7. Chapter 7
7
A s soon as Rebecca realized what she was about to face, the glowing blood streaks across the mirror darkened before fading away again with surprising speed, becoming semi-translucent, then faint, then disappearing altogether, as if the rest of the spell had merely been waiting for her to become fully aware of what lay in store.
A second later, the mirror had regained its reflective sheen, brighter and clearer than it should have been given the state of the antique glass, but the reflection no longer showed reverse images of Rowan and Rebecca kneeling in front of it.
Instead, Rebecca stared back at not two but seven other faces within the mirror, though she recognized each of them as well as she would have recognized herself or the Blackmoon Elf beside her.
Seven long, drawn, gaunt-looking faces, though that could have been the light on either end of the spell.
She secretly hoped it wasn’t, that the sickly pale hue of all these faces etched with grim expressions of entitlement and disapproval was physical and real in their reality as well. That all the effort they’d pretended to expend at her expense had taken its visible toll on them.
But Council members and elders didn’t get sick—a fact that shattered her wishful thinking before she quickly scanned the faces again one by one and ran through the names in her head, just to ensure she hadn’t forgotten them.
How could she? These faces she had truly believed she would never see again in any capacity?
But this was real, and here they were, the connection between Chicago, Illinois on Earth and Agn’a Tha’ros’s Bloodshadow Court of Xahar’áhsh was complete. And, by the looks of it, surprisingly strong for having traveled such a distance.
Here they were, the individuals composing the governing body that had been using Rebecca all her life. The only governing body powerful enough to overturn a decree of the Bloodshadow Court but not quite powerful enough to force Rebecca into anything.
That much, she had made perfectly clear, and every elf sitting at that long table in full view of her mirror knew it to be true.
Somehow, though, after making this real with Rowan, after successfully completing this spell and its powerful connection to her home, she had a feeling that was exactly what this Council was about to do. They would try to force her return to Agn’a Tha’ros, and even the mere attempt of it carried the potential to ruin everything.
The wellspring of rage bursting open inside her and flooding her body all at once—rage brought on by the sight of this collection of pompous, self-righteous, manipulative old elves—felt suddenly insurmountable. Unstoppable.
Like she might burst wide open at any second and do something that could never be undone, not even in another few hundred years of self-imposed exile on this planet.
The trailer’s deathly silence remained unbroken, though Maxwell’s response to feeling her suddenly roiling emotions was a lot easier to note than during the casting. His surprise and confusion, his instant desire to calm the firestorm of rage inside her, all mixing with his own concern for her and his willingness to jump into action at any second if it meant protecting her from…whatever he might have thought this was.
Rebecca didn’t need protecting. Not now. But it made perfect sense how he might think, given his race and his non-existent understanding of what this truly was. All he had to go on was what he felt through their connection. Of course he thought this posed a threat.
Though most likely not in the way he suspected.
She wanted to offer him some form of assurance that the physical danger to any of them was behind them now, but she couldn’t look away from those faces projected through the mirror.
And she refused to break the silence first.
Fucking say something, already. Anyone…
The blankness behind such stoic disapproval etched into each of the Council members’ expressions lasted so long, without a single word uttered or the slightest twitch of movement, it seemed more likely this spell had failed somehow. That the Council had accepted the call from her and Rowan, only for some unforeseen magical malfunction to have shattered that connection before anything could be achieved.
Her willingness to perform this ritual had been a one-shot deal.
She would not do it again.
Or perhaps this was what the Council had intended all along, to bait her with silence and cold stares into losing her temper and giving herself away. Into divulging some valuable bit of information before her common sense had a chance to kick in.
That might have worked, once upon a time, but Rebecca refused to fall for any sort of trap in this situation, no matter what it looked like.
Yes, she had agreed to this with Rowan, and she’d willingly performed every step along the way. Still, that didn’t change the fact that she’d done it under duress and to ensure the safety of her Shade teams, all of whom were still outside, surrounded by a contingent of deadly elven soldiers and an impenetrable field of magical energy to keep them there.
Besides, no matter how anyone might try to spin it, this was still a hostage situation at its core. As the hostage responsible for all the others, Rebecca would not be the one speaking first to get this sad party started.
Another moment of intense waiting, of listening, of watching every face of seven elven Council members, searching for ticks or cues or weaknesses in their seemingly united front. Then, finally, a middle-aged man, the right hand of the Council chair sitting dead-center, took a deep breath and opened his mouth to begin.
He didn’t even bother to address Rebecca first or acknowledge her in any way.
“Blackmoon.” The man’s voice boomed through the spell’s connection with as much volume and force as if they’d all gathered in the Council’s assembly together instead of worlds apart. He tilted his head to one side and delicately brushed thinning curls already losing their deep-auburn luster away from his face. “This exchange is certainly…unexpected. I assume this means you’ve achieved at least a marginally satisfactory measure of success.”
