Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

  Yes, a one way ticket out of here.

  “I-um-don't know,” she said and turned away from him. In the realm of men (wizards), and women (sorceresses), men usually avoided showing any emotions—worry, jealousy, even hate and love—so it was a little confusing when the two emotionally strongest men she'd known in her life began showing these emotions. His concern over her well fare was a little disconcerting at the moment, and she couldn't help but be a trifle suspicious of it. Not only that, but her condition was strictly women's territory. Only her husband would have need-to-know territory with this, as it should be. If he were not her boss, as of these last few moments, she would have told him it was really none of his business. But she had to rummage around to find the correct way to tell him.

  “What's the matter, Kitten?”

  She turned to him. He was still slouching in the doorway, arms crossed, one leg crossed before the other while leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

  “You'd better come in. Close the door, I have something to tell you,” she said, turned and stepped away from the cool draft coming in from the colder hallway. She hugged herself.

  “Alright,” he said. The door closed with a thump and a soft click. “What's the matter? We're alone, now. You can tell me. I hope this isn't about how Dorian is taking things.”

  “No. No.” She let out a long sigh, almost hissing an expletive on it, but she resisted the need. She knew he watched her as she moved toward the fireplace; she could feel his eyes on her. Once again she was about to tell Stephen something she had not told Dorian, her husband.

  “I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant.”

  There was a long pause in which the fire snapped and crackled. The pensive silence drew out and she had to peer over her shoulder at him to make sure he'd heard her.

  “How?” he asked, his tone suggested he couldn't believe it. “Sorceresses don't become pregnant, unless they want to.”

  “Yes,” she said drawing her arms tighter around her body. “That's the way it's supposed to work.” She stepped closer to the warmth of the fireplace, seeking its warmth.

  “How then?” he asked, his boot heals clomping across the wood floor, and then whispered across the thick rug. She could hear him closing the gap, and tried to maintain it. But he was right behind her, now. She felt his breath on her neck, and wanted to move further out of his range, but his long fingered hands grasped her upper arms, and she felt him draw up against her. That caused her to shutter. But when she felt his lips brush against the column of her neck, her knees nearly buckled. She managed to brace herself up—just barely—without falling against him.

  Using all her remaining will power, she pulled herself free from his clutches, took two steps, and turned to face him. She didn't want him sneaking up on her like that, and touching her. She looked up into his handsome face. Those whiskey-and-green eyes of his glimmered like rare gems in the firelight.

  “Someone—an Ugwump neighbor—invoked the cross on me,” she explained, having to cast her gaze away. Those eyes were unmatchable bedroom eyes. Even the demon, Erebus, with all his seductive powers, could not match whatever the hell Stephen was trying to do right here and now. She knew he would have come up here, no matter if she had been sick or not. The wine was his invitation into her room, to commence an intimate evening with her. That which he'd begun just before they had faced The Four, up in his tower chambers, earlier today.

  “How rude,” he said into the silence. Shifting to one strong leg, arms crossed, his eyes slid first down and then up her body. “Dorian's?” His voice went up slightly in that quizzical note he often would use, which sounded snootier than perhaps he'd meant it to sound.

  Eyes darting to the fireplace, she said, “No. I don't think so, because of the timing.” She worked a half-worried smile onto her face.

  “Anybody we know?” There was that haughty tone again. Almost edged in a sarcasm Zofia found berating. If it weren't for the fact that she was 99 percent sure it was Erebus's baby, she would have been able to tell him to go take a hike. But, he was her boss, Chief Commander of the Knights. She had to tell him. He may rethink the Knight thing all together. After all, how many Knights did it with—well, never mind.

  “I can't say his name.” That was a clue he wouldn't miss.

  “Ah. I see,” he said, letting the subject just hang there for a moment. “You're sure about this?”

  “I've all the signs,” she said. “I'm further along than I should be. At least, that's what it feels like.”

