Chapter 4 | Sephania
Sephania
I’m having whiplash. The night went from tantalizing sex to shocking violence in a matter of heartbeats. Way too fast for my liking. Typically, I prefer my sex and violence together because we all want it, not because it’s thrust upon me by assassins in my fucking window.
I scurry after Skar with Vallan and Garroway right behind me. They stick with me, not charging after the nobleblood, and I realize they’re more concerned for my safety than his, which is why they’re in no hurry to catch up to the furious ex-lord.
Heavy steps round a corner nearby and my mates draw their weapons—
As Lukain comes into view, silver saber drawn. With a heavy breath, he looks me up and down. I can only imagine what he sees: loose nightgown askew on my shoulders, hair unkempt, eyes wide with shock.
“I came when I heard sounds,” he says, flaring his nostrils. “What happened?”
I point ahead to where Skar’s fluttering gold-red cloak recedes into the darkness down the hall as he marches away. “Join us and find out.”
With a quick nod, Lukain sheathes his father’s sword and gets in line behind me. I feel protected and firm with these three in my shadow, swallowing me whole with their body heat.
Over his shoulder, Lukain snarls at Vallan and Garroway. “You two need to keep me apprised of what’s happening. We know Skartovius won’t, the stubborn bastard.”
“Your brother, you mean?” Vallan says.
“And aren’t you the bastard, if you want to get technical?” Garro chirps.
Lukain scoffs. He still doesn’t like hearing the word “brother” and the name Skartovius Ashfen in the same sentence. I don’t blame him, because I’m angry at Skar, too. Lukain just doesn’t know it.
If Skar isn’t going to tell Lukain of the lies he wrote, then I will have to, I muse as we move from one room to another in Skar’s wake. But I have to give Skar more than a single day to have out with it. I owe him that, at least. I suppose.
I’m certainly not looking forward to what transpires between the half-brothers once the truth does come out, so maybe putting it off is in everyone’s best interest. Clearly we have more pressing matters at the moment.
“Assassins in Sephania’s room,” Vallan mutters.
Lukain lets out an exasperated sound. He looks Vall up and down, noticing his limp and the arrows sticking from his shoulder and leg. “Looks like you took the brunt of it.”
“He took all of it,” I say. “If not for Vallan, I’d likely be dead. So I won’t hear any badmouthing—”
“I’m not going to badmouth your companions, little grimmer—”
“Mates.”
“—I just want to know how everyone got there faster than me.”
“Shadowwalking,” Garroway points out. “Same thing your mother could do after drinking Sephania’s Loreblood.
It’s a bloodline ability of Master Skar’s, awoken by Sephania, which we utilize to hop around.
You should have it as well, in fact . . .
” He trails off, and we peer at Lukain as Garro’s words ring heavily in the air.
Garroway is right. If Alacine Mortis could shadowwalk like her firstborn son Skartovius, then logic tells me her secondborn son should also gain the ability after drinking from me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a flushed tint to Lukain’s pale cheeks. He averts his gaze to a wall, clearing his throat. “I suppose not every hereditary ability passes down.”
Arching my eyebrows sadly, I gently take his hand in mind and give it a light squeeze. There’s no doubting the shame on his face, and it hurts to see. Why can’t Lukain shadowwalk like his mother and brother?
Garroway, who has no reservations about speaking his mind even if someone is ashamed and angry, lets out a hum. “Perhaps it’s because you’re a half-blood.”
Vallan, equally as unhelpful, says, “You’re a dhampir too, cub. And you have your beast-charming ability.”
Garroway nods, pouting. “True. I don’t know then.”
I shoulder him to get him to shut up. He furrows his brow at me. Lukain doesn’t answer, and a crashing sound up ahead makes us all shut up.
Down the hall, Skar’s foot is lifted in the air, having just finished kicking in the door of a room. The rest of us get to him and pile in behind him.
It’s a separate chamber from where I saw Tymon, Aelin, and Palacia having their exhibitionism, further across the castle from my room, yet they’re all in here.
The ornate room is clearly the master bedroom, and I wonder how Skartovius knew how to find it.
Demilord Tymon Aldion stands at the side of the bed, near the headboard. Behind him, moonlight washes into the room through a closed window, casting dancing shadows across the floor and walls.
Tymon has one hand on Palacia’s diminutive frame in front of him, gripping a bony shoulder tight. His other hand holds a dagger across Pala’s throat, instantly enraging me with the sight of it.
It’s strange, because Palacia doesn’t look worried in the least about the dagger across her thin neck.
If anything, her undead pallor makes her pretty face seem .
