Chapter 19 Roth #3
He exhales slowly, filling the air with the sweet, musty smoke of whatever concoction Killian’s worked up recently. “My demon wants her.”
“And you?”
“I don’t want to want her,” he quietly admits.
“Luther?”
He scoffs. “He won’t even admit that he wants her.” I hum in agreement, recalling how he stalked off rather than rise to Killian’s taunting. And we both know how Killian feels already. “What about you? You think she’s a threat?”
I don’t immediately respond. The witchling, if that’s what she truly is, has no magic. No family. Nothing to her name and no one to catch her when she falls. But those with nothing to lose are often the most unpredictable.
“Not yet.” But that doesn’t quiet the urge to keep the little bird in a cage until I can figure out what to do with her. Or why we all seem to be affected by her, in one way or another.
When Thane is ready, I help him walk on unsteady feet back to his room where I leave him with water and his blunt, but he’s asleep the instant his head hits the pillow.
I close his door behind me and return to the living room, cleaning up the evidence of our scene and refilling my glass once more before settling into my chair by the warmth of the fire.
Unfortunately, my mind refuses to settle as the realities of tomorrow’s responsibilities resurface.
A tugging in my chest grabs my attention when the hearth crackles and sparks. Xaphan exits a moment later, his black coat glowing like the coals of a dying fire. He nudges my hand with his snout, demanding pets.
“Welcome back,” I murmur, ruffling the coarse, charred hair between his ears.
His monstrous wolf-like form settles beside my chair and he lowers his head to rest between his paws.
So few hellhounds are ever observed outside of Hell, making his presence as much a marvel as my own ability to bond with a familiar in the first place.
While most demonic families try to add witch blood to their bloodlines to increase the likelihood of wielding primordial magic, both lines of my family have been conducting their own breeding experiments for centuries.
All in the pursuit of the perfect, equal mixture of elemental, sinful, and primordial magic.
I am Ignis.
I am Wrath.
And the last trueborn son of Lilith.
I am exactly what they made me to be.
I exit the portal into the familiar foyer of our family estate, a gothic monstrosity hidden in the depths of the Hudson River Valley built in the late 1700s by my ancestors, searching for new lands and people to conquer.
They found plenty of both.
The plush rug muffles my footsteps as I walk past the large, stained glass windows that line the marble hallways. The Hunter’s Moon illuminates the dark corners like a searchlight, determined to ferret out the secrets hidden in shadow, buried beneath so many bones.
A maid scurries up the stairs when she catches sight of me, no doubt to notify my father of my arrival. My mother will undoubtedly appear at some point like a wraith from the darkness at the scent of its prey. The only question is how long she’ll try to play with her food.
Each step up the spiral wooden staircase feels heavier than the last, until at last I reach the third floor to find the maid waiting for me in front of the heavy wooden doors of my father’s study.
She curtsies and opens the door, shutting it behind me with the finality of a prisoner being led to his execution.
My father faces the large hearth with his hands behind his back, a blazing fire warming the large space.
Despite my mother holding the title of matriarch of House Ignis, Renard Kovacs is equally enthralled by the element.
It suits him, as the patriarch of Wrath.
Fire can be indiscriminate in its devastation, fueled by the pain it causes as it devours everything in its path.
It’s the perfect weapon for someone who seeks only to destroy and dance on the ashes and ruins left behind.
As the scion of both bloodlines, I’m the weapon they’ve always dreamed of.
A tool to be wielded.
A toy to be played with.
“Father.” He inclines his head to acknowledge my greeting, but otherwise remains silent.
Ah. He’s in a mood. Walking to the liquor cabinet in the opposite corner, I pour myself a glass of Louis XIII. It’s not my favorite, but it burns on the way down, fortifying me for whatever he has in store.
“If I’d known you were incapable of completing this task on time, I would have done it myself.”
I swallow a large mouthful of fiery cognac before answering in the same bored tone.
“Perhaps if you had made the request as Councilman it could have been expedited. I’m sure there are plenty of Potionmasters who would have been honored to fulfill the order.” I set the stoppered bottle on his desk and I make my way to the couch in front of the fire with an ease I don’t feel.
“You know very well that would have raised questions.”
“Such as, ‘why would you possibly need a potion capable of inhibiting accelerated healing’?” He turns at my impudence, glaring daggers at me over the rim of my glass.
“I caution you against future delays, Roth. You won’t enjoy the consequences.” He lets his power fill the space between us until the air becomes oppressive with the sinister threat.
“I only ever endeavor to serve House Ignis, Father.” His eyes narrow at my slight.
Because while I am the heir to the illustrious House Ignis, he is merely the consort by marriage—a fact I’ve never failed to remind him of.
Which is perhaps not the most prudent choice given his long-held resentment towards me.
“See that you do.” He reaches for his own glass on the mantle and downs what’s left before sitting on the couch across from me.
His red eyes glow with the light of the fire, and his monstrous shadow stretches the length of the room, crawling up the wall—a subtle reminder of my own that his demon lurks just beneath the surface, ready and eager to make an example of me.
Again.
“How are your studies?” he asks—not out of concern, of course—but the first act of our performance as devoted father and dutiful son.