  “I wouldn't know,” he said, fixing her with his golden gaze. Then he shifted his stance, turned and veered toward the door. “I'm sending my alchemist up at once,” he said, hand on the door handle. “I want you to tell him what you've told me. I also want him to treat your vampire bites.” He stopped to look at her. A smile appeared on his lips. “And, by the way, congratulations.”

  Astonished, Zofia blinked at him.

  “For becoming a Knight,” he amended. “Your pregnancy won't exactly change the assignment I have for you. I'll want you in my office at the stroke of nine, tomorrow morning.” He opened the door as he said this. “Rest well, Zofia. I want you refreshed for the morrow. We have a lot of ground to cover.” He stepped out into the hall and shut the door.

  Eyes wide with surprise, she stared at the door. Maybe all she had to do was mention that she was pregnant to him, and that was the best way to turn Stephen away. Something to remember.

  Chapter 8

  The knock on her door startled Zofia awake. She sat up and found herself on the upholstered couch, fully dressed. Only a few candles and the fire in the grate barely lit the room.

  “Oflamo,” she incanted. Every lantern and every candlestick burst into flame, lending a soft amber glow, and now she could see the whole room.

  The knock came again, a little louder this time.

  Expecting the alchemist, she had hurriedly dressed, thinking he would be here in a matter of moments. But she waited and paced for quite a while. She watched the people down below for a time. Then became tired of standing on pins and needles, not sure who Stephen's current alchemist would be. Hopefully he wasn't like the old dodger with bad teeth and huge girth, and a penchant for little girls and boys. She was pretty sure they'd gotten rid of him a long time ago. In the meantime, she had become drowsy, and had fallen asleep on the couch, using the little round pillow covered in exquisite midnight-blue velvet for her head.

  “Who's there?” she called as she went for the door.

  “Alchemist,” came a very deep, somewhat gravelly voice.

  With a quiet sigh, she unlocked and opened the door (she had locked it, just in case Stephen returned), to find a tall, gaunt-faced man in black robes, and heavy black boots, who stalked immediately into the room without waiting for an invitation. He wore an aura of brimstone, which mingled with a rather offensive smell. It all trailed after him and clung to him like a pall. He carried a large, black leather bag and its contents clinked and tinkled as he plopped it down on a table next to her bed. He opened it and peered inside.

  “Your ailment?” he asked briskly as he plunged a large hand into the black bag and rummaged through what must have been dozens of little glass vials packed within.

  “I beg your pardon?” Zofia had been startled awake by the knock, and now by the man's gruff demeanor and lack of protocol. She'd never met a castle alchemist before. Never had any need for one. Were they always so churlish?

  He rotated his head just enough to peer over his narrow shoulder at her. He had long, unkempt black hair, which fell like a stringy curtain over his face. His beard was thick and long, while black brows came together to create a valley above his hawkish nose. His intense raven-black eyes pierced her own, and it was enough to almost make her pull in a gasp of trepidation. The only thing which assured her that this man, standing right before her in her bed room, was not Vesselvod Blood reincarnate was the color of both his eyes. Blood's eyes were legend. One was very light blue, the other as black
as a piece of coal. And, this man was possibly in the vicinity of forty-nine (but it was hard to tell true ages in wizards, or sorceresses who were still in their prime), not the very aged sorcerer who she had faced only a few days ago.

  “Your ailment,” he repeated a little more sternly, laced with a sardonic tone.

  “Oh! Yes. My ailment,” she said, taken aback. “I—uh—thought Stephen would have told you,” she hedged. She really didn't want to discuss her 'ailment' with this man.

  He visibly slumped as though whatever was holding the thin man up had just vacated. “I've had a dozen patients already, tonight,” his voice going even deeper, rumbling from somewhere in the vicinity of the deepest labyrinths of his lungs—or even deeper. “I don't recall—nor do I wish to recall—who has what. Now. Your ailment, please.”

  Zofia felt her face flush. Embarrassed, she turned her head, and brushed her hair to one side to show him the vampire's bite. This was the best way to start, she decided.

