by Gwynn White
Not even her praise of his lovemaking—if you could call tumbling a whore lovemaking—could prevent his scowl. He almost wanted to slap her for making him think of Father. He’d been having such a lovely time forgetting.
And of course she would say he was good. He was an incubus; charming people into doing whatever he wanted was vital to his survival. How else was an incubus supposed to persuade the Magical to let him sink his fangs into their necks?
His charm hadn’t worked on Father.
The crystal baubles hanging across the doorway tinkered as someone pushed them aside.
Carian.
The girl’s sense of modesty seemed lost. Or paid for. While she lay sprawled out naked, Raith pulled a sheet over his midriff. He eyed Carian intently as he drawled, “I hope you have a good reason for this interruption.”
Carian ignored him and flashed an animal-like smile at the girl. “My, aren’t you a beauty?”
Raith took courage from the deflection. Carian had to be ready to share his plan or he wouldn’t be here.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Carian purred.
The whore smiled, sitting up straight. Carian’s eyes never met her face. “Assava, my lord.”
“Assava.” He rolled the name off his tongue like molten honey. “Will you give me a moment with my brother?”
She glanced over her bare shoulder at Raith. When he didn’t refuse, she stood, showing off every angle of her body, and walked through the crystal baubles.
Carian grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. She didn’t seem to mind. His eyes roved over her body hungrily. “I’ll remember your name for later.” He released her arm and patted her butt, letting her leave. “Nice one.”
Tired of his antics, Raith asked, “I assume you have news for me. About time, too. You can’t drop something like you did on a man and not expect him to want answers.”
“Indeed I have.” Carian poured himself a glass of wine and sat on the end of the bed. “My plan for ridding us of both Father and Jorah is very simple. It begins with us going to Ryferia.”
Raith barked a laugh at the ludicrous notion. “Maleficent’s beard, Carian. You want us to go to a kingdom where there is no magic, where there are Guardians and musketeers guarding the place, and, if rumor is correct, half the people are dying or deformed? What good is that going to do?” He snatched the sheets. “I’d be better off here, tumbling whores.”
Carian smiled triumphantly. “The people of Ryferia are not deformed. At least not in the way you think they are.”
Tired of Carian toying with him, Raith snapped, “And you know this how?”
Carian took a leisurely swig of his wine and winced at the taste. He set the goblet down on the floor. “I’ve finally finished working through our library. It was very informative. You should try it sometime.” A predatory grin. “I bet the Ryferians would love to get their hands on the books in there—if they knew they existed.”
Raith had heard his brother’s praise for those dusty tomes countless times—the ones their great-grandfather had smuggled out of Ryferia during the war. He peeked the tips of his fangs out to show his impatience. “How about you skip to the part where this affects me?”
Carian gave a mock shudder. “Stick those things back where I can’t see them.”
Raith obliged, only because of all the magic Carian coveted, the power he wanted most of all was that of an incubus. Like Trojean, Carian would be a rapacious feeder if Raith managed to transfer magic to him.
“Have you ever wondered what happens to those in Ryferia who were supposed to have magic but can’t because of the Guardians?” Carian asked.
Raith humored his brother. “I assumed they die at birth. Or their magic just never manifests.”
“Oh, it manifests.” Carian smirked. “Only it backfires on them. Why do you think they’re all deformed? Their magic has nowhere to go, so it turns on them.”
Raith blinked, not sure whether to laugh or inquire further. “So you’re telling me that Ryferia isn’t crawling with weak and dying people? That it’s filled with magic?”
“That is exactly what I’m telling you. If Nethric and his rabble army had stopped for long enough to listen to our fae, they would have known that the Guardians would devastate their people.”
Even hidden in his jaw, Raith’s fangs prickled with anticipation. “So, if it wasn’t for the Guardians, Ryferia would be as powerful as Warrendyte?”
