Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte
The Aerie
Draven’s Library
Charlotte closed the journal.
Well, that was certainly something.
She didn’t know what was more upsetting. The fact that the pieces had been there the whole time, waiting for her to put them together, or that Draven had done such a poor job hiding the information.
It was right there in the open, and if Charlotte had given Draven’s proposition proper thought instead of impulsively saying yes, she’d have realized sooner. Well, it was too late now. She was here. More fool her.
Draven had discreetly removed the journals from the library. That was fine. She could respect the desire to have one’s thoughts remain private. There were plenty of other books in his collection. In fact, she suspected that he had not read many of those books. If he had a clue what those books contained, he would have removed those as well. She certainly had not expected to find anything of note in a rather dry account of the creation of imbued weapons, but a sneaky little footnote surprised her.
She needed to see it, the sword. Moving as if in a fugue, she left her notes behind and headed to the place where Draven kept the legendary, almost magical swords: the dining room.
“Lady Charlotte?” Orianne asked, concerned as she followed Charlotte down the stairs.
There. Above the fireplace, just as she remembered.
Charlotte dragged over a chair and climbed up to inspect the sword, Blackthorn. The blasted thing rested on a bracket, affixed to the wall.
So much trouble for this thing?
“Lady Charlotte, I must protest. Please do not stand on the chair. Don’t yank on the sword.” Then, in a mutter, Orianne said, “This is a disaster.”
“Then help me get this down,” Charlotte said. She grabbed the sword’s handle thingy—the grip?—and immediately dropped it when it was heavier than she anticipated. The sword fell back into the bracket with a heavy thunk .
“Fine, let me. Just, please get down. You’ll slice off your foot or your head.”
Orianne did not require the use of the chair and easily lifted the sword and its sheath from the display. She passed it to Charlotte, who held it in the cradle of her arms.
Blackthorn was heavy, but she’d expect that of a sword that shaped so many destinies. The blade was…a blade. Charlotte was hardly an expert on swords, legendary or not, but she expected highly polished steel, gold inlay, jewels on the hilt. Something extraordinary to mark this as an extraordinary weapon. Instead, it looked much like any other sword in need of a polish and sharpening. There were more impressive swords on the walls of Vervain.
How odd that something so mundane in appearance lay at the center of a tangled web. And much like a fly caught in that web, Charlotte didn’t even see it until a few minutes ago. She traded herself for this sword so that Luis could restore it to his family after his ancestor lost it in battle. In that same battle, Blackthorn took the life of its creator, Judith. She had seen the name so many times, often in reference to Draven.
Lord Draven’s companion. Draven’s consort. His safe harbor. The texts talked around it, calling the relationship every possible equivalent, but it was obvious. And still, she did not make the connection. Hadn’t wanted to, she supposed. She rather excelled at deluding herself.
“It’s rather unremarkable,” Charlotte said.
“I could not say,” Orianne replied.
“Go on, I know you have an opinion.”
“It’s a priceless treasure.”
“Well, how disappointing. I ask you for your honest opinion and you give me a safe, perfectly polite response. I expected better of you.”
“You want my honest opinion? Lord Draven is fond of you, but he loves that sword. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, that sword is worth more than you. Think on that.”
“I will. Thank you, Orianne.”
Charlotte returned to the library. She sat, holding the journal that started it in her hands and the sword across her lap. She had a few hours to think while she waited for Draven’s arrival.
Daylight marched across the library floor. Servants arrived to stoke the fire, light the candles, and set up the table for dinner. It was almost domestic.
Finally, as the light vanished and night fell, Draven entered the library.
“Sweetness, what are you doing with that?”
Charlotte lifted the journal like an accusation. “I’m not your anchor.”
Draven
Instinct told him to lie. His instincts had kept him alive thus far, sensing who to trust and anticipating the moment of betrayal. Yet he had made a vow not to lie to Charlotte, and instinct also insisted that keeping his vow was more important at the moment.
“Why do you want to dredge up the past?” he asked, countering her question with one of his own.
