by Lorelei Bell
“So she is,” he said and looked up. “Must've been a last minute addition.”
“Yes,” Zofia said. “As of an hour ago.”
Dilly's brows went up, not understanding.
“Eh, a shadowpass ago,” Zofia rephrased.
Dilly patted Zofia lightly on the shoulder. “I'll save my vote, then,” he said. “I haven't promised anyone my vote, as of yet. I would be proud to vote you in.”
“Oh—uh—not necessary.” Zofia said. She really didn't want to be voted in. She wanted this whole thing to go away. As an inductee, she would be given an assignment. She just wanted to go home, move her things off of one planet, on to another, just the normal things people do.
A small bleeping sound interrupted them.
“Bless me,” Dilly said, digging one hand into his robes. “I'm being beeped.” He pulled something out of his robes that was chirping—not unlike the sound of some Ugwump's cell phone on First World. In fact it looked almost exactly like one of those Ugwump contraptions. In his large, square hand was a flat, square object no thicker than a cell phone, but it was made of gold. He studied it quickly. “Yes. I'm being beeped. Sorry, I must be off,” he said. “I'll catch you all at the feast. Later!” And he disappeared with a small pop.
“That's a Knight for you,” Tillie said, exasperated. “Never stays in one place for more than five minutes.”
“How long have you known Dilly?” Zofia asked as she edged into a queue for food.
“Dilly? He and my first husband were best friends. We—all four of us—went around together, that sort of thing. Then his wife died, and a few months later, my husband was killed, and we just sort of lost touch. He's a good friend, though. He'll give you his vote, though. That's awful nice of him, too, considering that he could vote for anyone here.”
“I don't want him to vote for me!” Zofia said as they moved up a little. “I wanted to tell him that before he left abruptly.”
“Don't be silly,” Tillie said. “You'll be raking in the dough. Besides, being a Knight will bring your status up quite a few notches.”
“I don't care about that—“
“Blanche and Elton can go to better schools on both your incomes,” she reminded.
The last of what Tillie said eased the tension in Zofia's jaw muscles, and the pucker between her well-plucked brows relaxed some. She hadn't thought of this. She just wanted to be a normal, everyday sorceress, cooking a meal for her family—with Tillie's help, of course. But the hope of better schools for Elton and Blanche was an unselfish desire.
They nudged a little closer to the first table of goodies. The woman in front of her wore a dark purple dress, going on and on about her boy Tiffin, in a grating voice and southern Province accent that sounded about as phony as the purple tint of her wildly teased hair.
“It was amazing!” the woman brayed. “Tiffin actually threw the fireball back at the dragon, and the dragon just turned tail.”
Zofia caught Tillie's unimpressed expression; they both rolled their eyes. “I didn't even have to do that,” Zofia said, loud enough so that the woman in purple could hear. “I just used my umbrella spell, and Transvected around it.”
“Oh, you mean the dragon down in that cave?” Tillie said, playing along. “What happened when you faced Xilomorah? Weren't you startled by that ugly crone?”
“Just a little. But I knew what to expect, since Paradeep—uh, that is—Immortal Paradeep and Stephen—uh, that's Lord Stephen—told me what she looked like. And she was ugly!”
The woman with the goofy-colored hair twisted her long neck to glare at Zofia and Tillie.
“That was before you had to go down into The Place of No Return and get Elton's soul back, wasn't it, dearie?”
“Yes. That's exactly right,” Zofia said. “Oh, Tillie, these petit fours look delicious. Do you want one or two?”
“Two.”
The woman with the hair turned back to the table of sweets and loaded a couple of raspberry tarts onto her plate. She had become very quiet, all of a sudden.
Zofia had been scouting the table for the one confection she missed the most, but couldn't find it. And then she realized—duh—she was no longer on First World. Unfortunately, chocolate was hard to come by on Euphoria. It was expensive. An extravagance, mainly for the rich. People like Stephen would be able to afford to indulge in it for his own pleasure, but he wouldn't serve it to a horde like this.
“I'm having a chocoholic attack,” Zofia muttered to Tillie in a stage whisper.
