Chapter 12 Gaetano
Gaetano
Magic is a living force. It’s an energy that intertwines with yours, expanding and contracting, depending on the strength of your will. We also call it the “inner spirit”—our witch-born half. It defines our strongest traits. But it’s the other half, our human half, that governs it.
Most witchers are satisfied with the magic they were born with. I never was.
Tonight’s spectacle was no inborn talent, but a pure display of black magic.
Inhuman. Grotesque. Violent. The kind that feeds my primal urge to dominate, to take control of everything in the room.
When I come across a crowd this large, I can’t resist the spotlight, even if my harvest is the only one watching.
Among the ancient witch families, black magic is often revered as tradition, which is why it’s sometimes referred to as “traditional” magic.
Its practice requires drawing power beyond the one you’re born with.
Deals with the Higher Powers. And one simple rule governs that trade: everything comes at a cost.
Most traditional witchers believe that to access black magic, they must pay with something precious—something of their own.
Some would give up their youth, trapping themselves in the bodies of old men while their spirits still burn with the ambition of twenty-year-olds.
Others sacrifice their hearts—literally or metaphorically—trading them for the cold logic of raw magical power.
Some have even used their children as currency.
When I became Madeline’s apprentice, she taught me how to barter with the Higher Powers without surrendering a piece of myself.
She showed me how to create sources—offerings I could give the Higher Powers.
That’s how I learned to trade in emotions.
Fear, primarily. I provoke it, extract it, steal it as energy, and exchange it for power beyond human comprehension.
It’s what I did with Nicole tonight. I poured every ounce of dark emotion the Baroness was trying to suppress into the spell, to fuel the dark magic. But it still wasn’t enough, and I ended up leveraging some of my inner power to support the magic.
Some. Enough that I need to stay put and recharge, at least for the time being.
As I roam the corridors of the castle, I replay our dance. My original plan was to stir some chaos in Nicole’s mind. It was another one of my “small” tests, designed to help me understand my harvests. How they respond under pressure. Under scrutiny. On fire.
The Little Baroness performed quite well. While she moved, her aura shifted. It didn’t scatter like a frightened shadow, nor did it dissolve into weakness or fear. Instead, it hardened, gained weight, and sharpened into pure resolve. Her face said it all: I’ll outdance you.
A challenge I accepted with eagerness.
When our bodies intertwined in the dance, the magic stirred in me in a way it hadn’t in centuries—not like a beast trapped in a cage, but like a boundless current. For a fleeting second, I forgot my role as the Black Joker and committed to the joy of dancing with a beautiful woman.
The remnants of that unexpected feeling still burn inside me now.
My fingers brush the cold stone wall, tracing the carved ridges of a single number.
290. Before her, there were two hundred and eighty-nine others.
Not one of them ever suspected that I, too, was bound.
That this isn’t merely a hunt for souls.
Nicole is the first to realize that I’m also subject to the contract.
Unfortunately for her, we can’t bypass it.
I pause in my steps, an idea striking me. A great deal of my inner power is infused in the wards I’ve set up around the castle. With what I used today, recharging should be my priority.
Yet, my curiosity pushes me. So I lower the wards, and the power sustaining them returns to my fingertips in invisible waves. I slice through the space with a single motion. The portal unfurls before me—ink-black, threaded with golden filaments at its center.
A heartbeat later, I find myself cloaked in the corner of an unfamiliar room.
Nicole’s father sits behind a wooden desk, and she’s facing him.
They don’t see me, but I see her—loose strands of hair trailing down the back of that dull dress, the tension in her shoulders, the falter in her confidence as she says, “I couldn’t have known, Dad… ”
Her father cuts her off. “Haven’t I taught you anything? Good business means anticipating every potential complication and neutralizing it before it becomes a problem.”
She clenches her fists. “How could I anticipate a stranger would show up? He’s just some man spamming me on Facebook!”
They’re talking about me. A thrill runs down my spine. I do love it when my performances have consequences. It means they were worthwhile.
“You embarrassed me, Nicole. Deliberov and I were this close to shaking hands. All you had to do was smile at the little faggot, not go around drawing in admirers!”
I fold my arms, watching my latest prey’s reaction with quiet interest. Even from here, I can sense her blood boiling. Yet her shoulders remain curved inward.
“I told you already—I didn’t invite anyone. He’s been stalking me…”
Her father’s chair scrapes the floor. He stands and slowly walks around the desk. The air grows heavy with the storm of anger about to erupt. “Somehow, you made him think he could get close to you.”
She steps back but quickly stops herself, as though realizing it would only make things worse. My interest intensifies with each second. The girl who usually looks at me with fire in her eyes, as if I’m not about to claim her soul in ten days, is now standing with her head bowed.
Subdued. Submissive. To her father.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’d never met him outside of Facebook…”
“I don’t care who you met or didn’t. I care about how this looks. What the Deliberovs and everyone else saw.” He stops a single step from her. “Is it really so hard, Nicole? Is it so hard to behave like the daughter of the Construction Baron? To understand your duty?”
He brushes a strand of hair from her face, and she flinches. The gesture is gentle, but there’s something predatory in the way his fingers linger on her cheekbone.
His hand moves to her nape. “This is the last time you humiliate me, Nicole. Do you understand?”
