind in the trees, looking over my shoulder when I stare at my reflection in the lake. That’s the Connor I know, the Connor who loved me, and yes, the Connor who would be here if he could. He’s the only Connor I want.”
“Yes, but think how hot he’d be with fangs.” Beth’s smile lit up her eyes. “Vamps are sexy.”
“Beth... I’m not you.” Sophie pushed back her chair and stormed from the room.
Beth shrugged. “I was just saying.”
“What happened to not making it worse?” Piper asked.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go talk to her. Apologise.”
Piper watched Beth chase after her friend. “This is all my fault,” she said.
“Why?” Todd asked, licking gravy from his finger. “Are you the body snatcher?”
“Hilarious.”
“None of this is your fault,” Lambert said.
Suddenly realising he still had his hand on hers, Piper pulled it away, embarrassed. “I should never have said anything to Beth.”
“Too late now, Pippy,” Todd said. “The cat’s kind of out of the bag.”
She shot him a glare. “Don’t... call me Pippy. Sam, there has to be another explanation.”
“There are many,” Sam said. “Connor may not have been dead, but in some near-death state and simply woken up. His soul could have been prevented from moving on and returned to his body, or another soul, reincarnated or demonic, could have taken possession of him. All of which are extremely rare. There is one man who is an expert on all things soul-related. I don’t know why it never occurred to me to speak to him before now, but perhaps that conversation is required... just to narrow down the options.” He rose from the table and unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair. “Tell Beth I’m sorry I had to cut our date short. I’m sure she’ll understand. Oh, and Pete doesn’t have reception, and the journey is not a short one, so she probably won’t be able to contact me for a while.”
“Can I tell her where you’re going?”
His hand rose and he twisted it as he pointed to the ceiling on his way out.
“Does that mean what I think it means?” Piper said to no one in particular.
“That would depend upon what you are thinking,” Lambert said.
“Pete. Peter. Saint Peter, of Pearly Gates fame? As in Heaven?”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“Don’t you know about God?”
“We have many gods.” He smiled.
She shook her head. “Then never mind.”
Chapter Twelve
ONCE AGAIN, SEPTAMUS found himself in the belly of a mountain, but this time, it wasn’t to visit the mines. He had an altogether different destination in mind.
This particular mountain lay on the outskirts of the realm and was home to its oldest resident.
Though damp, the air in the tunnel was cool and smelled of the fire torches illuminating the long passageway—a far preferable aroma to the thick stench of sweat that often greeted him upon entering the mines.
His journey was not for the faint-hearted. Many men had returned from it forever altered by the experience, and to his knowledge, no one had ever gone back. The soldier he had sent to procure information about the stolen box still lay in the madhouse. This time, he would do the work himself. Other men were weak. He was not. His heart was strong. He feared no man or beast, and certainly not one ancient oracle, however powerful she was purported to be.
Hitching the wriggling chicken more securely under his arm, he strode deeper underground, questions about the girl playing on his mind, as they had done repeatedly since his rash decision to kill the soldier. Only later had he realised he should have procured a full description of her from the simpering coward before dispensing his punishment, but his anger had got the better of him—anger that had surfaced many times in the years following the Voltignis attack that ended the lives of his wife and children.
Too many families had been wiped out both that night and on numerous subsequent ones. It was something that would only continue under King Oban’s halcyon rule. Oban’s conviction that the prophecy had been misinterpreted, and that a child born of the two races would unite them instead of bringing about their destruction, as had always been thought, was laughable at best, and if that were the reason behind his marriage, he should have chosen a younger Voltignis specimen for a mate. The only reason the queen was still alive was due to her being too long in the tooth to produce an heir, but every day more members joined the Resistance, concerned that the match endangered the future of the Divimagi race, and with each new member, the king’s crown slipped a little further from security. The Resistance would do their utmost to see that it fell completely, and with the throne free, the people would look to their army’s general to lead them. Septamus was ready. He would take the position gladly, wage war upon the Voltignis scum, and put an end to the king’s insane notion, and he was certain that that time would come all the sooner if he could discover the secret the king and queen shared.
The chicken seemed to sense its doom and let out a squawk as Septamus turned a corner. It wouldn’t do for it to make a bid for freedom at the last minute. Its black plumes made it rare, and a replacement would take time to procure. Time he did not have. He squeezed the bird tighter as he drew towards the end of the tunnel, where two figures in drab, grey robes stepped out from the shadows to block his path.
“Stand aside in the name of the king,” Septamus demanded, striding closer to the figures and noting with slight surprise that they were devoid of flesh.