“Me too,” she admitted. “Maybe when you become a Knight you'll be able to afford to have chocolate. All you want.”
Zofia pulled in a breath and let it out with a deep sigh, then stepped on the hem of her robe and had to stop, lift her foot, and pull up on it with her free hand. When they reached the end of the table, they were loaded down with plenty of sweets and a cup of hot tea each balanced on the plate. They now stood, gazing around for a place to settle with their repast. That was when a face popped out of the crowd and his eyes caught Zofia's. She couldn't believe it when she saw the familiar man—an older version of the one she had known from childhood—angled toward her.
“Well, I'll be!” Tillie exclaimed as the paunchy, gray-haired man approached.
“Uncle Onslow!” Zofia shuffled forward to meet him between two chatty groups. He opened his arms and she wrapped one arm around his thick neck, feeling him pull her into a bear hug as her feet left the floor. Somehow, she managed not to spill more than a few drops of her tea as he set her down.
“Zofia! My eyes!” he swore. “I'd heard the rumors, wondered if they were true, and here you are in a white robe of the Vanguard. My eyes!” His cheeks were red as he smiled down at her, contrasting brightly against his white walrus-style mustache. Wavy wisps of hair at the top of his head were sparse, but around the ears and back it was thick and long and trailed down his back. Wearing the gold of the Commanders, her uncle ran the back of his hand across his large bulbous nose. Onslow was her father's brother. She had not seen him in many, years. The last time she had seen him was soon after her parents had died, and he had taken her from her home and brought her here, to Restormell Castle. That had been the last she had seen him, as he and his wife live in another province, very far away. They now both seemed to be bracing up against strong emotions at the moment.
“How is Aunt Viola?” Zofia finally sputtered against unshed tears.
“Wonderful. Unfortunately, she didn't come with me, this trip,” he said, blinking back tears of joy. “Had a wedding to attend, y'see. If I'd a known you were in the Vanguard, I would've brought her straight along.”
“Tell her I said hi,” Zofia said.
“Absolutely will,” he said. “My eyes, I never thought I would see the day when you would be the one to avenge your parents' murder.” He wiped his face again with a large, square hand. A gold ring on his finger glittered as he did. “I don't have the words in me to say how proud I am of you.”
Zofia had to swallow her own tears. He had put it well enough, she thought. “You just did, Uncle Onslow. You just did.”
“I c'n see right now how I'm going to vote,” he said.
“Oh—no—you don't have to,” she said, clutching his large arm with her free hand. “You must have promised someone your vote.”
“Nah.” He winked at her. “I never promise anyone my vote. I make up my own mind, and my vote always goes to the one who deserves it most.” He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. “I always seem to pick the favorite to win, too.” He winked again. “There's no doubt in my mind you'll win the vote, Zofia. No doubt whatsoever.”
“There you two are,” the new voice was of warmed honey. Stephen had found them and now strode through a knot of people, who parted like sheep in a field for the shepherd. Some people simply gave way, and others bowed to him. He barely took note of it all, as though this sort of thing happened all too frequently. The air around them had thickened with a heady mix of spicy mus
k, sensuality and godliness. Her knees had become like melted marshmallow. His wispy, golden hair flowed around him like gossamer as one slim ray of sunlight had filtered its way down through the canopy above and showered him in a spotlight momentarily as he approached in his usual calm regalness. His gold-green eyes drifted off Zofia to take in her uncle.
“Onslow, how dutiful of you,” Stephen said smoothly. “Thank you for taking care of our little initiate.”
“Not at all. Not at all,” Uncle Onslow said as he went into a slight bow to him, showing as much decorum as he must toward Stephen.
“I will take over from here,” Stephen said to Onslow. Onslow didn't argue, but turned away and went right into a new conversation with someone else. “I'll take you around to meet with the other Commanders,” Stephen said, and crooked his elbow to Zofia.
Zofia had been munching hungrily on a tart, and now chased it down with some very hot tea, and nearly scalded her throat. She realized she couldn't hold up her robe and hold onto the plate as well as take Stephen's arm, so she gave up her plate to Tillie.
