Chapter 15 The Vodka, and Then The Ransom
The Vodka, and Then The Ransom
“A midwinter rose has bloomed. Prepare accordingly.”
— Anonymous correspondence from Lyonsreach to Lord Xavian Steele
I barely caught myself before tripping onto the ground.
“Mother of fucking Moons,” I cursed. I lifted my chin, taking in the surprising sight of a golden manor. Floating throughout the air were fiery bulbs of crackling lights, like enchanted lanterns patrolling the sky.
“Hello,” a young woman said from my right. She smiled, tilting her head curiously.
A thick silver braid fell to her waist, swaying against a strappy sheer gown that hugged her narrow frame. Her skin was icy pale, and her eyes a light green. She was the last thing I expected someone living out in the deep woods to look like.
Kostini stood behind me, yet it was obvious he could not see me, nor the manor. It was masked entirely.
This was blood magic.
Shit.
Other women of all colors and sizes lurked outside the estate, doing a terrible job of discreetly eavesdropping and all wearing equally revealing gowns.
There were no men in sight. On a typical day, I’d be thanking the heavens. But no men meant no sign of Riven either, and I needed his help if I was ever going to make it to Castivian.
“Don’t worry, Elora, we’ll retrieve your horse,” the woman said, boldly grabbing my hand.
My hand, a Blackheart's hand. This woman was either entirely unafraid or painfully unaware. How did she know my name?
I pulled away. “I can get my own horse just fine.”
Her face fell as she drew her own hands back, as if her feelings were hurt.
Blood magic was the only logical explanation for the illusion hiding the manor.
Yet, she did not act like a Sapphire at all, and she certainly did not look like any of the Sapphires that had attacked the Waywards.
There was no sign of power or the hunger for it in her gaze. She looked broken more than anything.
“It’s very late. You’re welcome to join us. Sir Riven is inside too, if that’s why you’ve come.”
My lips pressed into a flat line.
“Show me to him.”
He’d said he was going to hunt for dinner.
He was a liar.
The woman guided us through a well-kept garden of various white flowers. She was petite, only slightly taller than I, with slender limbs and a slight slouch as she walked.
“Are you a warrior?” she asked awkwardly.
I had never been asked anything like that before. With no notable muscle on my body, it was blatantly obvious I was not. I couldn’t even lift a sword properly.
“No,” I said.
“Oh.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. “I just thought you might be. Anyway, the master of the house will want to meet you before we show you to the guest room.”
I was not expecting to be hosted through the night.
“Does a lord live here?” I inquired cautiously.
“No, just a master. We’re all titleless here. My name is Sitara.”
She padded up the shimmering steps before twisting the golden doorknob and leading me inside.
Life-size sculptures of bodies were displayed around the seating area. Lavish weapons hung on gilded walls beside at least a dozen paintings, all of different women.
Everything was too formal and over the top. The white and gold couches were unrealistically pristine, and the chandeliers overly shiny. Too polished to be real.
"Zain, your company is here," Sitara chimed. We waited a moment in silence.
She had claimed Riven was here, but could I trust her word? There were plenty of weapons on the wall I could grab, and while the swords would be too heavy, there was a slender stone club no bigger than my forearm. It was entirely out of place.
The club’s long wooden handle was black, with a thin silver material spiraling to the top. The end held a flat stone, the silver securing it in the shape of an ‘X’. Embedded in the middle of the stone was a round, dazzling, violet gem.
It was a beautiful, dangerous weapon.
"Elora… of Blackheart," a charming voice purred.
I turned away from the stone club, finding a strikingly handsome man with champagne skin and scarlet hair tied into a loose bun.
He wore a fitted black dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up his forearms, and a pair of tan trousers.
He did not look like a Sapphire either. Feline-like curiosity swirled in his eyes as a smile crept across his lips.
“And you are?” I asked, still standing near enough to the stone club to grab it if needed. Its violet gem sparkled in my mind, calling to me.
The man ambled over to a glass cart, which was well stocked with high-end liquors. We never had the luxury of experiencing these in the Waywards.
Riven swore he did not drink.
"I'm known as the Warlock of the Western Woods. You may call me Zain, if that is to your liking," he said, swirling a freshly poured drink.
He flashed a quick smile before pouring a second glass.
I didn’t bother returning the gesture. ‘Warlock’ was an unusual term. The only Warlocks I’d ever heard of were ones used long ago to defend heretic kings prior to the Lyonaire reign. My family’s reign.
My stomach churned.
Riven entered the far side of the room, escorted by several women, all wearing sheer gowns. He narrowed his eyes, jaw tight.
Zain’s face lit up. "Your friend was so concerned about returning to you, I had to meet you myself.”
I did not like the sound of that at all, and judging by how pissed Riven looked, it was safe to say he shared the sentiment.
“Care for a drink?” the self-proclaimed Warlock offered, strolling towards me. Fury danced in Riven’s eyes, but he stood still in front of the door.
“I’m actually rather tired, and we need rest. It’s been a shit day,” I said.
Zain downed his drink in one long gulp, then started on the one he’d made for me. When he finished both, he shook his head.
“Very well. Do you wish to hear the ransom price for your friend now, or after you’ve slept?”
I took a step back, eyes darting to Riven. Every time he tried to step forward, an invisible force stopped him.
He was paralyzed by magic. We had walked right into a trap.
“Interesting for you to think I need him more than I need gold,” I said coolly.
“The ransom doesn’t include gold. Please, take a seat.” He waved me to the white couch across from him, entirely calm.