Charlotte folded her hands, holding the journal and sword in her lap as though she were posing for a royal portrait. “It’s not the past, is it? It’s affecting us right this moment. Now please answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask a question. You made a statement, and you already know the answer. I see no reason—”
“No reason!” Charlotte flew out of the chair, right toward him. The journal slammed into his chest. “No reason? Because I’m asking for clarification.” The book battered against him once again. “Because I need to know if this is a waste of my time.”
“No.” The answer came without hesitation. He took the journal from her. He didn’t recognize the cover, but he could guess the contents. Something about Judith, about his anchor. Setting it aside, he grabbed her hands and squeezed them firmly. “You are never a waste.”
“But trying to make me an anchor? That’s a waste, isn’t it?” she asked, her tone implying that she had already decided on her answer. Yes, he had wasted her time.
He brushed back a stray curl from her forehead. “I’ve enjoyed the time we spent together. That is not a waste.”
She huffed, unmoved by his attempts to charm her. “Is it even possible to have a second anchor?”
The answer would displease her. “It’s never happened,” he eventually said.
She gave him such an exceptionally dirty look. Blood would curdle. Whole conversations would fall silent in awe of the pure loathing that radiated from his wife.
Because he deserved it. Every unkind thought, every angry word, and certainly all her dirty looks.
“I don’t understand you. Is this arrogance, hubris, or madness?” Her eyes narrowed. “Or just cruelty? You buy the affection of women, luring them into your mountain lair with…with…” Her voice faded as she searched for the correct words. “With trinkets and promises. You need an anchor, you say. A connection to keep you human. All the while, you know nothing will come of it. You already have your anchor. You cannot have another.”
“I did not realize that I was in the presence of such an expert.” Yes, his words were cruel. No, he would not take them back. “Who are you with your handful of years to question my centuries of experience? Hubris indeed.”
“I’ve read accounts—and don’t you dare act as if I’m some empty-headed city girl with stars in her eyes. My knowledge has been put into practice. I helped Solenne be Aleksander’s anchor. And Miles and Luis. And now I know an anchor happens once. Only once. You brought me here for nothing.”
“I have no choice,” he snapped back. “A hunter took Judith from me. She was mine, and now she’s gone. I’ve persisted for a hundred miserable years without my anchor. What would you have me do? Bid farewell to the last of my humanity? Kill everyone on this mountain in a blood-fueled rampage? Burn and pillage towns, creating a path of destruction that leads right to the door of those responsible? Spread my misery until every soul on this wretched planet shares my pain?!”
His voice rose until his words echoed off the walls. His fangs were out, and his fingernails had lengthened into claws. The winter solstice was too close for such an emotional display. His balance was off, his center gone.
Charlotte’s eyes were wide and her heart beat wildly. The rapid pulses were as loud as shouts.
“Charlotte—” He reached for her. He did feel for her. That was not a lie.
She flinched and his hand fell away. “Don’t touch me,” she said, rushing to the door.
Instinct urged him to chase her down. Make her see. Make her his.
Instinct could go fuck itself.
Draven poured himself a drink and stood by the fire, waiting until he heard the door slam.
He hadn’t thought of Judith in ages, which was odd considering how her absence shaped everything. He could barely remember the details of her. Did she smile easily? He couldn’t recall. Her mouth tugged down into a frown when she concentrated, but the sound of her voice? Gone. All he had was the hole in his life where she used to fit.
He kept shoving new women into that gap to fill the void, but it never worked. They weren’t her, even though he could barely remember the qualities that made her her . He was hungry. Always hungry. An unceasing wail, demanding and devouring.
After her death, Draven scrubbed away all traces of Judith. Every image. Her clothing burned. Her journals were destroyed. Her workshop was dismantled. No one dared to speak her name, lest they find themselves separated from their tongue. Eventually, all he had was hunger’s constant companionship.
Charlotte was the first one to make him feel that there could be more to existence than merely existing.
“Damn it!” He hurled the glass into the fireplace. Glass shattered against stones.