by Ash Krafton
He nodded a little. "I have complete faith in him. Pontian is one of the oldest and wisest I know. It's the therapy I fear. She'll go through withdrawal and it will be painful. I hate knowing what I have to put her through. And seventeen—she's a typhoon of emotion. Do you remember seventeen?"
Did I ever. Grief laced its fingers around my heart for a moment as I remembered who I'd been at seventeen. I'd found and I'd lost so much at that age, events that defined the parameters of my deepest ideals and made me who I was today. Feeling a little guilty about placing so much value on events that happened half a lifetime ago, I allowed myself only a small private moment before I smoothed the crease in my brow and from around my soul.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I remember seventeen."
"So you can understand why I need you? Why Shiloh needs you? Not just as Sophia, but someone who knows her. Someone who cares for her."
"I do understand. Did you talk to her about us shacking up together?"
He gave me a sly I'll let that one go kind of look. "She says it'll be a never-ending slumber party, especially when Brianda comes to visit."
Brianda was Shiloh's older sister. "I don't really know her."
"I don't think you met her yet."
"Not officially. She carried me once." Brianda had rescued me the night of The Crap That Almost Killed Me; I'd have bled to death if she hadn't delivered me to the healers in time. We didn't exactly make conversation—it had been a rough night, with me almost dying and all.
Something moved behind his eyes, but the pulse of his power didn't give anything away. "Don't worry. The Stocks is so big you'll be more like neighbors than roommates when she's actually there."
"The stocks? That sounds ominous." As in rack and guillotine and iron maiden ominous.
"Does, doesn't it?" He grinned, giving me a flash of his eyeteeth. They weren't fangs by any stretch of the over-active imagination but their sharpness gave his smile a hungry, wild look nonetheless. "Black Oak Stocks is the name of the estate. It's been called that as long as I can remember. A lot of the trees on the property are old black oaks. It's where the name comes from."
"And the stocks part?"
Rodrian shrugged and sliced off a portion of steak, balancing the bite on the back of his upside-down fork. So Euro-cool. "Every old house has at least one skeleton in the closet."
"Well," I said, "as long as they're cleared out before I move in."
"Afraid of skeletons?"
"Hardly. I just need the closet space." I shifted in my seat and smoothed out my napkin. "When do you expect Brianda to show up?"
"Hard to say. She's busy with new projects. Doesn't talk details, really, and she's never needed a nanny to follow her around." He chewed, wearing a pensive look. "She's been her own person all her life—just sets a goal and pursues it into the ground. She's aggressive and focused but she has the benefit of good judgment."
"Family trait. She's a Thurzo, through and through."
"I don't know." He concentrated once more on his steak. "I look at her and only see her mother."
Rodrian had never discussed his wife before. He didn't wear a wedding band, and he definitely didn't act married. I ventured along the topic carefully. "You don't talk about her. Is she in the past?"
"In the past." He seemed to muse the phrase. "I suppose that's one way to put it. Most of the time, she's in the past."
"Are you still married?"
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug and reached for his glass. "Still mated."
"Same thing, right?"
"Depends on the DV. Less to some. More to others."
"I get the impression the relationship is a little one-sided."
"Good call." He pressed his mouth into a thin line and looked away, seemingly more interested in the walls than the conversation.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
"No, it's me. I should be honest."
"But if you don't like talking—"
"Not that. I never knew anyone who needed to know about her. She's—away. She works in acquisitions, an artifacts dealer. Always traveling. From time to time she pops in, reminds me why I can't live without her, and leaves again, usually after conceiving another child. It's her way."
I wrinkled my nose. "That's your relationship? You're just a stud?"
His eyes lit with mischief. "Not just any stud."
"Nice. Seriously. That's it?"
Rodrian sighed and set his fork down. "She's the only woman I ever loved. I guess my love is destined to be ninety-nine percent waiting and hoping. That one percent, when she finally comes home, is worth the wait."
That sounded melodramatic, even to me. "It's cruel. No one should repay devotion with separation."
