by S. L. Prater
When Bran’s motorcar returned, the moon was at its highest point in the sky. She put out her cigarette, then hurried up the west wing staircase and into her bedroom to continue spying from its balcony. Bran wasn’t alone. He came accompanied by a handful of watchmen in narrow scarlet stoles of silk, most of them riding in steam carriages—bulbous spitting contraptions, cheaper than a motorcar but not as sleek.
The lot of them clotted up the gates with noise and bustling movement. As a witch, her fear of watchmen was deeply ingrained. Thanks to their famous stoles, which fell to the navel and knotted at the neck, Marnie was repulsed by the color red. She could not wear it.
There were so many of them, her skin prickled. She fled the balcony, slamming and locking the doors behind her, her stomach twisting. In a hurry, she sought safety under the covers of her four-poster bed.
The quilt weighed down her head, mussing her hair. She felt foolish. The emotion evolved into a shame that warmed her skin unpleasantly. She thrust the blankets onto the floor and climbed off the mattress. Her legs protested. She ached dully all over. Marnie attempted to stretch out her sore limbs, but the pain impacted her balance.
Her bedroom felt empty—emptier with watchmen nearby. Maybe she could convince Jack to sleep on her floor tonight? The room was large and spartan, but finer than any pot scrubber should have, with quick access to plumbing. Bran’s parents had honored her father further by allowing her and her mother nicer rooms amongst the family members.
Adding to the feeling of emptiness, the ceiling seemed to go up forever, and it echoed the smallest sounds. She had only a few belongings: more clothing than a staffer, significantly less than a noble-born lady. A broad bed, a full-length mirror. Books were piled in short stacks everywhere—the fun kind: alchemy, arithmetic, and witch legends. Most of them written by master alchemist Shar Zerba. Nothing like the fat boring ones Bran read.
She loosened her hair of its pins, letting the curls fall down her back. She changed into a nightdress, a thin cotton one with straps and a low neckline. The hem grazed mid-thigh. It was hot. The dry season was upon them on the island. Loreley City was safest from dangerous storms in the dry season, but the heat could be unbearable at times.
Marnie heard a mewling cry that stole her attention. Swaying sun trees flanked her balcony, their branches spindly and covered in thick, bright yellow leaves. They loomed at her through the glass double doors and sheer curtains. The trees jostled in a balmy breeze, and when it finally stilled, she could hear more clearly. The sound of weeping brought her outside.
Shouts reached her over frantic sobs as she leaned over the stone rim to see what the commotion was. She spotted the watchmen first, their black peaked hats hiding their faces. They pooled together in the gardens near the papayas and banana trees, blanketed by buzzing insects drawn to their lantern light.
Marnie recognized her mother’s voice, and her breath caught in her throat.
“No!” she shouted, leaning out so far, she nearly fell. “You let her go!”
Annette Becker wasn’t a witch. She should have been safe around watchmen. They had her in their arms, nonetheless, toting her after them. She cried loudly, her body a limp mass between them. Beyond the gates the city was too still, too quiet, too oblivious to the fact that Marnie’s world was crumbling around her.
“Mother?! Let her go!” She pounded the stone too hard with her fists, and the skin around her knuckles puckered and blistered. It might hurt later, but she couldn’t feel it now. “She isn’t a witch!” She hollered curse words until her face was on fire, and her swear words turned completely childish because she simply could not think up any more.
They loaded Madam Becker into a steam carriage, one of the fancy silver-plated ones that were enclosed except for the driver’s seat. The gardener’s hounds howled, and Marnie shouted at the watchmen to release her mother—take her instead—until her throat ached. She earned no response.
“Where are you taking her?” This she whispered because her voice was gone.
She ran, sore muscles be damned, out of her room, around the corner, and down the main corridor. She didn’t bother knocking, although she immediately wished she had bothered to put on clothes.