The jaws to both skulls dropped open, and a rasping voice in stereo sound said, “The king has no authority here. Our Lady of the Mountain is not governed by any man. State your business.”
“I seek an audience with your mistress.” Septamus held the bird aloft, its dark feathers shimmering under the torchlight. “I have the required payment.”
One skeletal figure nodded slowly to the other, who ducked under an arched entrance and disappeared into the shadows.
Septamus raised his boot to follow, only to be blocked by the remaining figure. It gave a hiss of warning. He stared into its hollow eyes, defiant, but made no move as the other returned and hooked its bony finger for him to enter the archway.
Through it, a short tunnel opened out into a cave. A misty haze clung to the ceiling, devoid of a
n escape, and a tinge of sulphur hung in the air. Pockets of green, luminescent light glowed around the circumference, and in the furthest recess, the silhouette of a hunched woman grew larger as it inched closer.
“My Lady, the king humbly requests your advice,” Septamus said.
“And yet it is you I see before me,” the woman croaked. Her next step forward brought her into the verdant light, and Septamus had to wonder how she could see him at all, for where her eyes should be was all skin. In the centre of her forehead there was a black circular mound, and her hair was a squirming mass of giant millipedes, rearing up and clicking their pincers.
Septamus swallowed his repulsion and offered the chicken in his outstretched hands. “I have a gift for you.”
She snatched it from him and licked its beak with her forked tongue, clearly savouring the taste. “You have a question.” She turned to him, and upon closer inspection he saw that the mound was faceted, and on each surface his own tiny figure reflected back at him.
“I have many.”
“A single fowl does not a banquet make.”
“But—”
“One! And only one!” she barked, dropping to her knees and falling forward to flatten the bird to the floor whilst mumbling words in a language Septamus did not recognise.
He had to think quickly. He had been going to ask about the queen’s secret, and the girl—a blank piece to a puzzle with too many spaces. He had to know if she fit into it somewhere. With the boy thief holding fast in his ignorance, and the queen’s unusual compassion towards him, he had been convinced that the Lady of the Mountain would find a connection. Yet faced with the opportunity to pose only one question, it was another that called more strongly to him—one which might answer all his questions together.
“What is to become of the monarchy?”
Her cackle multiplied in the cavernous space. “You waste your question on one answered centuries ago.”
“I was talking of the present monarchy, and do not spare the specifics.”
She angled her head and her black lips curled with an all-knowing smile as she ripped away the chicken’s head and dangled its body to drain the blood into a bowl, then offered it up. “Drink,” she said.
Reluctantly, he accepted the bowl and sipped at the distasteful liquid, watching while the oracle sliced open the bird, pulled out its entrails, and wrapped them around her throat like a necklace. Her millipede hair lengthened towards it and began its meal.
She stood up and tipped the bowl to force the blood faster into his mouth. “All of it,” she said.
Septamus gagged on the thick warmth as it threatened to enter his windpipe, until thankfully, she tore the empty bowl away and threw it against a nearby rock, where it smashed to the floor.
The oracle threw up her arms, the bones of her long, white fingers visible through their transparent skin and her mouth almost growling more indistinguishable words, but then her voice steadied and became coherent.
“Change is coming. Natural order must reign. A child will arrive. Exactly as it was foretold.”
“This is old news.”
“The child comes.”
“I know about the prophecy. Any child that arrives in my lifetime will be slaughtered like all the others. Tell me something new, woman.”
The oracle’s hollow laugh echoed around the chamber. “She is almost here.”
“She? The child will be a girl?” His mind raced. “Or are you talking about a different girl?” The girl on his mind, perhaps? “Speak sense, you old witch.”
“She is The One. The gods warn against you seeking her. She will be your doom.”
“Nonsense. I am a slayer of monsters. One girl, whether big or small, is no match for me. I did not travel here to hear an ancient prophecy repeated. My question regarded the monarchy. What of the crown? Is it to be mine?”
Again, her laughter rebounded from the walls, as if there were twenty more of her kind viewing the scene. “Your future surrounds you.”
As she said the words, flames sprang from beneath Septamus’s feet and licked the hem of his Voltignis-hide coat. He drew in a long breath, unimpressed by her scare tactics. He had faced far worse on the battlefield, and if she thought to alarm him with her amateur pyrotechnics, it was clear the expertise of her all-knowing eye had been highly exaggerated. He had mastered the frigaura before he was out of short breeches.