In the time it takes me to blink, her dad’s fingers are knotted in her hair, jerking her head back, twisting it at a cruel angle. Every muscle in her body tenses. Her features contort in pain.
Something shifts inside me. No one tortures my toys except me. The Baron may not know it yet, but as of five days ago, his daughter belongs to me.
I move behind him. Magic coils around me, formless and soundless. I’m not sure what I intend to do, but he won’t like it.
Lucky for him, he lets her go before I unleash my magic. Nicole sways, then regains her balance.
“Go to your room!” he roars.
Nicole spins on her heels and storms out.
I linger, studying her father’s face. Cold, hollow. There’s no sign of hesitation, no conflict between right and wrong. He is the law.
My blood boils, fueled by magic that aches to cause pain. The corners of my mouth twitch at the thought of turning all that smug confidence into desperate pleading for mercy.
But just before my fingers graze him, the curse yanks me away. As if an invisible hand clutches my chest and drags me with ancient, relentless force. At least I get to choose whether to return to the castle or follow Nicole.
I slip into her room. She has her back to me, high heels abandoned by the door. I linger in the dark, ready to absorb everything her pain is about to offer. My favorite moments with a harvest are always the ones soaked in vulnerability. After all, I have survived centuries by feeding on suffering.
She reaches for the zipper of that hideous attire, and it parts down her spine.
My gaze traces the fabric’s slow descent down her waist, the smooth expanse of her bare back.
No bra, just a thin band of red lace hugging her hips, vanishing between the firm curves of her ass.
The gown pools at her feet, and she stands in nothing but her panties.
I’ve invaded the private spaces of my harvests many times. It’s one of the ways I teach them they belong to me. Now, I’m one breath away from becoming visible. Would Nicole’s cheeks flush when she realizes I’ve watched her undress?
But then she turns around, reaching for clothes in the wardrobe. I keep observing her in silence—the stretch of her arm, the subtle tension in her thighs as she rises on her toes. The way her fingers slide through her hair, tousling copper strands down her back.
I follow the curve of her bare breast and the smooth outline of her stomach. Her skin looks flawless and inviting. It reminds me of a canvas begging to be marked…with teeth, among other things.
My Baroness is stunning.
My blood surges south in an instant.
She throws on a satin robe and whirls in my direction. Wet streaks of black cut down her cheeks, but her chin is lifted high. “Show yourself! I know you’re here!” she commands, her tone sharp and imperious—so very her, it almost tempts me to break her just to remind her who’s in control.
She must be bluffing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not some shy boy caught peeping. If anything, being seen adds another delicious layer to our dynamic.
“At your service, Baroness.” I step from the shadows in full, corporeal form.
She stiffens, spine snapping upright. “Were you seriously lurking around while I changed?!” She yanks the robe tighter with a jerk of her hands.
I approach her until I’m close enough to wipe those thin streams of mascara and tears from her cheeks if I feel inclined. “Did you want me to?”
Her nostrils flare as her chest rises, shifting the robe with the motion. “If you think you can embarrass me, you’re wrong.”
I lean toward her ear. “Good. Because I did watch.”
She recoils just enough to meet my eyes. “I hope it was worth it.” Her mouth tightens into something between a smirk and a snarl. I don’t miss the way her fingers clench the robe’s collar… or the faint blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Every second,” I say.
This time, her blush is more pronounced. “Shouldn’t you be in a cell? Or Hell?”
“Even if I wanted to be, neither prison nor Hell can hold me.”
She studies me with sudden curiosity. “Why not?”
My gaze trails over the thin fabric covering her.
The image of what’s underneath is vivid in my mind.
It might be a lingering effect of the chemistry from our dance, rather than a genuine physical attraction.
Or maybe what I saw just now heightens my interest because I haven’t seen such a masterpiece in years.
Whatever the case may be, I want to learn more about her. And it would be my greatest pleasure to get that information from her, while making her think she’s sharing it willingly.
I tilt my head. “How about a game? One where you can ask me anything you want.”
“A game? With you?” she asks, disbelief thinning her voice.
“I’m kind of lonely tonight.” Not quite a lie.
She huffs. “I’m guessing you’ll be asking me questions, too?”
The Baroness is always quicker on the uptake than most of my harvests. “To get something, you have to give something,” I say. “But if you win, you gain leverage. I’ll never intrude on your intimate moments again—doesn’t matter if you’re naked, in the shower, in bed with someone. Or alone…”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “How would you even know what kind of ‘moment’ I’m in before you show up?”
“I wouldn’t,” I admit. “But if I do happen to appear during a private moment, I’ll leave immediately.” The tightening of her features tells me the idea unsettles her further, so I add, “Without you ever realizing I was there.”
“How comforting,” she mutters.
“That’s the offer, Baroness. Take it or leave it.”
Her eyes flash. “And if I lose?”
My fingers hover just above the sash of her robe, never touching the satin itself.
“Then every time you undress that divine body, you’ll wonder if I’m hiding somewhere in the shadows, watching…
” I bet she adores compliments —feeds off them, the way I feed on fear.
But she’d never admit she enjoys hearing them from me.
So I press further. “Or maybe… that’s exactly what you want. ”
“Let’s play,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.