Chapter 17 | Sephania
Sephania
“How can I help?” Garroway asks from my side.
I stand with him and Skar on a second-story balcony, overlooking the courtyard as the vampires get into their carriages to leave. Some of them sway, drunk off the intoxicating bottles of blood Skartovius provided them.
Skar says, “You can ply your trade, cub.” He stares over the balcony with his arms crossed, like a general surveying a battlefield.
“Outside of Sephania’s orbit, the range on my beast-charming is less wieldy, more fractious,” Garro points out.
“It all stems from her.” The dhampir gives me a smile from the other side of Skar, which makes me smile in turn.
We reach behind our master and hold each other’s hands, pretending like he can’t feel our presence directly behind his cloak.
With his blood coursing through our veins, he can surely feel us, though he makes no comment about our scandalous hand-holding.
Instead, Lord Ashfen taps his chin, mulling over Garro’s words, evidently lost in thought.
“The range of your power depends on Sephania’s whereabouts in relation to you?
Makes sense. My shadowwalking acts much the same way.
I’ve learned I can shape other shadows, but the manipulation is easier when close to our little temptress, and easiest when using her shadow. ”
While he waxes analytical about their Loreblood-borne powers, I chuckle when one of the vampires in the courtyard stumbles on the step into his carriage and voices a loud curse as he crashes inside his wagon out of view.
“I’ve never seen a more useless, chaotic group of bloodsuckers,” I say cheerily.
“You sure there was only blood in those bottles, love?”
“Oh, surely not. When I filled the Lusher bottles years ago, I added a toxin to keep them fresh. The added effect is something of a debilitating drunkenness.”
I reel. “You . . . poisoned your own court? Why?”
Skar turns on his heels and pats me on the shoulder as he passes.
“Compliance, love. They leave here in a state of euphoria, not remembering any of it the next evening . . . only that they want to chase the high again as soon as they can.” He pauses at the arched doorway of the oval-shaped balcony.
“There was one specific brigand who received no Lusher tonight, because I want him lucid. Cub, with me.”
As Garroway hurries after his master into the mansion, I follow suit, starting to understand we’re all just pieces on the gameboard for Skartovius Ashfen to manipulate, and maybe Lukain wasn’t lying after all.
My lip nearly bleeds from how hard I’m chewing it, watching Garroway’s eyes dart back and forth beneath his closed lids.
Skar has positioned us in the same study room we defiled earlier in the evening.
Garro sits on the floor with his legs crossed.
His face is starting to sweat, and I feel something of his dire situation in my head, anxiety roiling inside me.
I don’t have a bloodbond with the dhampir like Skar does, yet I’m starting to sense my Loreblood has more of a coupling effect between us than I realized.
Garroway has tasted my blood a handful of times now.
Usually during sex, for the added . . . benefits .
. . but also at times when I needed to heal him.
Skartovius hates hearing about it, because each new draw from my blood further severs his connection with his bloodthrall and seems to transfer it to me.
It was the same with Dimmon Plank, unfortunately.
Before Dimmon died, Skartovius turned him, to make his suffering last an eternity and revisit new agonies each day.
The moment my Loreblood touched his lips to heal him, Dimmon began calling me his “mistress.” His bond engulfed Skar’s and grabbed onto me, which I hated.
It was partly the reason I ended Dimmon during my public outing at the shadowgala—shoving a stake through his mouth and then into his heart.
I couldn’t stand to feel the thoughts or internal torments of my damned rapist for another second.
Had Skar known that would happen, I like to think he wouldn’t have turned him.
I can’t carry on a mental conversation with Garro like Skar can. There’s a hint of something there though, pulling at me and unifying my anxiety with the nervousness he must be feeling while on his mental adventure.
We’ve been locked in this room for an hour.
Skar stands over his cub’s shoulder, a few inches away, and I can tell by his furrowed brow how much he truly cares for his bloodthrall, even if he’d never admit it in public.
He’s worried something might happen to Garroway on his excursion out into the wild.
Once the court vampires disappeared into their carriages and bumbled away from the courtyard, Garroway locked onto a mouse skittering across the top of the wagon belonging to the vampire named Glintov.
The mouse—an unplanned visitor—went along for the carriage ride.
Garroway began to see the world through our new friend’s little eyes.
As the carriage drew further out from Manor Marquin and closer to Olhav, Skartovius dictated what was going on by listening to his bloodthrall’s thoughts—vague and threadbare as they were these days with his underfed connection.
Hand lightly touching Garro’s bald pate, Skar said, “They’re nearing Olhav.”
That was thirty minutes ago. Silence has reigned since then, making me more anxious. Now, a sheen of perspiration drips from Garro’s pale face. His eyes dart under his lids and his jaw clamps.
Skar gives a dubious smile. “Glintov is not heading for his estate. Quite good.”
“Is it?” My voice is harried, breathless. “Because Garro is not looking quite good, Skar.”
“He’s fine.” Skar grits his teeth, proving to me things are not fine. If the nobleblood can feel the turmoil in Garro’s thoughts, I can only imagine how much worse it is in Garro’s mind.
“The connection is getting too stretched,” I say, flaring my nostrils. “Don’t push him further than he can go.”
With every extra mile separating us and the mouse, the further the carriage treks away from us, I know Garroway’s beast-charming grows weaker and more dangerous. I don’t know what happens if a connection breaks, and I don’t want to find out.
My nails bite divots into my palms, fists at my sides. I’m ready to lash at Skar for putting the man we both love in unnecessary danger, all for the sake of one of Skar’s ominous plots.
“The carriage is rolling into . . . I can’t tell.” Skar pauses, closing his eyes, trying to listen keenly to Garroway. “Northeast Olhav! Excellent.”