I could be unbothered, too. I strode over, settling down on the couch like I’d bought it myself. The orb at my hip glowed faintly.
Deceptively beautiful and stoic, the Warlock swirled another drink. “There is a cost for me to live in such luxury, as I’m sure you know.”
I didn’t know shit about living in luxury, actually. Glancing around the gaudy room of golds, whites, and occasional silver, I wasn’t sure I liked luxurious things.
“This is all blood magic. You’re a Sapphire, living on Drakington lands. If your request is my blood, I’m afraid we won’t be making any deals tonight,” I said, tracing my finger along the curve of my orb.
Zain chuckled.
Riven’s brows pulled together, tattoos rippling as he flexed his arms, trying to break free of the invisible chains.
The Warlock wiped a dribble of liquor from his chin.
“I am no Sapphire, and I have nothing to do with that reckless cult. As I've told you, I’m a Warlock. The last one in Drakington, no less.” He snapped his fingers at Sitara.
She came quickly to grab the empty glasses from him before hurrying to refill them.
She had referred to him as the master, but I’d hoped it was more title than truth.
Grimacing, I crossed my arms. I didn’t escape one cage to be placed into another.
Moreover, Riven was the only one of us who knew how to wield a sword, and if I lost him, I might never make it to Castivian.
Walking back up to the gates of the Waywards, knowing I’d doomed everyone in them wasn’t an option either.
The deed had to be delivered. Too many lives depended on it for this wanna-be-lord to be wasting my time.
I kicked my feet up onto a glossy rock coffee table. “So you’re a blood-drinking Warlock? Not to be confused with Sapphires, who do the same thing, but are more successful. Is that right?” I asked.
He smiled, lifting his glass. “Never blood, only vodka.” Sipping again, he gestured with his free hand to the bar cart in testimony.
“Takes the entire cart to satisfy you?”
Sitara placed an entire tray of full glasses in front of him, dangerously close to my boots.
The poison within me marveled. What reaction might I get if I were to kick the entire tray?
Glass would shatter. Someone would need to clean it up.
All the attention in the room would be on me—bad attention, but attention no less.
Stop it, I snapped at myself.
When I was a child, it was more difficult to control my unwanted thoughts. Sometimes I would misbehave, knowing I would be in trouble. A lonely child who sought punishment. Any attention was better than none at all.
Zain shrugged. A piece of flaming red hair fell from his bun and brushed over his brow, just like the frizzy curls on Trista’s head. I wish I had said goodbye to her. Hopefully, I would see her again on the other side of the Sea of Blades.
He chugged down another two glasses. “Unfortunately, it has little effect on me these days. I drink for the flavor.”
“You drink straight vodka for the flavor? Sounds dangerous.”
Zain nodded, looking over his glass with a sly grin. “I have a taste for dangerous things. Perhaps I’ll have an appetite for you, too.”
My treasonous cheeks may have flushed, but my sane stomach coiled. I sank further into the couch, wincing as a sharp pain shot down my leg. Riven’s eyes bulged. My thigh needed to be healed, or at least redressed.
Zain chuckled and downed another glass. “I have a deal for you, Elora of Blackheart. Are you in any mood for business, or shall we wait until morning?”
Business. A business meeting in the middle of the night while my friend—kind of—was bound by the Warlock's magic.
“Oh, go on with it,” I droned.
Sitara flinched at my tone, timidly checking Zain’s reaction as if she were afraid for me. He was quiet of course, as his mouth was filled with liquor, not that I particularly cared whether he liked my tone or not.
I had little to lose, and even less patience.
Zain leaned forward. “I will heal you, as it appears you’re injured. I’ll also release Sir Riven. You just have to do one little thing for me.”
I blinked, waiting and restless.
He grinned. “Well, you see, Elora. I've never had the chance to lie with a Blackheart, and that is precisely how I absorb my magic. No ‘blood’ nonsense. I’ve mastered the abilities of nearly all Natures through the act, and other illusion magics as well. I just need to collect a Blackheart, and how lucky we are to meet.”
A feral snarl sounded from across the room.
Riven broke free, charging for Zain. The Warlock’s eyes flared wide before he lifted a hand, blasting his power through the room.
Riven smacked into a transparent wall, nearly knocking him down.
He regained his balance and tried charging again, but the magic held him.
He punched the barrier with a hit that could probably kill most men.
He didn’t stop at one. He reared his arm back and slammed his fist again and again and again.
Red smeared across the barrier as his knuckles cracked open, slam after slam after slam.
“I’ll break every bone in your body,” Riven barked, shooting Zain a glare sharper than any of the blades mounted to the wall.
Zain lifted his hand again, silencing Riven with magic.
The back of my neck felt warm. Perhaps I should have accepted that drink.
“What will happen to me if I do it? The act?” I asked.
The Warlock's eyes twinkled. “You’ll be weak for a bit, but will regain your strength. I do need to drain a considerable amount in order to retain it for my lifetime, which should be very long after this. I will be the most skilled Warlock in history, thanks to you.”
I glanced around at the paintings on the walls. They were all women of different Natures.
“Did you paint these?”
He smiled proudly. “Yes.”
“And will you be painting me next if I accept?”
“Yes.”
The portraits were each sultry and provocative. Had he painted them from memory, or made the women pose for him?
“You swear on your life that no harm will come to me or Sir Riven? And that you will release us promptly after?”
Zain’s skin shimmered beneath the chandelier. “Of course. I’ll even fix your injuries before you fulfill your end of the deal, so you can rest assured I’m trustworthy. How does that sound?”
“Deal.”