CHAPTER FOURTEEN
14
Morwenna
The word echoed in my head, a frantic mantra – ritual, ritual, ritu— until it morphed into something more evocative: ceremony.
A ceremony of the flesh, a perverse melding of reverence for the dead – his late father, I presumed – and the forbidden act I dared not utter aloud.
The air hung heavy, thick with the cloying scent of incense and something richer, muskier – a heady cocktail that sent shivers down my spine.
This so-called ceremony, or ritual, or whatever grotesque name they’d bestowed upon it, unfolded within a cavernous hall carved into the very heart of a mountain.
Flickering torches cast grotesque shadows that danced on the obsidian walls, revealing tapestries woven with scenes of nightmarish indulgence.
In the center of this macabre theater, a colossal obsidian table dominated the space.
Atop it, a silver chalice gleamed, filled with a crimson liquid that shimmered like molten ruby.
The Prince of Lust, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger I couldn’t ignore, circled the table, a smirk twisting his lips.
Another – Sloth, perhaps – lounged on a nearby throne, a goblet overflowing with an exotic purple wine perpetually hovering near his mouth.
The other Princes of Sin – each with their own retinue of servants who fawned and worshipped – occupied their designated thrones. I, on the other hand, had managed a modicum of distance from Draven, or rather, His Royal Highness, the embodiment of all seven sins.
I stole a glance at him, enthroned on a monstrosity that dwarfed the others.
Even here, he seemed separate, an island of brooding resentment amidst the decadent revelry.
His elbow rested on the armrest, mirroring the hand that propped his jaw aloft, an image of weary indifference.
Lady Jen, in stark contrast, stood behind him, her hand possessively resting atop the throne’s headrest. She leaned in, whispering secrets into his ear, a distraction that allowed me to slip away from my position among the other attendants.
Regret gnawed at me. I shouldn’t have bothered trying to avoid Draven. It was a fool’s errand.
Maintaining a safe distance, mirroring his aloofness towards his brothers, seemed like the best course of action. But there he was, radiating an aura of wealth and power that sent shivers down my spine.
The infuriating thing? He was ridiculously handsome, everywhere, always.
Whenever I tried to focus on anything else, my mind inevitably circled back to him, a mental hamster on a malfunctioning wheel.
“I hate you,” I’d try to force the thought, but a traitorous whisper, “I want you,” would rise instead. Ugh. My traitorous body craved him, while my mind waged a war of denial.
Before Draven, my world revolved around the notorious Seven Princes of Sin and their vampire brethren. I loathed them with a passion that fueled countless notebooks and late-night computer sessions. It might sound crazy, but when you despise something that much, compiling a million reasons to justify it feels like a victory.
That’s how I spent most of my life – hating vampires until... well, here I was, working for them, specifically for Draven. The heart that once beat solely for hatred now pulsed with… well, not exactly love (that’s a revolting thought, gross). Let’s just call it something… different.
A sharp bell jolted me back to reality.
A prickling sensation crawled up my spine. The ritual. It was about to begin.
I whipped my head around as the Princes of Sin rose from their thrones, abandoning the vacant tables that separated them from the rest of the other.
With a thud, they prostrated themselves before a small, hastily assembled shrine.
A cloaked figure, a woman I presumed by the slender build, stood officiating.
My gaze snagged on Draven, the only one who remained stubbornly seated on his throne – too prideful, perhaps, or simply unwilling to participate in this display of reverence.
The woman officiating the ritual was shrouded head-to-toe in a dark cloak. Was she a Vimic, a vampire servant of the family, or something else entirely? Who was she?
“That’s my mother,” a voice whispered in my ear snapping me out of my curious reverie. I flinched, my body tensing at the unexpected presence. It was Elara, of course, with her uncanny knack for appearing out of thin air. I straightened, meeting her gaze.
“Elara,” I hissed, drained of energy. “Do you ever announce yourself?”