. . well, dead. Unbothered. She’s dressed now, adorned in a lacy gown similar to the nightgown I’m wearing.
She fills out the dress in ways much different than I do.
On the other side of the bed, Aelin stands, a hand on her bloated belly. Unlike Tymon and Palacia, she is naked, and I wonder if they were continuing their kinky shenanigans up here before Skar ruined it.
My eyes whisk across the tall woman’s enviable frame, though I notice none of my men offer her even the smallest glance. Everyone’s eyes are on Tymon and his hostage, my friend.
“Let Palacia go,” I command, pushing past my mates to stand alongside Skartovius.
They’re across the bedroom, fifteen feet away.
Tymon frowns at us. “Not unless my safety is guaranteed.”
“Why would your safety not be guaranteed, Demilord Aldion?” Garroway asks.
“Because you just kicked my damned door off its hinges, which leads me to believe something has . . . happened.”
“In your castle, under your watch,” Skartovius growls. His voice is clipped, raspy. His arms are folded, and I know it’s taking everything in him not to explode on his subordinate. “Don’t forget who you serve, Tymon.”
“You?” Tymon tilts his head slightly. He chuckles humorlessly. “You’ve just finished telling me you’re usurped. What good is a king without a castle, Skartovius? You’re nothing now.”
Vallan takes a heavy stomp beside me, and Aelin gasps at the arrows sticking out of him. His riddled body is a firsthand display of “something just happened,” and there’s no hiding it.
My gaze flips to the other side of the bed. To her credit, Aelin looks more afraid than Tymon or Palacia. Probably because she’s human, with human emotions. She recognizes the real danger she and her family are in, and I thank the True her children aren’t present for this.
“Did you know, Aelin?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Know what, sister?”
My jaws crack from grinding so hard. I decide to play along. “That there would be assassins in my room.”
Aelin’s eyes flash wide, which she quickly controls. Her gaze flickers over to Tymon, and I can tell by her initial reaction she was kept in the dark about this.
Also, I can tell who is at fault.
“What did you do, dear husband?” she asks Tymon with a flat voice.
The stout demilord flares his nostrils. His grip tightens on the dagger at Palacia’s throat. “Only what was asked of me, dear wife.”
I wonder if he recognizes that even tearing that blade through a jagged artery wouldn’t kill Palacia. She’s like him: a fullblood vampire. It would only injure her, and I’d rather not see that. She’s already had her throat slit once within the past few months.
“Who asked you to kill Sephania?” Skar demands.
“Not kill. Wound.”
“Those assassins didn’t come to wound. They came to murder,” Garro drawls. “Try again. Someone lied to you.”
Tymon’s face sinks. As if for the first time, he realizes the dire predicament he’s in.
“Tell us, unhand the interfolk, and we let you go,” Skar says. “You and your wretched family can leave here.”
“Leave here?” Tymon snarls. His belly rubs against Palacia’s side, pushing her as he trembles with rage. “Leave my home? You are a guest here, Skartovius Ashfen—not the other way around!”
“Your ownership of this castle has been vacated, demilord.”
“You don’t have the power to make that command, you arrogant fuck!”
I step in front of Skartovius, arms out so they won’t charge at each other. I don’t want more bloodshed, though I am wondering what the hell Skar is thinking by offering Tymon mercy. It’s not like Skar at all.
“Enough!” I yell. “You can keep your dreaded, wind-rotted castle, Demilord Aldion. Tell us who ordered the attack on me, for your own sake. Or if not for you, for Aelin and your children.”
He ponders that for a moment, frowning. Eyes narrow on me.
Then he sighs, slightly loosening his hold on the dagger at Pala’s throat.
“A guard in my retinue is a thrall to Aramastun Wyvox. He was given an order via their psychic bloodbond to prepare for your arrival, telling us you were a fugitive.” His eyes crinkle at Skar.
“I was hoping you would never arrive, old friend. Truly.”
“Yet you told us nothing of this subterfuge when we first arrived,” Skar points out. “Proving where your loyalties lie.”
Tymon scoffs. “Can you blame me, Skartovius? I am but a minor lord amid an army of judgemen and psychopaths ruled by the strongest bloodsucker in the land.” He pauses, his lip twitching.
“Have I not aided you well? Fought in battles alongside you? Prevailed in mishaps with you, such as Trithea Plaza, even when they’re doomed? ”
I recall him there, fighting alongside us against Alacine’s scouts and assassins, fleeing with us when Barnabac Craxon and his Red Spawn arrived.
I also recognize when a man is trying to buy himself time or clemency. The problem for Tymon? I know Skartovius has no empathy or sympathy in his bones. Not for someone who has betrayed him.