He still believes in the need for the song and dance before issuing his next order, as if it’s enough negate the promise of pain if I fail to follow it.
After a few stilted answers, he finally gets to the point.
“Calanthe Beauchamp.”
“What of her?” I crook my eyebrow.
“I’ve entered into negotiations with her family for your betrothal.”
He can negotiate all he wants, it will never happen. But I play his game nonetheless. “I’m surprised you would consider her.”
“She has a healthy dose of witch blood and minor cadet branches of both Wrath and Ignis in her pedigree. Your children would be wield fire, Wrath, Lust, and primordial magic. The combination would be quite potent.”
“You think her pedigree is to be believed? This is Lust, after all. For all we know, it’s just as likely she’s a bastard as trueborn.” He waves off my comments, but I can see the seed of doubt I’ve planted take root.
“When the Samhain Masquerade is announced next week, you will invite her to attend as your date. I expect you to make an effort to gain her favor.”
“Should she not be attempting to gain my favor?”
“She will be similarly instructed.” Of course she will be. I nod my head in feigned agreement rather than acknowledging the task that’s been set before me.
“How are things on the Council?”
“Soren’s extended absence is becoming problematic.
Has Thane mentioned when he’ll be back from his latest ‘honeymoon’?
” He sneers at his fellow Councilman’s attempt to father more progeny.
Despite my status as an only child, he prides himself on molding me into the man I am today, as opposed to Soren, who fucked off in pursuit of more heirs as soon as Thane could wipe his own ass.
“Quality over quantity”, he’d preach during my “lessons”.
“He mentioned summering in Europe, but had no further details.”
My father merely grunts in acknowledgment. “If he wants another Heir so badly he should just follow Preston’s example and leave a trail of bastards in his wake,” he mutters, “surely that’s easier than marrying the women, for Fate’s sake.”
Right. Because Killian’s father is a shining example of success when you don’t factor trivial things like consent into the equation. “I can only imagine his motivations,” I respond noncommittally before standing. “I will speak to Calanthe about the Masquerade.”
“See that you do. If negotiations progress as intended, her family will be joining us for Saturnalia.” I nod, but before I can turn around the heavy office door opens behind me, and I still at the sound of my mother’s familiar footsteps.
“Ah, Rebecca.” My father stands and kisses her cheek in greeting. “Drink?” he offers, gesturing with his own empty glass.
“No thank you, Renard,” she answers with a saccharine sweet voice before turning to me. “How are you, my darling?” she asks, cupping my face with her soft, manicured hand as my father refills his own glass.
“Mother.” I lean down and kiss her opposite cheek.
The Ignis matriarch is the picture of poise even this late at night: perfectly coiffed red hair, flawless makeup, and tailored dress cinched tightly to her figure.
Her black eyes shine in the firelight so like my own, the one feature of hers I’ve been cursed with.
“Oh I think you can do better than that, my love.” She smiles, revealing perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth.
I have no choice but to comply when she opens her arms, gesturing for a hug.
With one hand she runs her palm up my waist and down my back, and the other twines through my hair until she brings my face to hers, kissing the spot on my neck just beneath my ear.
Her familiar touch makes my skin crawl, and I have to smother the compulsion to scrub away the memory of it until I’m raw and bloody.
“I’ve just informed Roth of my negotiations with the Beauchamps.” My father says as he resumes his seat. Our eyes connect as my mother tightens her hold one last time before releasing me to join him.
“Isn’t that just wonderful news? She’s such a lovely young lady. You remember her mother, Amarantha, don’t you? She attended so many of our parties when you were younger.”
As if I could ever forget.
“Of course. How is she?”
“‘Thrilled’ would be an understatement. While the men haggle over the particulars,” she smiles over her shoulder at my father, who returns her grin with a wink, “she and I have already begun scouting venues.” Her voice lilts into a tinkling laugh at the thought.
“How do you feel about a summer wedding?”
“The Hamptons house might suit,” I respond with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. Inside my mind, my demon begins clawing at the bars of my control.
“Oh that would be delightful! Amarantha had suggested Italy or France, but I think keeping it small and intimate is more ‘us’. No more than a few hundred guests, at most.”
“I leave it in your capable hands,” I nod in deference, “I’m sure Amarantha will see you’ve got the right of it.” Her eyes sparkle at the prospect of winning that particular battle. There are few who would dare oppose her for long. Just as she opens her mouth to speak, I interrupt her.
“Apologies, Mother, but I’m expected back at campus.”
“So soon? I hardly see you anymore,” she pouts.
“He’ll be back for Saturnalia,” my father consoles. “Run along Roth. I look forward to your progress.”
“Goodbye, darling. We’ll be seeing you soon,” she croons.
With a nod to them both, I calmly walk out of the stifling room.
Every step between us loosens the fist gripping my chest. It’s not until I exit the portal into our apartment that I’m able to draw a full breath.
Killian, Luther, Thane, and Xaphan perk up at my arrival, but I barely spare them a glance before locking myself in the bathroom and stripping off my clothes before stepping into the scalding shower, determined to remove every memory of that house from my skin.