"And yet, it's love. I can't not feel it. I can rage and argue against it but, in the end, it changes nothing." His irises warmed, a reminder of the inconstant nature of hazel eyes. Sometimes brown, sometimes gold, sometimes green.
I remembered green eyes that glowed the same and softened my position. "I can relate."
"I know." Rodrian reached across the table and patted my hand. "It makes us kindred spirits, our misery."
As lovely as it sounded, these days I was too tense and bitter to appreciate the beauty of unrequited devotion. I steered the conversation back to the scheduled topic. "It'll be nice to see Shiloh again. I'm glad you think I can help. I'd hate for her to go through this alone."
"She'd never be alone," he said. "But knowing that you'll be there somehow makes it feel less lonely." He raised his glass solemnly. "Thank you, Soph."
Lifting my glass in reply, I sipped the wine. Unconsciously, I toyed with my necklace with my free hand.
The pendant was made of blood red jasper, an oblong cabochon that had been inscribed in tiny intricate detail. Egyptian hieroglyphs streamed across the stone spelled out a passage from the Book of the Dead.
A spell.
A prayer to Isis, begging her protection.
I'd worn it nearly non-stop since Marek gave it to me, calling it my "good luck charm." Maybe this spell was the reason I was still alive. There was only a brief time I hadn't worn it. Marek had torn it from my neck during The Crap That Almost Killed Me but one of the DV had found it and returned it to me, repaired. A tiny chink in the gold chain was the only sign it had ever been broken. The necklace was scarred, just like me.
I treasured scars. Scars were not open wounds—they were a sign that wounds eventually heal. They reminded me that, although something bad happened, something good had happened first.
Most days, I needed that proof.
Rubbing my thumb along the back of the pendant, I thought about the other set of hieroglyphs that decorated the back of the pendant. They were encircled by a magic cartouche, engraved into the stone as surely as they were scrawled across my heart.
His name.
Marek had asked that I never forget him, and I'd promised without hesitation, without a thought of how much it would hurt to remember him when he was gone.
Rodrian smiled at me, his power feeling a bit less burdened. He had complete and utter faith that I could help him and Shiloh get through this. And I wanted to—wanted to be near people I loved, people who understood what I myself had been going through since the Sophia decided to manifest itself in me.
I just wasn't sure I was ready for more reminders of what I'd lost. It was just a matter of time before someone would say his name, in that certain context with that certain implication and those scars would reopen all over again.
I soaked up Rodrian's power, basking in the hope he'd found, and did what I did best: I faked it, and hoped no one would notice, and prayed that I could somehow make everyone all better again.
With a smile that I'd practiced in front of a mirror, I set down my glass. "Everything will be just fine."
I gave my pendent one last squeeze in supplication. Heavens forgive me if I'm wrong.
By the time my ten o'clock appointment with the Sophia rolled around, my nerves were ja
ngling like a box of metal hangers. It was probably the Lo-Carb Monsters I drank on the way to her hotel. My hands had developed a noticeable tremor, and I had to tuck them under my arms when I stopped at the reception desk for her room number. Hopefully, I wouldn't develop a kidney stone or be mistaken for a junkie.
Note to self: two energy drinks were pushing my upper tolerance.
A uniformed woman opened the door to the suite, showing me into an opulent sitting room. There wasn't anything presidential about this Presidential Suite, unless by President they meant King of the World.
The room was an exercise in elegance. Ivory walls, bone-colored carpet, tasteful accents of crystal and brass. Even the high ceiling was a sight to behold—a sculpted molding formed a rectangle that framed the room below. The wall to my left boasted a white marble fireplace, the mantle bearing twin crystal vases of white orchids and green tender shoots. A cheery fire cast its glow onto the arrangement of pristine white furniture arranged around a long glass coffee table.
Two couches faced each other across the low table, one high-backed and high-legged, the other lower and less imperious. It was the sort of arrangement that spoke more about politics than aesthetics. Behind the sofas, three tall windows spanned the far wall, their sumptuous beige drapes pulled completely open to invite the night inside.