“You may bring your snack, if you wish,” Stephen said.
“No,” Zofia said, hiking up her robe. “That's alright.” She took his arm and they strode away from Tillie and Onslow, arm in arm. People parted in their wake as they went.
“Do you do this for all the initiates?” Zofia asked, a sarcastic note in her voice.
“Do what?” he asked, smiling and nodding to people as they went.
“Take them around to meet everyone.”
“No.” He chuckled then, deep and brassy. “Actually, the way it works is one or both of your parents would be with you, doing this. But since you have no parents, I am acting as your champion and presenter—an escort, if you will.” His explanation seemed genuine to her. She couldn't see how his escorting her around would hurt her any.
They made a turn around the end of one of the tables and Zofia found herself gazing into the face of someone who looked like Dorian, only shorter, stockier and with longer hair. His face was wider as well, with one long scar running down one side of his face that didn't detract from his features, but rather enhanced them—in a rugged, pirate sort of way.
“Raoul,” Stephen said. “May I present Initiate Zofia Trickenbod.”
Raoul Grandier's dark gaze slid off of Stephen and onto Zofia. He made a stiff half-bow as he brought the back of his hand beneath her palm in a very elegant way, but backed off from actually kissing it. “Zofia,” he spoke in a deep, husky voice. He was not a flamboyant man, and the gold robe seemed a bit too flashy on him. He straightened and seemed to frown, or possibly it was more his customary grimace in place. It had been years since she'd been in Raoul's presence, and she'd forgotten just how stony Dorian's brother was. Compared to Raoul's stoic composure, Dorian was comical. “I'd heard that you were one of the inductees. What a pity,” he went on in that monotone. “My own son happens to be an inductee as well. You remember Noel?” He turned, one hand thrust toward a young man in the same white Vanguard robe as Zofia wore. Noel Grandier was possibly eighteen, or nineteen, if she could recall correctly. He didn't have the harshness of his father's features, but he did have the Grandier trademark of jet black hair, dark broody eyes and handsome features. She figured he could take any girl he fancied to the ball. He had a hardened look, the serious, stony face that told Zofia he would do well as an Inductee of the Knights. He didn't look as though he had been coddled by mummy, and brought here with high hopes. No. Noel Grandier looked like someone who could take on just about any assignment the Commander could dole out to him, whether it be clearing out a nest of vampires, or subduing a rogue wizard.
Zofia swallowed. She felt like a wimp compared to this young wizard. “Yes. Of course I do. Blessed be, Noel.”
“Blessed be,” he returned with a nod.
“Goddess, I haven't seen you since you were Elton's age.” She immediately felt silly saying that. But it wasn't as though they could talk shop, after all.
“I'll be voting for my son, of course,” Raoul said unnecessarily.
“Of course,” Stephen said as he inclined his head politely. “I'm taking Zofia around, so that everyone here can meet her. Dorian. There you are.”
Startled, Zofia looked past Raoul and Noel to find Dorian standing there surveying the scene. His face held a harsh expression of—what?—belligerence, or was it a twinge of jealousy? She hadn't thought on how Dorian might take all of this. She hadn't had a chance to tell him. Now, well, he could see for himself.
“Dorian, have you heard?” Stephen seemed to gloat. “Your wife is an inductee!”
Dorian stepped closer. His dark gaze met Zofia's, then slid back to take Stephen in. “I thought they were joking with me, the others. But I see that they weren't.”
“No joke, Dor,” Stephen said smoothly. “Zofia is an inductee. And may I say she deserves it, after taking on Blood, Xilomorah, and then the demon down in The Place of No Return. I'd say she should win without a tie breaker vote.”
“What demon?” Dorian asked, squinting darkly at her. She couldn't get the words out fast enough when he asked again, “What demon did you face?”
“I was trying to tell you about it,” Zofia said quickly. “We kept getting interrupted.”
“What demon did you face in The Place of No Return?” his voice came louder.
“It—I—”
“The Head Soul Snatcher, of course,” Stephen answered smoothly. “Zofia, you didn't tell him?”