The door to Bran’s bed chamber hung open at her back, allowing in the faint light from the hall.
“Close the door.” He did not sound surprised to see her. His voice shook, though, subtly.
She closed the door.
“How are you holding up, Marnie?” he asked carefully.
Everything smelled like him, like old books in an orchard, tobacco, and chalk dust. Books were everywhere, mountains of them, books covered in spirit symbols, numbers, and equations. They were stacked in the corners, lying open on the cream carpets, covering his nightstand, piled on his dresser, tucked under the blackboards that lined the back wall. Few, ironically, were on the bookshelves. It was the untidy room of a man who was accustomed to having others clean up after him but was much too private to allow anyone inside.
Her presence would have been the worst kind of violation had she not been sneaking into his room for years to work through equations with him whenever he asked for a second mind.
This time felt different from all that, less innocent. Her visit had nothing to do with equations, and she’d always been fully clothed before. The notion raised her blood pressure.
Framed in the sky by his window was the constant star, the gift to travelers from the Spirit Sidra. It felt bright, too bright. Marnie felt naked under its glow. She hugged herself.
“My mother—”
“I know.” He looked at his feet. “I was coming to tell you. I just didn't get that far.”
Her eyes stung, threatening to tear. “You’re her master—”
“I think I’m not her master anymore. Yours either. Not exactly.” Seated on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, he was clothed in his silk shirt, the arms folded to his elbows. A blue master’s stole hung haphazardly from a bed post. His hair hid his eyes.
Marnie fisted her hands, resisting the urge to push those black strands, blacker than the night sky, out of his face. She’d make him look at her. “Not my master? My mother needs your help, a woman I know you care for almost as much as I do. You’re a royal councilor!”
“I’m not one anymore.” His voice was a ghostly whisper.
“How?” she sniffled.
He started to stand up, then seemed to think better of it. “The emperor is dead and with no appointed heir. He and the high councilor were murdered by the same demon magic you saved me from when you shoved me off that balcony.”
“Really sorry about that, by the way.” She toed the carpet.
A smile tweaked the corner of his mouth and then vanished. “You apologized already. Right before you shoved me off the balcony.”
“Whatever has happened, you are still the owner of a massive estate. You have influence. You can save Madam Becker. I know you can.”
“Of course I will help your mother. They assured me they would only be holding her for questioning—in their offices, not a cell. I insisted. The Church of the Cloth and its constabulary have authority over magical things. There is very little else I can do right now.”
“The emperor is dead, and my mother’s been taken, but what does any of that have to do with you losing your rank? Do others know? Will they still listen to you come morning?”
He squeezed the bridge of his nose as though a pain was building there. “You don’t seem to understand what I’m saying. The emperor and the high councilor are dead. Assassinated by demon magic. There was no one else. No one suited. They insisted.”
When she stared back blankly, he added, “I am the Lord of Loreley, Emperor of Kings.”
Chapter 4
“That’s—oh.” Torn between bowing low or running into the hall to vomit, Marnie stood there, lock-kneed, feeling cold somehow in the middle of a hot spell.
“Marnie, you . . . you look . . .” He swallowed.
; She considered covering herself with a large book. The massive leather-bound volume over in the corner would do, but she probably could not lift the thing. She tugged her thin nightgown farther down her thighs, trying to guess at how many archaic laws there were against exposing oneself to the emperor.
“I thought I was going to bed, and then I saw what was happening to my mother . . . and I’m really very sorry.”
“You apologize for a lot of things that you shouldn’t. Do not worry. Who I am hasn’t changed, and you are magic drunk, after all.”
“Actually I’m—yes, still very drunk.” She cleared her throat and dug her toes farther into the carpet, wishing she could coat herself in the fibers.
“I wonder when it will wear off. You will need your wits about you soon. I worry for you.”
“Bran, I’m not worried about me. My mother—you will make sure she is all right.” It wasn't a question. A simple pot scrubber should not be making demands of an emperor, but in the moment, she couldn’t find it in herself to care.
