Chapter 36
The Hound
“It can’t be a coincidence!” the Countess roars, the boom of her voice carrying through the hall. I’ve not even made it to the dining room yet. “He’s been here for three days and—”
“Good morning.” I admire the way the guards reach for their weapons when I stroll through the open doors. They have no courage to use them, but if only they knew that in my current state, they might actually do some damage.
I’m lacking the majority of my strength and power thanks to the King. Right now, it’s all about the show. Pretending I have what I don’t. And judging by the room full of hesitant guards and paling faces before me, I think I’m doing a good enough job.
“You.” The Countess whirls around, crooked finger stabbed in his direction. “What have you done with the Baron?”
“The Baron?” I feign shock. “I don’t believe I’ve met the Baron.” Alive.
“Bullshit!” The woman to her right stands from her seat. She’s an older, slightly sharper version of the Countess—pointed nose, gaunt cheeks, yellow eyes blazing with accusation.
The Umbra bursts through the kitchen doors. “Alesi is missing. Again! Fucking ungrateful little brat,” she mutters under her breath.
Impeccable timing, really. It couldn’t be better if I had planned it.
Content to watch the interaction play out, I calmly take my seat, feeling the weight of the Countesses’ lingering glare. All I need is just one person to suggest that maybe—
“Well, that can’t be a coincidence,” a short and stout man huffs, rolling his eyes as he tucks his napkin around the collar of his shirt with chubby fingers.
My eyes widen like it’s the idea of the century. “They were lovers, were they not?”
The question is directed at the Countess, who doesn’t reply at first. Seconds tick by, and her glare only grows more venomous. She exchanges a loaded glance with the woman to her right.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I unfold my napkin and lay it across my lap, gesturing to the main with the bib. “I think I agree with…”
“Fairbourne,” he chokes out.
“Yes.” I turn my attention back to the Countess. “I think I agree with Fairbourne. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Something I’ve come to realize when dealing with mortal emotions and insecurities is how effective it is to act unbothered.
Indifferent. I have the Countess on the spot and in front of her peers, which means she’s under more pressure to keep up appearances.
Coupled with her already festering fear of being undermined by her father, the last thing she’ll want to do is prove to the table that she isn’t capable of ruling this side of the continent.
I can tell it’s killing her. I can smell the anger rolling off her in waves. She wants so badly to fly across this table and shove my fork down my throat. I can’t confidently say I’d be able to sit here and take it.
“Something isn’t right here,” she says finally, unsettled by her own words as she shakes her head. “And it all started with you.”
“No, Gwendolyn, it all started with you. Your people. Your cruelty.” There’s no judgement in my tone. I’m simply reciting the facts. “You just want someone to blame, and I’m the easiest to point a finger at.”
Nobody speaks. The only sound is the odd utensil scraping a porcelain plate and the base of stemmed glasses thudding against the wooden surface.
I’ve been unwelcome in many places before, but never like this.
The discomfort here swells, every member of the Countess's inner circle either glaring at me or avoiding eye contact altogether.
The servants continue tending to the table, but they do so with trembling hands, sensing the energy weighing on the room.
I lean back in my chair, thriving in the atmosphere.
It reminds me of home—the constant being on edge, never certain of what will happen next.
It’s the anticipation of it that I love.
The rush of adrenaline that reminds my immortal soul what it’s like to be alive.
After so long, you get used to the mundane, and the feel of your heart beating in your chest becomes significantly less precious.
The doors to the dining room burst open, and a Rogue storms through, wiping what appears to be blood off his knuckles. He grabs a roll of bread from a passing servant's tray, glaring at the Countess as he makes his way to his seat.
“You’re late, Vance,” she snaps at him.
Vance looks up at her, frustrated and incredulous. “You gave me an order, Your Highness.”
“An order?” The Countess looks equally lost, her attention shifting to the woman on her right. She shrugs, just as confused. “What order?” Gwendolyn asks Vance.
His roll is halfway to his mouth when he freezes, brows creasing. “You told me to—”
My drink slips out of my fingers, glass shattering on the floor beside me.
All eyes swing in my direction.
“Oops.” I do my best to look apologetic, waving off the servant who hurries over to clean up my mess. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”
I’m not sure what Lucina has done, but I’m fairly confident we were about to find out.
My chair legs scrape the ground, disrupting the silence, as I lean over to gather the shattered pieces. Thankfully, when I look up, I’m still holding the room’s attention.
“Kato!” The Countess snaps, and a short, round Rouge appears at her side, thin glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Her yellow-eyed gaze remains fixed on me. “Send another letter to the King. Tell the courier it’s urgent.”
Kato follows Gwendolyn's stare all the way to me. I offer him my version of a polite smile.
“NOW!” The Countess urges, and he hurries off, nearly tripping over himself as he exits the dining room.
“I’ve had enough,” she grits out, and fists her hands at her sides. A decision has been made.
The Countess flicks her chin to the guards along the wall, and I anticipate the words out of her mouth a heartbeat before she says them. “Take him.”
I release a wave of my strongest magic, as brutal and as violent as I can make it.
It surges through the room, slamming the guards back against the wall.
Rattling every porcelain teacup. Smacking the walls, floors, and ceilings with enough force that a few crystals from the chandelier fall onto the table.
It’s nearly all I have. All the King’s bargain has allowed me to keep.
But they don’t know that.
Swallowing against the metal taste in my mouth, I straighten my place setting and flatten out the ruffled tablecloth. When I look up, the Countess is still seething, but every breakfast guest, servant, and guard has lost what little color they had in their faces.
The pungent smell of fear is potent, and if I wasn’t fighting to hold onto my consciousness, I’d probably be more satisfied with their response to my power. To a fraction of it.
“I wouldn’t,” I tell her, gesturing a hand towards the guards still pressed up against the walls. The only thing keeping them there is their own hesitance. “If I were you, that is.”
She snarls back at me. “But you’re not.”
“And thank your precious god for that.” I fold my napkin and set it over my plate, grabbing a roll from the basket beside me. Slowly, I rise from my seat, mindful of my balance, and I turn from the table before the Countess can double down on her guards’ orders.
I’m fairly certain I could take them all, even in this state, but there’s no point in lingering when I already have what I came here for.
Happy source hunting.
I wouldn’t describe the experience as happy, but I would consider it successful.
Everyone at that table wreaked of high power—some more than others—but four of them outrank them all.
Our remaining sources are: bloody-knuckled Vance, the ever-feared Umbra, Mr. napkin bib Fairbourne, and last, but certainly not least…
Miss Gwendolyn Tenebrus.
May they rot in hell.