  He squinted at her neck. Without a word, he turned, and took out a large amphora of some clear liquid, and a cotton gauze pad. He uncorked the bottle and up-ended it, holding the pad to it for a second or so.

  “This might sting a little,” he told her just as he pressed it to the bite.

  Well ouch! It did sting, damn it. Startled, she gave a sudden intake of air, stifled her shriek—not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing it had stung—but jerked from the sudden pain.

  “Is this the only place you were bitten?” he asked in his emphysematous voice.

  “Uh, here,” she said, and held up her wrist.

  He gave it close inspection too. “Hold this in place a moment,” he told her, indicating the gauze on her neck.

  Crossing her arm over herself, she placed her free hand over the gauze. She didn't like being in the same close quarters with the alchemist. He really stank. She reminded herself that she was no longer on First World, where every household had a shower or a bath, and deodorant lined the shelves of every grocery store. But, this was very unpleasant. If she were a flower, she would surely wilt.

  He made the same sequence of movements, saturating another gauze pad with the clear liquid and then pressed it to her wrist, his thumb against the back of her wrist to hold it. She jerked at the sudden sting again, and then bit her lip against the pain. What is this stuff, she wondered. She couldn't identify it by smell as it had no smell.

  “Anywhere else?” he asked while holding the cloth in place over her wrist, and eying her with a quizzical gaze.

  “Nowhere else.” Zofia frowned, thinking even if she did have another bite, she wasn't going to allow him to torture her yet again.

  “Are you quite certain?”

  She gaped up at him. “Of course I'm sure,” she said, feeling somewhat harassed. Did he think she'd lie about a thing like that? “Where else would he'd have bit me?”

  He achieved a very sinister look, directing it down his large, beak of a nose at her. “There are other places vampires like to bite… a woman, especially,” he said, in that low, grinding voice of his. He made it sound rather lascivious, she thought. Even his eyes had taken on an excited quality.

  For the life of her, Zofia couldn't think of where he meant. Her boob?

  “Your inner thigh, perhaps?” his voice delicately inflected, hardly veiling his interest to treat that area of her anatomy. Goddess!

  Zofia was more than slightly shocked by this bit of news. Vampires were pretty erotic, she supposed. Thinking back, when Dorian was a vampire, he had never been wilder in the bedroom than that day he'd mentally called her to him and gave her orders to strip, leaving her red panties and bra on, and then requested she don a pair of spiky red heals, before inviting her to bed with him. Dorian didn't usually get that worked up over undies and a pair of shoes. He usually demanded she be totally devoid of all clothing before climbing into bed with him. Comparatively, last night, their sex had been more normal, and rather—she felt guilty for even thinking it—boring. After the first two hours, anyway.

  “No!” she said, having to avert her eyes from his, unable to refrain from thinking about that whole business now.

  “Very well,” he said, seemingly mollified by her answer. “How long ago was the last bite sustained?”

  She had to think a moment. “A couple of days.”

  “Two? Three?” the alchemist asked. “Four?”

  “I don't remember,” she said. “They occurred less than a day apart.”

  “That's obvious,” he said briskly, and removed both pads and threw them into the small wicker basket. He twirled about, and said in a rather brash, impatient way, “How is it you can't recall when a vampire has bitten you?”

  “I've been through a lot, these past few days—been away—I've just arrived back here, today,” she explained. “I've lost all track of time. I think it may have been three days ago, but it might have been four. I just don't remember, now.”

  His expression suddenly fazed from annoyance to realization. “Now I know who you are,” he said slowly. “You're the one who lived on First World?”

  “Yes.”

  His expression betrayed a hint of peaked interest. “You are the one who faced The Dark ex-Lord Blood?”

  She threw him a suspicious look. Hearing him call Blood the 'ex-Lord', like he had some ties to him made her uncomfortable. He did resemble Blood. Was he a descendant? Was this possible? She questioned if Stephen would knowingly hire someone who was Blood's relative? She doubted it. And yet, she still felt terribly uneasy being alone with him. And she didn't think it was just his gamy odor, and his horrible bed-side manner.