“I will make sure your mother is all right. Not a ginger hair on her head will be mussed, or I will raise hell. That I promise you. Please trust me. I am not like them. You know that, right?”
She did trust him. She recognized the utter kindness in the core of Bran, and she trusted this goodness implicitly. It was the church and their watchmen she could not trust. They held within them a deeply rooted tradition of disdain for witches and their organic use of magic. They had an authority over the gallows that saw unreasonable amounts of witches hung from it in the dead of night.
Their track record with her mother was gravely discouraging.
“You don’t know what they did to her the last time, not all of it.” She hugged herself tight. “They accused her of bewitchment and . . .” Stole my birthright. “And when all the humiliating tests proved she could not use magic, the Beckers declared my father legally unfit to inherit. They used his love letters to her, twisted what he meant as poetry to claim he had been driven insane by some ambitious seductress, and the crown and the church swallowed up that garbage all because my pretty mother was born to kitchen servants and my parents produced a daughter who is a witch.”
“Then, we will use that to our advantage.” His voice softened. “Madam Becker is not a witch. Their idiotic crusade proved it. She couldn’t possibly be responsible for the curse tonight. They will see that.”
“The system designed to protect people like you doesn’t want to protect people like my mother. If the Beckers find out she is being questioned about demon magic, they will start up again. It will be worse this time.”
He closed his eyes. When they reopened, they were vicious, bottomless, charcoal pools. “I will deal with them if they dare. If they rear their ugly heads, I will enjoy taking care of it. I’m not asking you to trust the system or the aristocracy. Trust me. Your friend.”
Bran had not moved an inch since she arrived. Until that moment, Marnie had thought the extra pale cast to his skin was an effect from the moonlight coming in through the windows.
“Are you well?” She knotted her hands in the hem of her nightdress.
“It was a very tall tree that we fell from, and we landed poorly. Your ears were bleeding.” He gritted his teeth. “I’m meeting with a physician in the morning.”
“You need one now.”
“I think not as seriously as my other guests from tonight after the fire and destruction, so I will leave the physician to them for the time being.”
She crossed to him, forgetting her attire and her pride for the moment. “Let me see.”
He started on the buttons just below his collar, scowling. His fingers were trembling, and she helped him, popping one anxiously. She gulped. The bruising around his ribcage was frightening, blotchy and deep purple, and his breaths were short like he couldn’t fill his lungs.
“You know,” she said lightly, “after I ran in here with most of my clothes missing, I thought there was no way I could possibly do any more damage to my pride. Be warned, I’m about to outdo myself.”
“I look forward to it.”
Marnie knew what needed to be done. She stared at his lips and chewed on her own, struck by a shyness that froze her in place. Bran offered his hand, an invitation which clearly caused him more pain. She grasped his fingers; they were clammy and quivering. He tugged her closer, wincing. She leaned a knee beside him on the bed and took a deep steadying breath, trying to slow her heart. It was fluttering out of control like a cornered bird.
Natural magic was everywhere. To help him best, she needed to find some on his body. Gingerly, she brought her nose to his hair. Her fingers traced a path along his neck, trying to stir up whatever magic might be lying on his skin. He smelled amazing, like the rain. She tried not to let it distract her, but her mind wandered against her wishes, then so did her hands. They trailed up to his temples, down to his collar, then under his ear. She applied light pressure there, and he tipped his head to the side. Then she pressed her lips to his throat and inhaled deep.
He sighed. The sound sent a thrill through her, tightening muscles deep in her belly. God help me, he smelled amazing. He smelled like wine and honey and tobacco and something wholly Bran—all her favorite things. There was magic there too, fragrant, mingled in, growing stronger under her witch’s touch. The scent reminded her of a crisp, cool, autumn night in an apple orchard, like the ones across the ocean in Acheus where she attended the academy.
