The evidence of his devotion was powerful and it shook Rania’s convictions. Notus had to have found Argenta, because Hadrian was here, but Rania wanted to see their reunion. She was impatient, wanting Alasdair to finish his story and reveal the final truth of the firestorm, but dragons, it seemed, did everything in their own time.
Sebastian was pacing in the library that was his refuge at Reliquary. He could tell that it was the middle of the night, even though there were black-out curtains on the windows. The air smelled different after the sun set. He hadn’t opened the drapes for days, much less left his library, and he didn’t want to. He distrusted the alliance with the Others and the slaughter of five vampires in the coven had made him feel his age.
Sylvia had come by and pounded on the door to the shop, then had thrown things at his windows. Micah had knocked on the door to the library, but Sebastian was done with all of them.
The heart of the matter was Sylvia. He was done with denying temptation, too. He wanted her. She wanted him. The only way he could possess her was to turn her, and he knew what a false promise that kind of immortality was. The destructive act of feeding would break her.
Her fragility was part of what attracted him to her, after all. It was countered perfectly by her growing confidence that she could do more than she believed possible. In one way, he wanted her to remain the same as she was, like a butterfly caught in glass, and in another, he wanted her to soar beyond whatever constraints either of them believed she faced.
Sylvia made him soft. Her company made him question what he knew to be true, about the world and about himself. Sebastian suspected that her influence might ultimately shatter the delicate balance that was his life, and he recognized that he already didn’t care as much about his own survival—or his secrets—as he should.
Witches were trouble.
Sylvia was the worst kind of temptation.
And now, she tempted the Regalian magick to play. There was a recipe for disaster. Would he help her? Would he stand by and watch her invite chaos? Could he bear to see her destroyed?
Could he manage to stay away? That was the question and the test. Sebastian had always had willpower to spare. He’d always been decisive and he’d always been driven. Being caught between objectives and having conflicting urges was new.
He didn’t like the change one bit.
So, he remained in his sanctuary, itself a potent reminder of how his possessions and achievements fell short of his ambitions. The library was only a pale shadow of the collection he’d lost, and in a way, having this poor substitute only made his loss feel greater. He took down a book, a first edition of Edgar Allen Poe, opened it, scanned the first page, and replaced it on the shelf with impatience.
Well, his original library wasn’t exactly lost. It was inaccessible to him, which was close enough to being the same thing to make him irritable.
In a way, it would have been easier if it had burned to ashes. It would be gone then and while he might remember it fondly, he wouldn’t be haunted by the possibility of reclaiming it.
The library was also a perfect metaphor for Sylvia. Or vice versa.
Sebastian snarled, as irked as he always was when he thought of his sanctuary or of Sylvia. He pivoted to pace the width of the room yet again and discovered that he was no longer alone.
The Dark Queen herself reposed in one of his oxblood leather club stairs, the one to the right of the large but cold fireplace. She was wearing a trim little black suit with feathers on the shoulders and her signature high heels, the ones with the Laboutin red soles. She was impeccably groomed, watchful, and astonishingly silent.
She yawned elaborately as he blinked. “So busy tonight,” she purred. “But if you say there’s no rest for the wicked, I’ll have to hurt you.”
So, she hadn’t come with the plan of slaughtering him. That was curiously reassuring.
But then, he doubted that she did her own dirty work.
“Dolce & Gabbana?” he asked, gesturing to the suit.
She smiled and moved her shoulders so that the feathers rustled. They were inky black with blue highlights, colored like raven feathers but longer. “Good guess.”
“Not a guess,” he corrected. “I saw it in a shop window in Paris. Emu, aren’t they?” She nodded and preened. He took a step back and surveyed her. “It suits you.”
She smiled and ran a hand over the glossy feathers. “It seemed an apt choice.”
Sebastian knew she wanted him to ask what she meant—he could tell by the way her eyes gleamed—so he didn’t. He was in that kind of a mood. “Just stop by for a chat, or is there a reason for this unexpected pleasure?”