Still struggling beneath the strain of maintaining the connection with the coupling ribbon clenched in his fist—though not nearly as difficult now as casting the spell— Rowan lifted his chin and paused before responding.
He only did that when striving to maintain control and a certain level of self-composure, which Rebecca had learned long ago did not come naturally to him.
Then he gestured toward her with his left hand, blood still dripping from the slice in his palm, though he acted as though he hadn’t noticed while clearly pushing himself to the level of formality this conversation required.
Rebecca still noted the slight tremble in his arm, which would hopefully go unnoticed on the other side of this mirror.
“See for yourself,” he said.
She also noted the way he clenched his fist and instantly released it again, hiding the lingering pain of the cut in his palm when he lowered his hand again from the mirror’s view.
She fiercely denied a snort, refusing to look at him.
The fucking nerve of this guy… Even here. Even with the Council staring him in the face.
“See for yourself.”
Rowan wouldn’t even reply to the question with a direct answer, because that direct answer was no. He hadn’t been successful, not even at a marginally satisfactory level.
This was nothing more than a ceasefire between him and Rebecca, extending to their respective forces, but he wasn’t going to say that to the Council. He didn’t want to ruffle their perfectly tailored feathers any more than he already had.
He was clearly more concerned about self-preservation than the truth.
What a surprise.
No, by giving that simple response layered with unimaginable complexity, he was leaving the truth up to her instead.
That was his first mistake.
The black-haired woman seated at the table’s center, the Council Head, Lady Maleine, slowly spread her arms above the surface of that table, her dozens of dangling bracelets dripping with priceless antique gems, even for elven standards, filling both rooms with their deceptively fragile tinkle. “You guide another into this link with the Council, Blackmoon. As only a vital eventuality may sanction.”
Only then did Maleine turn her gaze onto Rebecca, the flicker of her rich red-brown eyes barely perceptible within the mirror.
But Rebecca definitely still noted the flare of only one nostril on the woman’s face—the left. The sight brought with it a breathtaking storm of long-refused memories crashing through her mind, all of them making her want to laugh out loud and bash the mirror to pieces at the same time.
Maleine certainly saw her now, all right. That flaring nostril had always been the woman’s tell, since far before she’d reached her current position of power.
To keep herself in check, Rebecca focused on calming her breath and resuming the game she used to play with herself so many times back home when she was younger.
How many different shapes could she find within the wobble of forms and figures in front of her when she unfocused her eyes?
It was the best way she’d found to maintain an aura of stern, emotionless, callous self-control when standing at attention during all her interviews, interrogations, reprimands, evaluations, and even a portion of her training. The only way she’d kept herself from breaking beneath the understanding that no one around her could ever summon in a lifetime the amount of power Rebecca held in her little finger.
The game still proved to be useful even now.
Until Maleine opened her mouth again.
“State your name, child.”
That was it? After everything, after all this time, that was the way the Council Head, of all people, wanted to address her first in this long-distance meeting, no one at that table even deserved?
Indignant anger and resentment pulsed through Rebecca again, and she clenched her fists, drawing comfort from the sharp sting of the open wound on her palm beneath the pressure.
She said nothing.
On the other side of Randor, Siyren leaned forward. “You are a traveler through this exchange, joined to the one who guides you. No stranger may invoke this Council.”
By the Blood, they were really turning up the formality on this one, weren’t they?
She hadn’t seen them in centuries, and even still, the entire Council still had a giant bug up its collective ass, forcing them into this fucking ruse that meant absolutely nothing.
Not when Rebecca was in an entirely different world, and they hadn’t once left the safety and opulent comfort of their own personal Council residences in Agn’a Tha’ros.
Rebecca took a slow, deep breath through her nose and forced herself to exhale in the same way. Her vision blurred on purpose. She no longer had to watch their faces in infuriating detail.
And she said nothing.
The chair on the far right—farthest from Maleine on her left—creaked when its occupant shifted and cleared his throat.
Rebecca would have recognized Torosh’s cascade of silver-white hair that matched his flowing beard perfectly in color and almost in length, even without focusing directly on his face.
He leaned toward his only neighbor, as if to whisper something in Lady Haren’s ear, but Maleine stole the moment away again, as she always did.
All it took was an abrupt upward jerk of her hand, like swatting at a fly, and the tinkling chime of her jewels and gems and finely crafted chains of elven silver filled the air again, throwing herself yet again beneath the spotlight, as her station warranted.