Ignoring my question, Elara continued in a hushed tone, “You might not know this, being new and all, but it’s highly frowned upon to observe the Princes’ rituals.”
A sardonic snort escaped my lips. “Frowned upon to watch? When they’re the ones who practically dragged Chimerans here?” My voice held a pointed edge, a subtle jab at Draven’s enigmatic invitation. Honestly, I hadn’t expected to come here or even care about what they were up to. Sure, I was curious, but I didn’t really want to know the details.
Elara swivelled on her heel, her gaze sweeping over the silent servants flanking the throne. Unlike me, their faces betrayed no curiosity, no hint of disquiet.
Hands clasped regally behind their backs, they stood ramrod straight, jaws clenched in stoic acceptance.
These weren’t mere observers; their very posture hinted at a grim awareness of what awaited them.
Elara turned back, her voice a low murmur, “That’s because they’re here to participate in the ritual by... indulging.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Indulging? In what?”
I had a vague idea of what “indulging” meant, thanks to Draven’s cryptic hints.
Glancing at the servants behind me, I noticed their revealing garments, barely covering anything. They wore loose gowns that left little to the imagination—bare breasts, exposed buttocks, and private parts on full display. The reflective fabric of their gowns seemed to amplify their vulnerability.
Each servant wore a different color, probably to signify their affiliation with a particular prince of sins. For instance, those serving the Prince of Lust wore blue, emerald for Sloth, gold for Pride, amethyst for Greed, pristine white for Envy, raven black for Gluttony, and a smoldering ash gray for Wrath.
Draven, the embodiment of Sin, stood alone. No servants attended him, save for me. A ragged mockery of the extravagant gown he’d provided now hung limply on my form. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was all part of his plan. Was this why he had chosen that attire for me? Did it mean I would be expected to participate in whatever “indulging” awaited us? Countless thoughts raced through my mind, and I felt dizzy, as if the world around me was spinning out of control.
I had thought the ritual wouldn’t take long, but now, with Elara’s mention of “indulging,” I felt defeated.
I didn’t even know how to escape, considering it was magic that had brought me here.
Everywhere I looked, magic surrounded us, leaving me with no escape plan before the impending indulgence began.
“Never mind,” I dismissed the question I had posed to Elara earlier, but then a thought struck me. “You serve the Prince of Lust,” I pressed, the recollection of her words sharp. “Does that mean you partake in his... indulgence?”
“Mmmm...” she hesitated before finally responding, “no.”
“Why not?” I persisted.
“Well, as you can see, my mother’s busy with the ritual, and I’m here assisting her. Indulgence is hardly on the agenda,” she explained. Elara then turned the tables, her voice laced with amusement. “What about you, Morwenna? Are you going to—”
“No!” I cut her off sharply, before she could finish. “Absolutely not.” It was a blatant lie, of course, because I had no idea what fate awaited me.
Elara’s gaze flickered upwards, landing on Draven’s imposing throne. “Are you sure about that?” she inquired, a hint of skepticism in her voice. “You happen to be the only servant here for Lord Draven.”
“So what?” I retorted, barely stifling an eye roll. “I’m not the only one here. There’s Lady Jen.”
“Lady Jen?!” Elara let out a scoffing laugh, her dimples appearing as her eyes met mine. “Don’t tell me you actually think Lord Draven’s going to have sex with Lady Jen.”
I nearly chimed in with laughter, but it came out sounding hysterical. Seriously, Elara really didn’t need to use the “S” word. It fueled the very desire I was desperately trying to suppress, rendering my plan to avoid him utterly pointless.
“But Lady Jen is his servant too,” I stammered, the protest dying on my tongue. Elara knew exactly where I was going with that. “I just meant... I’m not the only one. There’s Lady Jen, and surely others—”
“He chose you, Morwenna!” Elara interjected, her voice laced with amusement. Not quite the comforting reassurance I’d craved. “Maybe he’s developing a fondness for you.”