Maeve laughed. “Only you would call a visit of mine a pleasure.”
“How sad.” Sebastian pouted a little and she laughed again. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” He dropped into the other club chair, more interested in her mission than he wanted her to know.
“No. But only you would have the audacity to lie to me.”
“A direct consequence of having nothing left to lose.”
Maeve shook her head, making those feathers sway again. “But that’s not the same as having nothing to gain, is it?”
“I don’t understand.”
Maeve crossed her legs. “It’s my understanding that there’s only one thing you truly desire.”
“Is there?” Sebastian deliberately kept his mind empty and neutral. He knew the Dark Queen’s reputation for hearing the thoughts of others, of even rummaging through the minds of others in search of whatever she wished to know. He wouldn’t even wonder whether she was referring to his lost library or to the enticing Sylvia.
Her smile broadened. “I’ve come to make the proverbial offer you can’t refuse.”
Sebastian was curious despite himself. “And what if I do refuse?”
“You won’t.” She rose smoothly to her feet and crossed the room to the glass-fronted bookshelves on the far side of the fireplace. That entire wall was shelved with books, as was the one adjacent to it, all of them safely behind glass. The opposite wall was all windows, but they were curtained against the light. The fireplace had bookshelves on either side and a rather splendid painting above it. With the thick oriental carpet underfoot, a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the club chairs and a leather couch, it was a cozy refuge. He liked the high ceiling and the ornate plaster molding, too. The room was timeless in his opinion, a refuge from modernity in all its hideous sloppiness and noise.
Maeve acted as if she was reading the titles of the books, but Sebastian guessed it was just a performance. “Nice collection,” she said, casting a coy glance over her shoulder. “But I hear you had a better one.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Sebastian said, keeping all the heat out of his voice. “Not any more.”
“Because that library is locked against you, with a Fae charm on the lock so you can’t pick it, and Micah has the only key.” Maeve strolled across the floor, stopping right in front of Sebastian. He could smell her perfume and the scent of her skin. It was the dry musk of a forest floor, the scent she couldn’t disguise, the one that revealed her Fae nature. She widened her eyes slightly. “And you have to follow Micah’s plan, just to have any hope of retrieving that key.” She wrinkled her nose. “No matter how stupid the plan seems to be.”
“There’s no need to rub salt in the wound,” Sebastian said lightly.
“It must burn, though,” she murmured, feigning sympathy. Even though Sebastian knew it was an act, he couldn’t stop listening to her words. “To be beholden to anyone would be anathema to one who insists on choosing his own path, who needs to make his own decisions. It would sting more to that individual than to any other being alive.”
Sebastian frowned. “I assume you have a point.”
Her smile flashed. “I can shatter that charm.”
He met her gaze, snared by her assertion. She watched him knowingly, that smile playing over her lips. She had the perfect
bait and she knew it.
Of course, Maeve could break a Fae spell. She controlled most if not all of the magick remaining in the world. Sebastian would have thought of it before, but he’d never imagined that Maeve would do anything for him.
Things had just become very intriguing.
“There must be a price,” he said with care, trying to hide his interest. He was pretty sure he failed. That library meant everything to him—well, not quite everything, but it was the one thing he desired that he had a chance of having. He couldn’t say the same for the alluring Sylvia—and Maeve knew it.
She held up a finger. “Just one little favor,” she said, waving that finger playfully. “That’s all I ask in exchange. One teensy favor in exchange for making it possible for you to claim your heart’s desire.”
Sebastian heard the distinctions and qualifiers. He wasn’t clear of a trick, not yet. He folded his arms across his chest and stared her down. “Why?” he asked. “Why would you even make such an offer?”
Maeve spun and crossed the room, tapping her fingertips on every piece of furniture she passed. He sensed that she was weighing her options, assessing the value of telling him the truth, deciding whether it was worth it, seeking a plausible lie to surrender as a substitute.
The Dark Queen would play an excellent game of chess.