Her lips warmed, and carefully, she laid her mouth on his. His softened, molding to hers. Bran touched her waist, then gripped it. Her lungs burned, and she caught herself holding her breath. The magic did not require her hands in his hair to heal him. They traveled there on their own, brushing silky black strands out of his face. His arms encircled her, pressing her body against his. The pads of his exploring fingers traveling down her back and across her stomach made her breaths tremble.
She bit his lip. When he gasped into her mouth, she remembered herself and pulled away. Bran breathed deep, filling his chest more fully. She tugged his shirt aside. The bruising was fading fast. Marnie retreated, a bit too quickly, feeling sheepish again. He stood and stretched.
Their eyes met. It was not their first kiss. It had to be their last.
“That was . . .” he said, fingering the fading color on his ribs.
“I know.”
“I wish . . .”
“I know you do.” She hesitated . . . She shouldn’t say more, but it gnawed at her. “I still do too,” she admitted, shifting her weight from side to side.
“Would you ever reconsider—?”
“Let’s not go there just now.” She choked on the words, looking anywhere but at him.
“When?” His voice was a whisper. He moved in closer; she stepped back. He reached for her instead, a quiet plea in his eyes that broke her heart.
This time she did not pull back. As he cupped her cheek, Marnie knew she should have pushed his hand away. His thumb swiped across her lower lip, and the touch shot through her, just like she knew it would, making her pulse dance.
Bran’s lips took hers: hard, needy, and demanding. God help her, he tasted even better than before. Her responding touch was equally exacting, fisting into his hair. His mouth found the curve of her neck, dropping kisses that were not gentle—exactly the way she liked them.
“Stop,” Marnie gasped. Her eyes squeezed shut.
“I don’t want to. You don’t want me to.” His breath on her throat pebbled her skin.
She opened her mouth to argue. The sounds that emerged were unintelligible, caught between a moan and a grunt which gave her away and galvanized him further. His arms wrapped her up, holding her tight.
She had to make him listen, had to make him let her go.
Marnie planted her hands on his shoulders and shoved him back a step. “What you want is dangerous, Bran,” she panted. “The Church of the Cloth does not want you empowering a witch by—”
“I don’t care w
hat they want!” he shouted.
Marnie’s voice rose to match his. “They’ll accuse me! Anything to get me away from you!” She paused. Worried she’d wake someone, she tempered her voice. “They’ll call me dangerous, say I bewitched you. That’s not an accusation witches walk away from. You have to let this go. Now. Please.”
“Marnie, I—”
“Please, Bran.”
He took a breath—in through his nose, out through his mouth—resigned for the moment. “Thank you for fixing me. I don’t know what I would do without you near me, ready to intervene when I’m being too stubborn.”
She suspected her warming face was the color of a boiled beet, and she was grateful for the dark. “It’s good that you’re whole again.”
He fetched the blue master’s stole off the bed post and threw it around his shoulders, looking energized and more formidable than usual, like he had grown even taller.
“Madam Becker will be questioned by a priest and watchmen in the morning,” he said, refastening his shirt. “I insisted that, as a member of my household, she be provided with counsel—while it’s still my house. I will lose the estate, all my belongings, at my coronation. There is so much to attend to, the mind spins, but Annette Becker will come first.” He turned to face her, and she helped him with the last of his buttons. “I know which priest I want to handle her questioning, and I’m going to secure you and Jack as your mother’s counsel.”
“She needs someone who knows law—”
“What she needs is a witch. Only someone with knowledge of magic can convince them they’re making a mistake. Annette needs her daughter right now, and typically you need Jack, so you’ll go together.” He knotted his stole. “Present yourself at the constabulary at Terra District tomorrow morning, just after sunrise.”
“We’ll be there, of course, but I still need to find her proper counsel. I’m not trained in law. I don’t know what I could possibly advise her of that would be helpful. Surely, you know someone.”