The night sky provided more color than anything else in the room. Against the cream and ivory and crystal décor, the windows revealed long panels of purple-black, the color of moonless midnight. Stars hid themselves from city dwellers, replaced by the electric lights of surrounding buildings and far-off bridges. The view was breathtaking, although I usually found all heights a little on the breathtaking side.
I was afraid to sit down, feeling too much like a commoner. This Sophia certainly had expensive taste.
A door on the right opened and a regal woman made her entrance, pausing at the door and surveying the room as if to determine the extent of her audience. Her pale pink woolen suit, with its tasteful black pipe trim and delicate lace collar, only needed a hat to put every First Lady from the last century to utter shame.
She had an air of expectation around her and, when her gaze settled on me, her eyes measured me as if she could see right through me.
"Sophia," she said. More like announced, as if her declaration alone would make it so.
At this point, I didn't know if I should kneel or bow or melt backwards out of the suite altogether. I remembered my posture, tried to look as pleasant as possible, and hoped it would suffice.
"Welcome, Sophia. I am the Sophia Eirene." She pronounced her name Irene, her voice rich and cultivated, made velvety by the undercurrent of an Eastern European accent. If voices had color, hers would be jewel-toned: sapphire, garnet, and onyx.
The door opened once more and another woman entered, carrying a silver coffee service. She was the opposite of Eirene; her hair, an indistinct shade of brown, was pulled back in a severe bun and her expression revealed a sturdy sense of gravity. A single glance at her convinced me she knew little of cheer. Although her clothing was functional and unadorned, she, too, had a sense of quiet elegance. Something told me Eirene would not tolerate to be near anything unbefitting of a court.
"Ah, Dorcas. The table there will be fine." Eirene folded her hands before her, looking every bit like the headmistress of a charm school. Dorcas set the tray upon a coffee table. "It is cold and late, Sophia. Coffee will please you?"
"Actually, I can't drink coffee." The meekness in my tone wasn't faked and I glanced apologetically at the silver pot. At her stern glance for my refusal of her gracious hospitality, I added an explanation. "Doctor's orders."
Eirene raised a hand but never moved her eyes from mine.
"A tea service, Dorcas," she said, her tone slightly cooler. The maid disappeared with the offending coffee, and Eirene took a seat on the higher of the two couches, indicating I should sit across from her. "So. Sophia. I am glad we are able to meet. My time in this country is short but I did so want to meet the newest Sophia."
I sat down and smoothed my dress, which now seemed more flighty than functional, given the ambiance. "Have you been Sophia very long, Eirene?"
"Longer than you can guess." Frankly, I would have guessed she'd manifested in grade school because she looked much younger than I. Her grace and eloquence practically moaned maturity, though. I supposed it was a cultural affectation. Or Clinique. "What is important, however, is not my control over the Sophia Oracle but rather this opportunity to share information and experience."
I gulped and tried to keep from looking crestfallen. Information and experience? I had almost zilch. The only thing she'd learn from me was how to play Sudoku and how to avoid uncomfortable public confrontations with DV on the first day of the month. Somehow, I had the feeling she'd be disappointed in my share.
"My Sophia, em...manifested a little over a year ago," I said. "So my experience is somewhat limited. None of the local DV know enough about the oracle to share information with me."
"DV...Demivampire?" At my nod, she continued. "Not even the Thurzo Clan?"
I felt as though I swallowed a glob of Play-Doh. "Thurzo Clan?"
She stiffened, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes. "We'll not play games, Sophia. I've looked into you before making contact. You are acquainted with one Marek Thurzo. He is well-known in some circles for having done extensive Sophia research, and he was the Demivampire who dis-covered you. Is this not true?"
"It is," I said. My suddenly-thumping heart was wrecking my phony composure. I uncrossed my legs and planted both feet to stop my tell-tale foot jiggle. "It's just that he didn't tell me much and I don't see him anymore."