I scoffed. The very thought of Lord Draven harboring such feelings was unsettling. Not because I reciprocated – far from it. He stirred a disquieting mix of emotions within me, and the last thing I needed was further complication. Besides, was it even genuine fondness, or a warped reflection of his deceased wife? He bristled when I’d mentioned her, yet seemed oddly possessive when I spoke of my own past. It wasn’t as if I’d offered the information freely, but trapped in that tense exchange, I hadn’t known what else to say.
Deciding to steer the conversation elsewhere, I asked, “Why doesn’t the almighty Lord Draven extend the invitation to other servants?”
“I don’t know,” Elara replied with a shrug, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow as she pondered. “Maybe it’s because most, well, all of the servants who work for Lord Draven were appointed by some of his brothers or Genevieve.”
That would explain why none of them received an invitation. “Who’s Genevieve?”
“Just Lady Jen’s other name.”
“Wait, Lady Jen is Genevieve?” I questioned, recalling Draven’s use of Lady Jen’s real first name.
“Yes, her full name is Genevieve du Lac. She used to be late Victoria’s maid and dabbled in witchcraft. Similar to my mom, who was Victoria’s best friend until her death. Genevieve changed her name to Lady Jen, and Draven granted her the title ‘lady’ to sound more... sophisticated, even though she’s just a housekeeper here,” Elara explained.
Ah, that clarified why Lady Jen didn’t possess the typical allure of a vampire like Elara, who was both witch and vampire. “Does she still practice witchcraft?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. After her mistress’s death, she changed her identity and distanced herself from my mom. I don’t know if she still practices; she seems to have retired. They do keep in touch, but not as much as they used to,” Elara said, and my gaze drifted back to Lady Jen, her brow perpetually furrowed in a frown.
The woman could have been sculpted from granite, with a permanent scowl etched upon her face.
Not that cheerfulness was mandatory, but most days, she resembled a storm cloud on two legs, eternally searching for the next hapless victim to burden with chores.
Perhaps loss did leave its mark, explaining Lady Jen’s perpetually grumpy demeanor.
I brushed aside that thought. Why am I an exception to Draven? Has he recognized how much I resemble his late wife? I didn’t know why that idea occurred to me now, but it felt triggered somehow.
My gaze darted upwards to the cloaked woman presenting a large bowl for the Brothers of Sin to cleanse themselves.
Each received a basin of water, washing their hands, feet, and faces.
When the woman offered a separate bowl to Lord Draven, he declined, and it was returned to the altar.
This act could signify disinterest in the ritual, a mere formality he wished to avoid, or something more personal.
But that made me breathe a sigh of relief. You might be wondering why. Well, if Draven wasn’t too keen to be here, it would only be a matter of time before we left.
And just like that, the little ritual they were performing seemed to be over or something, because the Brothers of sin rose to their feet as the witch muttered some unknown words.
Then, a whoosh of wind washed over us, momentarily stealing my breath.
The sky darkened further, and I instinctively clutched Elara’s arm, feeling like a child as the whispers of ghosts filled the air.
With that, I whispered to Elara, who didn’t seem afraid in the slightest, “What the heck is happening?”
Elara whispers back, “Appeasing the dead.”
“With...?” I trailed off, my eyes stubbornly fixed on the dark forces or rather the ghosts conversing among themselves. The witch in charge made intricate movements with her hand, causing more ghosts to swarm and multiply in the air. When I noticed this, I asked, “Is that supposed to be some kind of spell?”
Elara let out a frustrated huff. “I’m not sure what kind of spell my mom is using, but I think it’s a summoning spell, a way to appease the spirits.”
A horrifying thought flickered across my mind. “Is Victoria among them?” I forced the words out, my voice barely above a whisper.
Elara scanned the swirling forms before meeting my gaze. “No,” she said gently. “Victoria’s life force has been gone for millennia. It wouldn’t be here. I hope.”
She hope?
Fear tightened its grip on me. My voice trembled as I asked, “What if one of them tries to touch you?”