Maybe he should challenge her to one.
She pivoted when she reached the other side of the fireplace and he knew from the hard glitter of her gaze that she’d decided to tell him the truth. “Things are not proceeding according to plan,” she admitted, much to his surprise.
“Please.” Sebastian scoffed, hoping to prompt her into revealing more. “You command all the magick now that the dragon prince is dead. Any incompetence on your part isn’t my problem to fix.”
She inhaled sharply, those eyes flashing. “I do command all the magick. I have the gem of the hoard! There are no competitors left.”
“Then what’s the trouble?”
She frowned, then met his gaze. “The magick is making choices of its own.”
That was new. But Eithne had said in her last confession that the magick she’d brought from Regalia was so highly advanced that it was sentient. Did Maeve know that? Sebastian wasn’t sure.
“How interesting,” he said mildly as if it was all news to him. “Would you share an example?” He went to the small bar he kept in a cabinet. He lifted out a crystal brandy snifter, holding up the glass toward Maeve in invitation. She nodded without hesitation. He took out a second and a wonderful bottle of Courvoisier that he’d been saving. He poured them each a generous measure and offered her a glass. She cradled it in her hand, warming the liquor, then sniffed approvingly of it. They toasted each other and sipped.
She stared into the glass for long moments, swirling its contents. Sebastian pretended to be content to wait. He should have been so, as an immortal, but he’d never managed to get over his impatience.
He struggled to keep from tapping his toe, silently willing Maeve to get on with it—and soon.
“I slipped a shard of ice into the heart of a child,” she finally confessed, her voice soft. “Not a real shard of ice, of course: that would have been unnecessarily cruel. It was magick, a spell intended to freeze out all the empathy and compassion in her heart.”
“Like the Snow Queen and the boy Kay.”
Maeve glanced up and nodded. “But there is no Snow Queen. There never was.”
“Of course. You inspired all the stories.”
Her voice hardened. “Don’t mock me, bloodsucker. I don’t really need you.”
Sebastian held up his hand in surrender. “My mistake. Tell me about the splinter.”
“It was a plan to ensure the child grew up without emotions, that she became a creature of pure logic and precision, that she could be relied upon to do what others would not. She was a tithe to me, my possession and my slave, even though she was mortal. I had to control her natural impulses. I had to guarantee that she could be relied upon to follow my command.”
“I’m going to guess you had a specific assignment for her?”
“To kill.” Maeve swirled the contents of her glass, apparently forgetting that she was talking to a vampire who killed routinely. “She was to be my assassin of choice. It worked perfectly. She grew up, she followed my orders, she targeted victims with precision and never showed one sign of remorse. She was a killing machine, one with additional powers because of her heritage.”
“That heritage being?”
“She was half mortal and half shifter. She could pass in mortal society as one of them, but had the ability to change form. I gave her the ability to spontaneously manifest elsewhere. There was no silver flash of light to betray her arrival, as there is when my warriors move between the realms. Once I gave her the kiss of death, she was the perfect assassin.” Maeve fell silent, her lips tightening, and Sebastian noticed that she’d used the past tense.
“Was?” he echoed.
Maeve took a large gulp of the liquor, shocking Sebastian that she didn’t savor its magnificence. She met his gaze, her own burning with fury. “The magick betrayed me.”
“Fucking magick,” he said, almost by habit.
“Exactly,” she agreed with force. “The shard came loose from her heart. It worked its way to her palm, emerged and dissolved. It set her free and had absolutely no business ever doing so.”
“Why would it do that?’ Sebastian asked.
“I don’t know,” Maeve admitted with disgust. “I don’t know and I don’t actually care. I can’t risk losing the tool of this assassin, which creates an opportunity for you.” She took a deep breath and straightened, then held his gaze as she drained her glass. “One task in exchange for my breaking the Fae charm on the lock to your library.”
“A limited time offer.”
“I’ll make it impossible for the charm to be renewed. The key Micah claimed from you won’t work anymore. Only the original will do.”