  Time to change the subject. “I've been feeling nauseous, too,” she said quickly, trying to muster up the courage to discuss this with him. “You have any thing for that?”

  Without a word, the alchemist turned back to his black satchel. He rummaged around again, and took out a couple of ampoules. It was hard to tell what they contained, other than something ground up into a powder, easily mixed in water, or pressed into a pill.

  “Do you have a glass? Water?” he asked, reading the contents of his vials. He threw one vial back in, chose another and squinted at the label. Maybe he forgot his reading glasses? His squinting was not giving her a feeling of confidence in the man.

  “Yes,” she said, going to her table. She fetched the glass and pitcher of water.

  “Half fill it, please,” he instructed. “You feel sick from something you ate, recently?”

  “No, I—” she nearly spilled the water as she poured it from the ceramic urn into the glass.

  “What then?” he asked. “I must know, otherwise, I might give you something you should not have.”

  “I'm sure—I mean pretty sure”—she blew a wayward strand of hair from her eyes—“I think I might be pregnant.”

  His frown became even deeper as he drew a breath, and let it out as he turned to his bag. The exhaled breath rumbled ominously in his throat, like some live creature lived down there. More rummaging around, clinking the little glass bottles and jars, produced two entirely different powders; one was green, the other blue. Also, he took out a slightly larger vial of dark brownish liquid. There wasn't very much in the container, and it looked molasses thick.

  He held out his hand. “Glass.”

  She handed him the glass of water. He took the glass from her. Her gaze fell to the fingers which held the glass. She noticed his fingernails were quite long for a man, and very discolored. Yish. She made a mental note to not dine next to the man at any castle functions.

  He held the glass eye-level, and carefully added a thin stream of the dark liquid. Then quickly staved it off with a finger—which he licked. A plume of brown something discolored the water. He swirled it around, and then placed the elixir down on the table next to him. He took up the blue and green powders in succession, carefully tapped out a dose of each into the glass. Next he took up a glass mixing stick and stirred noisily. He picked up the glass and handed it t
o her.

  “Drink this,” he instructed.

  “What's in it?” she asked, staring at it with mild suspicion. (She worried suddenly, if he were a Blood—even a distant relative—wouldn't he want to exact revenge, since she had killed the infamous ex-Dark Lord?) At the moment, it looked like Nyquil, but the fumes of this very concoction of something quite different now pummeled her olfactory—decidedly a better odor than he was emitting.

  “Never mind what it is. Drink.”

  Wrinkling her nose, and unable to disobey his gruff edict, she took the glass from him and tipped it back. (The story would go—after her dead body was found—that Baruche had poisoned her, and fled to the Oblast. Discovery was made that Baruche had changed his name from Blood in order to infiltrate the Witenagemont. Dorian had gallantly chased after him—Stephen too—and caught up with him, and captured him. There was a short sorcerer's fight, in which Dorian—and Stephen—were victorious. And her epitaph would read: She loved her husband and children very deeply.)

  It went down thickly, tasted and smelled like brandy.

  “Why do you believe you are pregnant?” he asked almost casually as she held the glass out to him, trying her best to keep it all down. His blatant question would have normally brought on a sour look from her, but she suddenly felt air draw up her esophagus, and she belched loudly.

  “Because,” she said, turning away, feeling her face flush. “I just do.” If he needed more explanation, he could look it up in one of his medical books.

  He gave her a strange, unreadable look and then said, “Ah,” while nodding. “From the vampire?” He began stashing his vials without care of breakage, back into this case.

  His guess astounded her, and her eyes went wide for a brief second, then she scowled. Of course anyone could draw that conclusion, knowing she'd been bitten by one. She felt relief wash over her. If that was what he chose to believe, let him.

  “Or… the demon, perhaps?” his voice inflected, deteriorating into an emphysemic cough at the end.