Elara scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
“Not anymore,” I countered, my fingers digging into her arms. Panic surged through me as a lone figure detached from the whispering throng. It descended towards us, its transparent form contorted in a silent scream, arms outstretched. I squeezed Elara tighter, heart hammering in my chest. “Are they coming for me? Or you?” The answer was evident as the specter bypassed Elara, its vacant eyes locked on mine.
Unholy fuck.
Elara noticed, “Don’t move, Morwenna.”
“Wh-What’s happening?” I stammered, fear clogging my throat. “Are they… attacking?”
“They don’t naturally have the power to attack, except...” Her voice trailed off, leaving a chilling silence in its wake.
“Except what, Elara?”
“Except if they sense something,” Elara explained.
“Like what? What did they sense?” I questioned, still eager and afraid.
“They must have sensed a foreign spirit if they’re coming closer,” Elara revealed, her eyes widening in realization as the spirits’ distorted voices drew nearer.
Their arms reached out as they screamed, and amidst the cacophony, it felt as though I could hear something else entirely—a sentence: “That body does not belong to youuuuuu, intruderrr,” hissed the voice, causing my heart to skip a beat. Was it normal, or was it just me? Did I really heard correctly or wrongly what they were trying to say right now?
As they drew closer, my heart sank, but then, before I could react, Elara shot out her hand, two fingers extended.
With a muttered incantation, a bolt of pure energy erupted from her fingertips. It struck the lead entity, splitting it in two with a deafening crackle.
The remaining figures recoiled, their tormented shrieks fading as quickly as they arrived.
The dark skies cleared, a sign that the ghosts were gone, banished by... Elara.
This sudden act drew all attention to us, especially Elara.
However, she seemed weakened by the spell she had cast to rid us of the ghosts.
Her eyes appeared tired, her body feeble.
Yet, here I was, thinking vampires like herself didn’t weaken easily, unlike a mere human like myself.
I used my hand to support Elara, despite her having more weight than me. I tried my best to help her.
Then a voice followed, “Elara, what have you done?”
My attention snapped to a woman, the same one conducting the ritual, cloaked from head to toe. Glancing at her face, I noticed a resemblance to Elara, prompting memories of Elara’s words. She must be her mother.
Elara, upon hearing her name, struggled to compose herself, though visibly weakened. “Mo—” Her words faltered, but she gathered another breath, meeting her mother’s displeased gaze. “Mother, I can explain!”
“Did she just use magic?” a prince muttered, disbelief clear in his voice.
“I thought you said your daughter wasn’t skilled in magic,” another prince, the Prince of Gluttony, chimed in. Elara’s mother turned to address them, her voice defensive.
“She isn’t. What she did must have been a fluke,” she insisted, trying to protect Elara.
The Prince of Gluttony scoffed. “A fluke, Emilia? What we just witnessed was no accident. Only powerful witches who’ve completed the third stage can disrupt a ritual like yours. And your daughter, it seems, is an...exception. So, how can you claim it’s a mistake?”
“Prince Vorax, I assure you, it’s a mistake,” Emilia pressed, defending Elara. “She hasn’t even begun that stage yet.”
“I doubt that, Emilia. You and your daughter have been deceiving the Vimics for years,” Cassian accused, his gaze now fixed on the weakened Elara before pointing his finger. “And how dare you disrupt the ritual? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
Elara was taking the fall for something I knew wasn’t entirely her fault. It was clear she’d been trying to protect me from those... those scary beings, or whatever they were.
I couldn’t be sure anyone else sensed them approaching, but a prickling unease settled over me before they manifested.
Elara had saved me, twice now. And I knew the Vímics held betrayal in high regard – punishment was guaranteed.
Elara, whom I was grudgingly starting to warm up to, was in serious trouble.
The potential consequences – death or exile – sent shivers down my spine.