“I prefer to pick the lock.”
She nodded. “That will work as well.”
“For how long,” Sebastian asked, sipping his drink in an attempt to disguise his interest.
“Forever,” Maeve said with conviction.
There had to be a catch.
“What do you want me to do?”
Maeve conjured a small box from her sleeve. It looked like a jeweler’s box for a ring. Not just any ring, either, a dinner ring set with diamonds or a large engagement ring. She offered it to Sebastian, who took it and opened it.
Instead of the anticipated ring, a wicked-looking sliver gleamed on the red velvet interior. It was sharp at both ends, about half an inch long, and appeared to be made of glass.
“Replace it,” Maeve said, then smiled. “That’s all. Just put the splinter back.”
An assassin for the Fae wasn’t exactly an innocent caught in a web of Maeve’s design. She’d killed any number of victims. Sebastian didn’t have any immediate scruples about accepting the wager.
Beyond distrusting Maeve.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” he asked, keeping his tone idle.
“She’ll be wary of me or the Fae. She’s in the middle of a Pyr firestorm and it’s messing with her ideas. You know how dragons are, always challenging preconceptions.”
“I do.” Sebastian found himself inclined to accept the terms. “How will I find her?”
“I’ll give you directions.” Maeve shrugged and finished her drink. “Who knows? You might even enjoy it. I know how you enjoy setting all the pieces in motion.”
There was that.
Alasdair continued his tale of Hadrian’s parents. “Finally, Notus landed in the forest he knew best, in Northumberland. He intended to find shelter and sleep, for he was weary to his marrow and disheartened that he couldn’t find Argenta. Instead he heard the sound of tears. He followed the sound to a humble cottage, which was almost in ruins. A man sat outside it beneath the light of the moon, weeping as if
his heart had broken in two. The man roused himself at the sight of Notus and, taking him for a weary traveler, offered to share his last pot of porridge.”
The cottage was small and in disrepair, although Rania thought there was another building behind it. The man had silver in his hair and in his beard, but he looked strong and hale. He also looked as disheartened as Notus.
“Notus had found the home of a blacksmith, who had been captured by the Fae to do service to them. He’d entered the hall under a mound and thought he had only been there a few days. Upon his release, he returned home to find that he’d been gone twenty-five years. His wife and children were gone. His larder was bare and his vegetable garden was overgrown. His hut was falling down. All he had were his tools, for he had been ordered to bring them to Fae, but he couldn’t light a fire to work. Even the last of his firewood had been taken. He’d made the porridge with the last of the grain and water from the river, and it was both cold and gritty.”
Rania felt sympathy for the blacksmith, and admired his generosity in sharing what little he had.
Then she thought about that: she was feeling kindness toward a blacksmith.
What was happening to her?
“It was a good site, though,” Alasdair said. “Notus could see as much, with the river bending around it. The river itself was broad and seemed to sing as it passed over the stones beside the cottage. The forest was thick and he spied game within it; the sky overhead was clear and the wind was cool. The blacksmith said his people had been there since the beginning of time, and they laughed about that. Notus offered to stay and help the blacksmith to rebuild his life and the next morning, they worked together to re-thatch the roof. The blacksmith’s name was Darian and they two became good friends.”
Rania saw the two of them on the roof in the morning sunlight. A young boy came out of the forest to stare at them in silence, then ran back into the woods.
“Notus was there when word of Darian’s return reached the closest village, when people came to look, when Darian’s son, now a man, came to tell him of his wife’s death.” Rania blinked back her tears at the sight of the smith’s reunion with his grown son and his grief at hearing of his wife’s death. “The son brought metal for his father to work, bits and ends he’d foraged, for he had little coin himself. He had married the daughter of a farmer and worked their family’s plot with her father and brother. When Darian bemoaned the lack of fuel after his son’s departure, Notus chose to reveal himself.”
Dragon's Mate: A DragonFate Novel (The DragonFate Novels Book 4) Page 18