“More powerful, because they have more people living there. If you want to take on Jorah—and actually win—you need to start in Ryferia.”
Raith fell back against the pillow, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “What good is that when the Guardians are up? I need my magic to take magic. We can’t exactly march in and tear the Guardians down.”
“We don’t have to.” Carian reached into the inner pocket of his tunic and pulled out a piece of parchment. He tossed it at Raith. “We have an invitation. Or rather, you do.”
Raith fumbled the catch, and it clattered to the floor. Holding the sheets tightly to preserve his dignity, he reached down for it. The letter bore a broken seal he had never seen before. “Where did you get this?”
“I intercepted a carrier pigeon—from Ryferia. That seal belongs to Niing. Apparently, he is Princess Aurora’s tutor.”
Raith opened the parchment and read, his eyebrows rising in wonder at the contents. King Lazard was dead, and his heir apparent sought a husband before she could claim her throne. She challenged all firstborn nobility to fight to the death for the honor of marrying her.
Raith stroked the stubble on his jaw. He could hold his own with a sword, but had never been considered a skilled fighter. He didn’t need to fight when he could suck the life from people with his fangs. When he had an incubus’s powers of persuasion. With one sweep of his eyelashes, he could beguile his victims to do exactly what he wanted.
Except Father, of course. Being in Father’s presence robbed him of his magic as surely as the Guardians in Ryferia would.
He glanced at Carian. His powerfully built brother, skilled in war games, would have no trouble winning a princess’s hand in a fight to the death.
Pity the challenge calls for proof of title. He considered pointing out the problem, but decided against it. Carian was no fool; he would already have factored this into his scheme.
“You will be delighted to hear that Aurora is no beauty,” Carian said. “Or so rumor tells. I would say there is a fair chance that she is one of the hideous Magical.”
Raith’s pulse raced. This was good news indeed. Unless one was an incubus seeking a new supply of magic, Ryferia was no great prize. The chances of dozens of mundane fighters lining up to risk dying for an ugly girl’s hand in marriage were remote.
The only other Magical heirs would have to come from Warrendyte, but with no absolute ruler, Warrendyte would not have a firstborn heir to field. And the Magical in Warrendyte preferred not to mix with the Untalented unless they had their full powers. Which they wouldn’t during the trials.
Excitement leaked into Raith’s voice. “What power does she have?”
“How should I know? She’s ugly and deformed. Isn’t that enough of a clue that she’d be worth feeding on? What a gift for you on your wedding night.” Carian’s eyes gleamed. “Just don’t forget who made it possible when you are king of Ryferia.”
Raith flashed his fangs. “Of course I won’t forget. I will help you get the magic you want.” In order to do that, he’d need access to his own. “But we will have to take the Guardians down for me to get at the Magical. The minute we do that, they will know what I am—the embodiment of their worst nightmares. Even Maleficent would turn and run. They will kill me as sure as I’m breathing before they let me use their country as my personal smorgasbord.”
Carian dangled another piece of parchment at him. “Not if you have this. Great-grandfather was meddling in some dark stuff when he fled Ryferia with his library.”
Raith le
aned forward to grab it, but Carian pulled it away. “Let me explain. If you drink the concoction on this recipe, you will be able to withstand the power of the Guardians.”
Raith frowned. “So why hasn’t everyone used it?”
“I told you, our dear progenitor was into the macabre and the deadly. I don’t think his notes and experiments were as widely known.”
“Like the spell to give magic to the naturally Untalented?”
A scowl from Carian; he hated being referred to as Untalented. “Exactly. This potion requires the same kind of sacrifice. We need the blood of five of the noble Magical lines, mixed with a selection of herbs.” He glanced down at the parchment. “Minotaur, fae, centaur, dwarf, nymph . . .” A shopping list of names. “You get the idea.” A half-laugh. “Since Trojean wiped out all the Magical here, we have to go to Ryferia to make it.”