The Intelligence Ward, I think. My heart won’t stop racing. Alacine Mortis’ district. At the very least, we’re lucky the gray-hued Intelligence Ward is the closest district to Skar’s eastern manor. So long as the carriage stops there.
“Good, then he’s done,” I say. “Get him out of there.”
“Just a bit . . . further,” Skar grunts, as his eyes clench just as hard as Garroway’s.
Garro lets out a whimper. His body trembles.
“Carriage is parking,” Skar mumbles. His hand squeezes tighter on Garro’s skull, spindly fingers splayed, stretching across his pale dome like a spider sucking his brains out.
Garroway’s mouth falls open with a wretched gasp slipping past his lips. He begins to teeter backward into Skar’s legs.
“Skartovius!” I shout.
The noble’s bloodshot eyes wrench open, his hand pulling back abruptly from Garro’s head. There’s shock on Skar’s face, and some confusion. “I . . . don’t know how to get him out.”
I rush forward, raising my hand, ready to slap Garroway across the cheek.
Instead, I crouch and gently cup both sides of his face, drawing his lips toward mine.
Something intuitive tells me violence is not the answer.
I whisper, “Garroway, come back to us,” into his slack mouth, mustering all the calm and certainty into my voice as I can in the harrowing moment.
Nothing. Just quietness and the thumping of my heart slamming against my ribs. Anger fills my veins—furious Skartovius could be so greedy and self-serving to let it come to this.
I open my mouth to yell the command at Garroway—
His eyes flutter open before I can.
My heart launches to my throat. “G-Garro?”
He looks around in a daze, eyes wild and unfocused. His gaze takes in the tomes on the shelves behind me, before slowly meeting my level eyes. I keep his face sandwiched between my palms, giving him a pitying look.
I’m close to tears and I don’t know why. He’s alive.
But have we made him witless by pressing him too far?
Instinctively, my hand massages the top of his head. “Please, cub, say something if—”
“Glintov is meeting with Alacine Mortis,” Garro croaks in a dry, raspy voice.
Behind him, Skartovius brackets Garro’s shoulders, crouching and keeping him sitting upright while he continues to sway in place like a lost soul.
“Then our assumptions are confirmed. Glintov is a traitor to my court, gone to dispatch the news of your imminent meeting with Overlord Barnabac to his true liege . . .”
As he trails off, the name of Glintov’s “true liege” does not need to be said. What will Spymistress Mortis do with this information is anyone’s guess.
I don’t care about any of that right now. Not with Garroway straddling limbo and pandemonium.
The dhampir closes his eyes and rests into the arms of his nobleblood master.
The expression on Skar’s face melts from concern to devious exuberance, a wicked grin slashing across his features.
He gently pets Garro’s nape and the back of his skull.
“Quite good, my cub. You’ve done excellent work this evening. You deserve a treat.”
Garro lets out a deep breath. He looks completely exhausted, out of it. I can’t believe I didn’t know how dire things could become for him during his beast-charming excursions.
Clearly, there is still far too much we don’t know about his power. The fact my Loreblood gave him the power is distressing in its own right.
“Your praise is e-enough of a treat,” Garroway says, leaning his head back.
With his head upside down, and Skar holding his boneless neck, the nobleblood leans forward and gives him a soft kiss on the lips. “You are too good to us, Garroway Kuffich,” Skar purrs into his ear.
My frustration and anger boils again. I know exactly what Skartovius is doing, and it disgusts me. Using him, whispering sweet nothings afterward to tell him how good of a boy he is. I’ve seen this story before from other manipulative, rotten men.
“Doing your bidding is my purpose, Mistress,” Garroway sighs, and I catch the moment of tightness form on Skar’s face, his muscles flexing.
“Mistress?” Fuck. Garro is confused. He thinks I’m the one who kissed him just now.
“I live to serve,” Garroway continues. His eyes haven’t opened since the initial wrenching into his body.
With a breath, he adds, “Now, if I could only rest . . .”
Despite his rigid stance, Skartovius says nothing about Garro’s misspeak and gently settles him onto his back, right there on the floor in the study room. When the nobleblood stands to his full height, I join him. We’re on opposite sides of Garroway’s prone body.
Skar steps over him and moves to leave the room—
But he has to get past me to do it, and I’m not going to let him pass without speaking my mind.
I put a hand on his chest, Skar’s eyes downcast. “Just going to use him and leave him, eh, Lord Ashfen? Because he is your thrall and expendable?”
“Careful, temptress,” Skar warns through gritted teeth.
He raises his face to meet my stern glare.
I nearly backpedal from shock at the sight of him.
For the first time I’ve ever seen, there is shame written on every smooth plane of his sinfully handsome visage. The mask of perfection he summons so well is temporarily shattered, eyebrows twitching, clearly perturbed.
Before my mouth can fall open, I clench my jaw, unwilling to let him pity his way out of this. “Never again,” I demand. “Not until we know more about his ability and how far he can stretch it. Understand?”
He grits his teeth. His back goes straight, rigid as he listens to my words. It’s a command, and Lord Skartovius Ashfen of Manor Marquin is not simply commanded by anyone.
“Understood, my queen.”
His low voice baffles me so completely, tilts my world so efficiently, that he’s already past me and out the door before I can blink and turn after him, gawking.
Something deep-rooted climbs up my spine, unlocking comprehension I didn’t have until now.
Compliance, I think, echoing Skar’s words from earlier. A devious smile of my own, wicked enough to match Skar’s, stretches across my face. Two can play at that game, Lord Ashfen . . . when I am the queen of your castle.