Meanwhile, Draven sat nonchalantly on his throne, his gaze a laser focused on mine. Cringing, I broke eye contact. It felt like he’d held me captive with his stare for an eternity. I needed a plan, and fast. Elara was a friend, and friends help friends in need.
Inspiration struck. “It’s my fault!” I blurted out, drawing Draven’s full attention. My mind went blank under his scrutiny. But hey, my plan worked. The Brothers of Sin’s ire shifted solely to me, the threats towards Elara and Emilia dissolving. However, Elara shot me a withering look, silently pleading for me to stay quiet. I knew spilling the beans would only endanger me further and stoke their suspicions, but I ignored her. Elara was my priority. For now.
“Yes, it’s my fault,” I continued, trying to sound convincing. “Elara was supposed to create some sort of explosion thingy for the ritual, to, um, honor the... ghosts,” I stumbled over my words, feeling ridiculous. “And I distracted her.”
Their expressions fell.
“Really? You distracted her?” Cassian asked.
I met his gaze unflinchingly. “Absolutely.”
He pressed on, “And why on earth was she attempting to create...” he gestured with his hand, mimicking an explosion like fireworks.
My heart nearly stopped. “Well, um...” my eyes darted down to the tight grip I had on Elara’s frail hand. “It was meant to be a surprise.”
“A surprise, huh?” It seemed like he wasn’t buying it.
“Yes, a surprise.” I nodded, lifting my head. “And that’s why I think you shouldn’t punish Elara or her mom, but punish me instead. I deserve the punishment,” I declared.
Cassian, who appeared to be the one responsible for meting out punishment, seemed poised to make a pronouncement.
However, his gaze shifted back to Draven, who still exuded an air of nonchalance.
I returned Draven’s gaze, feeling as though Cassian’s eyes were urging him to make a decision swiftly.
I decided to employ a bit of feminine persuasion, giving Draven puppy-dog eyes in the hope of swaying him to disagree with his brother’s decision.
“So, brother, what shall we do with them? Emilia lied to us, Elara disrupted the ritual, and... your servant admits it was her fault,” Cassian asked, his voice eager. Gosh, Cassian seemed unwilling to budge.
Think, Morwenna, think. You’re good at thinking... right?
Ah, I have an idea.
With that, I walked over to Draven, stopping at a safe distance.
Still holding onto Elara, I dropped to my knees on the ground, causing Elara to fall alongside me.
To heighten the drama, I rested my hand on the cold stone floor, my back bowing deeply.
In a grand gesture, I lowered my head until it kissed my lap.
Elara, understanding my intent, mirrored my actions, her hand clasped tightly in mine.
“Oh, heavens above,” I breathed, channeling my inner drama queen. “Who am I, a mere mortal, to defy your judgment, almighty Lord Draven?” My voice trembled with a touch of theatrics – a skill I’d honed to perfection. “But I... I mean, we beg your Almighty forgiveness, my Lord,” Wow. I was quite good at being dramatic when the situation called for it.
Elara, ever the one-up artist, chimed in with even greater fervor, “Indeed, my Lord! You are our only salvation from your brothers’ unnecessary cruelty. Please, Lord Draven, deliver us! We desperately need your intervention.”
Curse it all, Elara was a natural at this melodrama business.
Undeterred, I echoed her plea, “Yes, Almighty Lord Draven, deliver us!”
Suddenly, Emilia joined the chorus, dropping to her knees beside us. “Please, Lord Draven, have mercy!”
An agonizing silence stretched as we awaited his response.
“Hmm,” his voice rumbled, a low growl that sent shivers down my spine. Whether it was directed at me, Elara, or Emilia, I couldn’t tell, but it resonated with a primal intensity that made my heart stutter. “Your desperation is… amusing,” he drawled, letting the weight of his words hang heavy in the air. “However, punishment is still necessary.”
I dared to lift my head, meeting his gaze with a hopeful (and slightly terrified) expression. “Please,” I pleaded, “let them go. I’ll bear the brunt of your punishment, gladly.”