Raith bit his lip. “The higher Magical aren’t going to willingly give us their blood. And I won’t be able to use my fangs to take it either.” Killing on that scale—
He grimaced.
“We won’t ask them to. While you are taking part in the trials, I’ll find the most deformed subjects in the city. It will be safe to assume that they will be the most powerful. We can use them for this potion and another ritual I have in mind. Trust me, when I’m done with you, you will be so strong, not even Warrendyte will stand against you.”
Killing so many Magical beings? Repulsive. All that for some untested potion? “How do we know it will work?”
“How do you think Great-grandfather got a whole library out of Ryferia when everyone else barely escaped with their skin? He used this potion to systematically transfer his stuff out once the Guardians were in place. Took him months.” A cruel smile. “He killed a lot of people to gather those books.”
An alarm rang in Raith’s head. “How long does the potion last?”
“Twenty-four hours. Enough time for you to take the power you need to control the Magical.”
A mere twenty-four hours? So many people had to die for such a small gain?
How badly do you want to avenge Trojean’s death?
He would have to go on a feeding frenzy during those precious hours. But even if he glutted on blood, there was only so much power he could absorb per feed.
A thought struck. “If I agree to this, can we get the potion brewed before I have to fight in the trials?”
“You expect me to arrive in Ryferia, find these higher Magical beings, kill them, drain their blood, and brew a potion all within hours of arriving there? I’m good, but not that good.”
That made sense. They would probably only get one shot at this potion. They had to time it perfectly. He clenched the sheet.
“Even if I do drink that potion and reap as many Magical as I can sink my fangs into during those twenty-four hours, I still won’t be strong enough to take Warrendyte on my own.”
Carian hooded his eyes. “If you do as I say, you will.”
Raith canted his head. “You know more?” Perhaps he should have spent less time with whores and more time reading those dusty old books.
“How do you think Trojean became so powerful so quickly?”
“I had wondered.” In fact, Raith had done more than wonder; he had marveled at Trojean’s rapid growth. When there was only so much magic one could ingest from each feed, it had defied logic. It was as if she had tapped into another source with each of her kills.
Carian grinned. “Reading, my brother. That is the answer to all of life’s questions.”
Raith rolled his eyes.
“I taught Trojean another of Great-grandfather’s tricks,” Carian added. “A ritual. A dangerous one. But she decided the risk of death was worth the extra power she got from each kill. A few more feeds, and I swear she would have taken Jorah. Now you will get to claim the dragon’s magic. And then you can give me what I crave. What Trojean died for.”
Raith sometimes worried about Carian’s rampant ambition. Still, he was level-headed and had a healthy sense of self-preservation. He would never let Carian sweep him up into something crazy or life threatening. “What ritual?”
“How about I show you after we kill Father?”
The calculation in Carian’s bearing disquieted Raith. “You can’t just tell me?”
“It will make more sense if you actually do it.”
Raith leaned back against the pillows to think. He could walk away now and pretend this conversation had never happened.
Or he could trust his brother.
Each had its risks. Doing nothing meant living with Father. Raith cringed at the very idea of going back to Lorithian Castle.
But I can’t stay here forever.
The weight of Carian’s eyes on him also bore him down with guilt. If he failed to act, Carian’s greatest dream would be thwarted. Only Raith had the power to make Carian truly happy.
Keeping his siblings happy had always been Raith’s highest priority.
In the face of Father’s abuse, he, Carian, and Trojean had always been a team. They may have squabbled amongst themselves like all siblings did, but they had been unfailingly loyal to each other when confronted with their abuser.
That loyalty had been born out of their desperation and anger at their mother, who, unable to endure Father, had fled the family home years before. Whether she lived or died, Raith didn’t know or care. But unlike her, Raith and his siblings had promised they would always have each other’s backs.
Up until Trojean’s death, all three of them had been unfailing in that commitment.
But trusting Carian meant Raith had to kill other human beings—starting with Father.