Rebecca momentarily forgot her private game and focused on the woman’s delicate features. There it was again, the movement in Maleine’s left nostril, flaring more violently than ever as the woman’s red-brown eyes lit with anger. “ State. Your. Name. ”
It wasn’t the reaction Rebecca had expected, but a reaction was still better than none at all.
She gave herself another moment to breathe in calm, then she met Maleine’s gaze through the mirror and dipped her head ever so slightly in an unspoken challenge rife with condescension.
It made her feel surprisingly like Rowan, on whom she’d seen the exact same expression countless times.
“You know who I am.”
The words came out of her in a lilting croon, as if she spoke to a child pretending not to recognize its guardian.
An immediate chuckle rose from somewhere within the Council assembly, though it was quickly snuffed out before Rebecca could tell who was responsible for it.
She was too busy holding Maleine’s spiteful gaze, and the Council Head made a poor attempt to choke back her indignant shock.
Siyren pounded a fist against the table, sending a boisterous boom thundering through the mirror despite it looking like he’d hardly applied any pressure.
“You wish to make this a game ?” he roared.
Rebecca didn’t bother looking at him. “It was a shitty game every other time you tried to make me play. What makes you think I’d find it fun now?”
That did it.
Her words shattered the fragile facade of superiority and control etched on every face within the assembly. A second later, the echoing silence erupted into scornful grumbles, self-righteous scoffs, and noses upturned in haughty indignation. The Council had never suffered such insolence before and hadn’t expected any from Rebecca now.
The sight of all that shock and malicious fury sweeping from seat to seat along the Council table almost cracked a smile on Rebecca’s lips.
What a beautiful fucking sight.
And there was no one else here to see it or appreciate it with her in quite the same way.
Rowan might have been the one to share her enjoyment, once—long ago, maybe.
He showed no sign of finding any amusement in her response, but for the first time since completing the ritual, he turned his head toward her, slowly and cautiously, to look at her head-on. As if silently asking her why the hell she couldn’t just put on a good face and play the game now so they could get to the important business later, without the Council still breathing down their necks over it.
She didn’t look at him, either.
This was only a mirror, after all, she reminded herself. Plus a powerful old-world ritual spell cast on the outskirts of Chicago, Illinois to open a line of communication stretching all the way to the Bloodshadow capital of Agn’a Tha’ros. Literally two worlds between them.
But it felt exactly the same as every other time Rebecca was forced to endure the Council’s scrutiny, their disapproval, and their constant, insatiable hunger for more from her.
Not just more. Everything she had to give.
Time had not dulled her emotions around this. She hated them all just as much now as she had back then. As if her last several centuries on earth as nearly a dozen different versions of herself with a dozen different made-up surnames had never existed.
Like it had all been merely a dream…
Within the erupting indignation among the Council came the same gruff, sticky growl when Torosh cleared his throat again to signal his desire to speak.
The others did not immediately acknowledge him. They took their time wallowing in their self-assuredness a moment longer—in the need to stoke their own fantasized entitlement. But then the noise and frustration eventually died down before every elf at the Council table turned their heads in their eldest member’s direction. Some with quite a bit more disdain than others.
Once they had, the view in the mirror shifted to accommodate Torosh and his shimmering silver-white beard and hair, like liquid moonlight, within a more centralized view.
He had no trouble meeting Rebecca’s gaze, or holding it.
“It is a blessing to see you here now, Laen-Cáir .” The tremble in his voice Rebecca had never heard before betrayed the man’s unfathomable age. “Alive and well. Unharmed, it seems.”
“So far,” she replied and gently dipped her head toward him in acknowledgment. “I plan to keep it that way, Torosh.”
“Of course,” he murmured, dipping his head significantly lower than hers in deference.
The rest of the Council turned their faces away before the mirror’s view re-centered on the center of the Council’s table and Maleine in all her gaudy glory.
Rebecca followed the wise old elf at the far end of the table with her gaze, remembering now why it was so much easier to look at him than at any of the others.
Torosh was and always had been the only member of this Council who’d shown her any genuine respect despite the fact that he still sat on the Council, not to mention the others’ consistent habits of overriding his every idea, suggestion, and decision.
For whatever reason, though, they had let him speak now.
Rebecca knew why.
Even still, after all this time, Torosh was the only one of them she would remotely listen to without interrupting, arguing, inciting a fight, or downright refusing to interact with him.
And everyone knew it.
That did not, however, mean she didn’t fully intend on fighting this. Whatever this was. Rowan had proposed the meeting, which meant he knew the Council would be fully prepared when the time came to demand something from her before acting like they’d ever once treated it as a request.
Whatever they wanted of her—and she knew they wanted something —she had already made up her mind not to give it.
The Council, however, still had a few very important lessons to learn, and teaching them would be painful for all of them.