His eyes, a storm cloud of hunger, locked onto mine. “The brunt of it, you say?” he echoed, his voice a husky caress that sent shivers cascading down my spine.
My throat tightened. Only the heavens knew what twisted plan brewed in Draven’s mind. Probably something deliciously wicked. “Yes,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper, “all of it.”
A sly grin stretched across his face. He raised a hand, signaling for us to rise. I stood up on my knees, as did Elara and Emilia.
“Our deepest gratitude, Lord Draven!” Emilia exclaimed gratefully.
“Tha—”
“I need you, Morwenna, to remain on your knees,” Draven interrupted just as I was about to thank him. His gaze remained fixed on me, and somehow, I couldn’t meet it, not because I didn’t want to, but because I had to.
With no choice but to obey, I found myself sinking back onto my knees after releasing Elara’s arm.
I steadied myself on the ground, my buttocks resting on the back of my bent knees, my gaze falling beneath my lap.
At least he had pardoned Elara and Emilia, but... one of his brothers always had something disapproving to say. Always.
“Surely you’re not considering releasing them, brother?” Cassian’s voice, laced with disdain, echoed through the space. I recognized him instantly – Cassian, the embodiment of arrogance and Sloth combined.
Before Draven could respond, a single, defiant word escaped my lips, “He has.”
Cassian’s head snapped towards me. “Excuse me?” His tone dripped with condescension.
I hadn’t meant for him to hear. It was a mere murmur, fueled by frustration. But I suppose my bluntness had failed me drastically today. I realized I might be in big trouble now, but with Lord Draven on my side, I could only hope for the best.
I didn’t bother replying to Cassian, as it seemed futile. There were so many words I wanted to say right now, but I kept them bottled up inside.
Cassian seemed poised to say something more until Lord Draven, my savior, intervened. “I’ve made my decision, Cassian.”
Cassian redirected his gaze to Draven. “But brother... it was because of them,” he gestured at Elara and Emilia, “that the ritual was disrupted. They caused this and must be punished. It’s part of the laws that guide us, brother.”
“As I’ve said before, and I’ll say it again now, Cassian, that’s enough. I’ve made my decision, and it’s final,” Draven replied, his voice full of nonchalance. He didn’t seem particularly bothered that the ritual had been disrupted.
“But the consequences—” Cassian began, only to be cut off by Draven’s calm authority.
“Who says the ritual is canceled?” Draven arched a knowing eyebrow. “Proceed whenever you’re prepared.” Silence descended once more, heavy with Cassian’s stunned realization.
Before Cassian could muster another word, Emilia stepped forward, her voice trembling slightly. “My Lord,” she began, “I assure you, Elara will face consequences for her actions. I will personally see to it.” Elara mirrored Emilia’s bow, her head hanging low.
Draven waved a dismissive hand, his nonchalance infuriating. “Very well.”
“Thank you for your mercy, my lord!” Elara says with gratitude. With a firm grip on Elara’s arm, Emilia practically ushered Elara from the scene unfolding, leaving me alone with Draven, whose predatory smile sent a fresh wave of unease washing over me. The Prince of Sloth, however, remained silent, with an unreadable mask upon his face.
“So...” he addressed the other Brothers of Sin, “no one is stopping you. Let the ritual commence.” As I dared to glance up to see if Elara had truly left, I caught Draven’s intense gaze fixed on me. I hesitated before meeting his eyes, and then he whispered, his lips forming the words, “Let. The. Ritual. Begin.”
A gasp escaped my lips. The dangerous glint in his eyes, the subtle curve of his lips into a predatory smile – it all became horrifyingly clear.
He wasn’t referring to some grand ceremony. No. This ritual. It was me.
Dread coiled in my gut.
I was the offering, the sacrifice at the heart of this twisted game.
I was the one meant to perform it with him.
My mind reeled, replaying his words, the weight of their meaning crushing the air from my lungs.
Wait...
I was the ritual.