Slowly rotating, he exhaled an icy blast of air and watched as the flames dwindled and vanished. “I see I have wasted my time here.”
“If that is all you see, then perhaps it is true,” the oracle said, stuffing the bird’s carcass into a pot. “Egomaniacal fool,” she spat.
With one swift move, Septamus drew his sword. No one called him a fool. But before he could swing it at her neck, her guards were in front of him, their robes removed and billowing out to cover their mistress. As the material fluttered to the ground, she vanished from under it, but Septamus had no time to wonder where she had gone. The skeletons reeled around and stepped forward, their jaws dropping wide and spewing out a yellow mist.
Chapter Thirteen
PIPER WAS DEAD, and she was trying to stay dead, but someone insisted upon rapping their knuckles on the lid of her coffin.
She prised open her eyes and blinked away the bright morning light, but the knocking sound continued.
“Piper? Are you awake?” Beth’s voice filtered through the door.
“I am now,” Piper groaned, lifting her bed sheets to check for scorch marks. To her surprise, she discovered they remained as white as when she’d put them on.
The door swung open and Beth grinned. “Good. I’ve finally got a morning off, so I wondered if you might like to go for that shopping trip I promised you.”
“Shopping? With all the stuff that’s going on, you want to go shopping?”
“What stuff?” Beth said, perching on the edge of the bed.
Piper scooched to sit up. “You know...”
“Oh, you mean Soph? She’s fine now—well, as fine as she can be, considering. We had a good chat last night, and she understands it was none of our faults. It was just the shock of the news making her angry, that’s all. A couple of days alone with her paintbrush and she’ll be right as rain.”
“Are you sure she should be left alone?”
“Absolutely. Trust me. It’s how she copes. Buuuut... It leaves me without a shopping partner. So get that skinny ass—that I’m insanely jealous of, by the way—out of bed and into those revolting jeans that seem permanently welded to it, because it’ll be the last time you wear them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my jeans,” Piper said as Lambert chose that moment to pay her his usual morning call.
He cocked a brow. “Forgive me. I did not realise you would be busy,” he said, backing out again. “I shall return in a while.”
“No. Stay. I’m not busy,” Piper said. “Beth just dropped in to invite me out to the shops.”
“And have you given her your answer?”
“Not yet, but I was thinking about it.”
His face tightened. “What about your training?”
She thought of her unmarked sheets. “Actually, I’m feeling quite positive about my progress, and I could do with a day off.”
“Perhaps you tire of my company?”
“Of course not, but a change of scenery would be nice. For you, too. Why don’t you come?”
“Um...” Beth began. “I shouldn’t think Lambert would enjoy traipsing around a bunch of girlie boutiques.”
Piper wasn’t entirely sure she would enjoy having to endure Beth’s company all morning, but was convinced it would prove much easier with an ally. “It’ll be a new experience for him.”
“May I enquire as to what a boutique is?” Lambert asked.
“A small but perfectly formed clothing shop,” Beth explained.
“Piper already has many clothes.”
“Yes, and the less said about them the better. Besides, a girl
can never have too many.”
Lambert turned back to Piper. “Is this what you truly want to do?”
“Um... yeah. Yes, I think it is.”
“Then I shall accompany you.”
*****
Piper had only been to Carleigh twice in her life: once when her mother had taken her to see a musical—she couldn’t for the life of her recall the name of—and once to attend an auction with her father. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed either occasion, and she wasn’t feeling much better this time around.
Carleigh was enormous, and Beth’s insistence that the main shopping centre only contained boring shops meant that Piper had been forced to see more of the surrounding streets than she’d expected to.
Beth treated shopping as a national sport. She had the route all planned out, knew each designer the different stores stocked, and had even memorised which ones held the best selection of a particular type of item. But what Piper hated more than Beth’s systematic approach, or her own aching feet, was the way Beth thought nothing of swiping the Lovell family credit card with reckless abandon.
“It’s fine, honestly,” she’d said as she paid for yet another top that had taken her fancy. “Seb has more money than he knows what to do with, and as hard as I try, Sophie refuses to change her habit of trawling the charity shops. Somebody has to give this baby the attention it deserves, and I feel it’s my duty to help out.”
Piper had professed that she had money and was perfectly capable of paying for her own purchases, but Beth acted as if she had cotton wool in her ears, resulting in both Piper and Lambert being the reluctant owners of brand-new wardrobes, all selected to Beth’s taste.
Lambert’s hands were barely visible under the myriad of bags he’d insisted upon carrying for them when he mentioned that it must be lunchtime.