Not that he cared about Father, but that death would be followed by countless more if he were ever to be powerful enough to avenge his sister by destroying Jorah.
All that blood on my conscience.
Pain shafted him as his twin’s beautiful face swam in his mind’s eye. His chest ached with familiar longing for her.
Her imaginary face morphed into a familiar mocking smile. As much as Trojean had loved him, she had thought him soft because he’d never wanted to use his fangs against anything but Magical animals.
How disappointed she would be if she knew he was unwilling to avenge her by controlling two Magical worlds. Also, she would never forgive him for denying Carian the chance to win the magic he had always craved.
Could he really stand disappointing them both?
What were the lives of unknown Magical humans compared with Trojean’s? With Carian’s?
He took a deep breath. “So, we are agreed that I cannot use your potion to help me win the trials. In that case, do you think I’m skilled enough to win Aurora’s hand in a series of blood sports that don’t include using my fangs?”
Carian’s shoulders relaxed. “I believe that even your mediocre sword fighting and jousting skills will be enough to keep you alive.”
Raith pulled the silk sheets tighter around him. “And if they aren’t?”
“Then we find a way to cheat the system.” Carian took another swig of wine, then winced. Clearly, he was no enthusiast of cheap wine either. “You need more power going in.”
Raith rubbed his thumb against one of his fangs. “If you say so.”
“Oh! I say so. Far be it for me to say you need toughening up.”
Raith forced a smile. “I know exactly what you and Trojean think of me. I won’t let you down.”
“Good.” Carian’s face hardened. “Prove that by killing Father.”
Chapter Thirteen
A bell clanged through the silent halls and passages of Jorah’s manor in Warrendyte.
His eyebrows peaked.
Someone calling.
Not expecting visitors, he stopped the grinding wheel and put the sword he was sharpening on the table. He waited for Feloran, his faerie manservant who managed his estate, to open the front door.
Although in his armory on the far side of the mansion from the entrance hall, Jorah caught
the squeak of hinges as the heavy mahogany door swung open. He had never bothered oiling them because he had liked to hear Lila coming and going as she flitted about her business.
Now, he just didn’t care. The only time that door opened was when visitors called, and even that wasn’t very often. Dragons didn’t make a point of welcoming people into their lairs.
Feloran’s light footsteps echoed down the hardwood floor toward him. Tall, gracious, with alabaster-colored skin and typical pointed fae ears peeking through his shoulder-length, inky-black hair, his old friend stopped at the door and glared at him. “You heard the bell.”
Jorah glared right back. “I didn’t send out any invitations.”
“I conjured tea. And fruitcake. It’s waiting in the parlor. With Sabrisia. All that is needed is you. Want me to call in some elves to drag you there?”
Jorah didn’t grace that with a reply. Nor did he move.
What had brought Sabrisia to his front door? Beautiful, scheming, sharp as a blade, she was a powerful water fae who served with him on the council. Sabrisia and her wiles were the last thing he was in the mood for today. “What does she want?”
A mock bow. “A mere faerie such as I has power over the domestic affairs of men and women. Mind reading is not included.” Feloran turned to leave. “Get your sorry ass into that parlor and see what she wants.”
“Remind me, who pays your salary?” Jorah called out to him.
“Mere coins that canker and rust,” Feloran said over his shoulder. “Now do as I say, or I’ll order my elves to start clearing out some of Lila’s shoes. We need the space to house your bad moods.”
Only Feloran would dare—and get away with—speaking to him like this.
Still, Jorah’s talons threatened to slip from their sheaths under his skin at the threat of disturbing any of Lila’s hundreds of pairs of shoes. The fact that they overflowed from every wardrobe and dressing room in the manor didn’t matter. Like her flamboyant clothes, countless recipe books stuffed into every bookcase, and the glass ornaments she loved to collect adorning every surface, her shoes were tangible, daily reminders that she was his and always would be.