"He has mentioned nothing of the Canons?" She sounded shocked.
I shook my head, feeling quite inadequate, even though I could hardly be blamed for anything Marek failed to disclose. Leave it to me to look villainous when feeling victimized. Briefly I thought about the big book Marek had dumped onto my lap the day he first mentioned the Sophia. Why hadn't I looked at the title page?
Oh, wait. He'd just told me I was an oracle and I was a little flabbergasted, that's why.
"Odd. For someone who has traveled so extensively to my country in search of the Sacred Oracle, one would think he'd have shared it with his pet Sophia."
"I am not his pet." All thoughts of Marek's dusty old book went poof, gone, bye-bye. I couldn't keep the indignation from my tone.
Thankfully, she didn't seem to take offense; rather, she smiled as Dorcas re-entered the room with a fresh tray.
Eirene poured the tea herself and offered me a cup. "That is a relief to hear. I have met other Sophias who had been deceived into believing they owed allegiance to one particular group of Demivampire. I hope you have not been lured into thinking along such lines."
I took the cup gratefully, warming my hands against the porcelain. "No, of course not."
"Excellent." Eirene smiled. "So, will I have the honor of visiting your temple?"
"I'm sorry, I don't go to Temple. I'm Catholic."
She blinked twice. "Your court. Your place of honor, where you grant audience to the Demivampire and offer them counsel."
I was way out of my league. My court? Was that what I was supposed to have? I did just about all things Sophia through the advice column. I had pen-pals, for crying out loud. How could I tell this Sophia my court was nothing more than a five-by-seven cubicle?
"Well," I said, thinking fast. "At one time we held sessions at a private courtroom downtown. However, lately I've been holding fewer face-to-face sessions and participating in more private dealings. Through... correspondence."
She issued a pleased sound. "Ah! I, too, engage in much written correspondence. My land is vast and steeped in tradition. Writing is a personal effort, very desirable for counsel."
I rallied a bit and sat up straighter, sipping at the tea. Not Lipton. Of course not.
"What about your magic?" she asked.
I almost choke
d on a swallow. This time, I couldn't fake it. My blank stare gave me away.
"Your magic," she repeated. "Your empathy. How many recoveries have you accomplished?"
"I don't understand, Eirene. I know about the empathy part, but...recoveries?"
She dropped her hands into her lap and looked away. "How can it be a Sophia doesn't know such basic trivia? It is the premise of the Oracle, straight from the Canons them-selves."
"But I didn't know about the Canons until—"
"Are you sure you are Sophia?" Her shrewd look nearly peeled my skin. "Thurzo may have been mistaken."
"He wasn't wrong." I kept my voice level. "I simply have had no guidance. I've been left to myself to figure this thing out and don't think I'm happy about it."
Eirene sat quietly for a few moments and sipped at her cup.
"You are completely untrained," she said at last.
"Yes, I am." I set my cup down on its saucer, missing its warmth immediately. "Can you help me? These Canons—can I see them?"
"There is but one known collection of the books and they are incomplete, at that. I've seen them only a scant number of times, as the Circlet travels constantly."
"The who?"
She sighed and clearly fought to maintain a civil expression. "The Circlet of Sophia is a group which services the Sophias. They travel from land to land, since Sophias do not travel well themselves. I put great strain upon my comfort to leave my own lands in order to meet you, even though I console myself that there will at least be some small worth in it."
"Oh." I felt small and utterly incapable. If I hadn't pinned all hope of Marek's redemption on this one woman, I would have made an excuse to use the bathroom and slinked out the door. "The DV never mentioned—"
"They cannot mention that which they do not know. The Circlet is a Sophia matter, unknown to the general masses. They are the keepers of tradition, the enforcers of our order. They have not yet sought you?"
Seeing my head shake in negation, she sighed. "Not promising at all. They know where every Sophia is at all times. Surely, you should have been indoctrinated by now. But never mind. I have a great memory for such matters. I can share what I know with you until we find them."