Zofia squeezed her eyes shut for a strength-gathering second, opened them and said, “I've been trying to tell you this all day.”
“Why?” Dorian asked.
“Why? Why what?” she said, confused by his question.
“Why did you go there?”
“He had Elton. He had his soul!” her voice had gone louder now in the excitement of the discussion.
Dorian remained composed, but he was like a serene mountain with a live volcano in his heart, about to blow his top. She could almost see the steam rising from his head.
She, meanwhile, was gnawing on her lower lip, nearly gnawing it off, while blinking rapidly, trying to think clearly. But in all the confusion, and under Dorian's hooded gaze with the steam and all, she was hardly able to remain calm herself. Besides, those around them had now become quiet and were watching and listening to the whole thing. Everyone would soon know what she had done with the Head Soul Snatcher, and she would be the talk of all the Province. She decided instantly, her best course was to put Raoul, Noel, and Stephen between herself and Dorian, because his ears were turning pink and he was shaking with rage.
But she didn't get a chance to.
“WHAT”—Dorian stepped forward, closing the gap between them, grasped her by the upper arms, his fingers digging in through the material until it really hurt, and she made a sudden startled sound, which she mostly bit off as he shook her roughly— “DID YOU USE TO BARTER OUR SON'S SOUL WITH?”
“I gave him the only thing I had!” she screeched, only because she was in pain now. She hoped her answer was enough, that she didn't need to go further with it. Dorian would know what she did. Just by the look on his face, she could tell he did.
Eyes narrowed, Dorian stared back at her, his nose almost against hers, his brow creased and bunched in all the usual places when he really was angry. This time, though, she didn't know how long his anger would last. A day? A week? A half-century? The longest time he'd been angry enough to not speak to her was a whole month. He'd gone on assignment and did not come home that whole month—a whole forty days. She decided this would be longer. Much longer than a mere month.
“I see,” he said, the answer finally dawning on him. His voice sounded too calm, as though he'd already made a decision as to how to punish her. “So,” he went on quickly, “you gave into the demon, did you?”
“No. It wasn't like that,” Zofia said in defensive tone.
“She was exonerated by The Four, Dorian,” Stephen inject
ed at once. “The demon took her against her will.” Stephen had drawn up beside the both of them. She was glad he was there defending her. Dorian had never hit Zofia, not with a hand, and not with a spell, but right now he looked as though he wanted to back hand her hard enough to put her to the ground, break her nose, and give her a bloody lip. She knew Stephen had stepped in knowing the signs of complete and utter rage by his friend.
“So, that makes it alright, doesn't it?” Dorian shot back, his voice now a decibel louder than before. “The Four cleared her of any wrong doing, and now you're parading her around like your consort.”
“Dorian!” Zofia couldn't help but screech.
“That's quite unnecessary, Dorian. She's one of the inductees,” Stephen said more stringently now. “She's been added to the list, at the last minute.”
“I see,” Dorian said, letting Zofia go. She could still feel the bite of his fingers digging into her, and knew there would be bruise marks on her in the morning. His gaze lifted to take Stephen in. “And this is why you called her back, then?”
“Yes,” Stephen said.
“Yes,” Dorian said in a sarcastic tone. “You bring her back, vote her into the Knighthood—oh, yes, I'm sure you have a few favors to call in, and that would give her enough votes to win—and all the while you'll be grooming her as your latest concubine.”
“Dorian! How could you say that?” Zofia cried, affronted. Her face burned suddenly with embarrassment. Stephen's claim to fame for taking other men's wives was not exactly a secret, but one didn't broadcast it. Especially if they wanted to keep their job.
“Really, Dorian, old man,” Stephen said through clenched teeth. “I don't believe I deserve that.”
“No? You deny that you've been after my wife ever since I took her for my own?” Dorian said heatedly. “Even before that. I know you two have a history. Well, then, go on. Have at it!” he said flinging a hand toward them both. “I give you permission to bed my wife, since she's already been spoils for a demon.” He gave Zofia one last hard look, turned and melted into the crowd.
