Chapter Twenty-Seven
Once Valistair found the grimoires, he seemed to forget Penn’s existence. There were five in total, each a different size with varying colors of leather and signs of age. Valistair started with the newest looking book, flipping through the pages too rapidly to be reading them.
Penn eyed the book closest to him, a battered journal with curling brown pages and a dark stain across the cover. Since the mage wasn’t paying attention to him anyway, he pulled it closer to see what was inside.
A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist in a bruising grip.
“Just curious about what was so interesting,” Penn said, allowing his arm to go limp.
Valistair didn’t even glance up from the grimoire, though he did release Penn’s arm.
“Nothing you would understand.” He tilted his volume so Penn could see inside it.
Though the handwriting was legible, the words meant nothing to him.
Another language, a code, or some magic spell obscured the text within.
Will those protections be enough to keep Val’s secrets safe?
“Should I tell Niall you found something?” Penn asked, hoping to use the opportunity to investigate the small town.
He didn’t know how long Valerian had lived here, but it should have been long enough to make a few friends, or at least acquaintances.
People who knew him, who could potentially provide Penn with information that would help Val reassert himself.
“He’ll come along once he’s rested,” the mage replied, picking up the next book and flipping through it just as rapidly.
“It really wouldn’t be any trouble. The inn’s just down the road, and I’ve got this”—Penn hooked his thumb through the golden collar and lifted it to the light—“to guarantee I stay close to you.”
The mage didn’t even acknowledge his argument.
Penn heaved an exaggerated sigh and slumped against the counter, resting his head on his crossed arms. “A good dog owner exercises his puppy. A bored dog is more likely to misbehave.”
“Is that so?” Valistair asked, his lips twitching as he finally looked at Penn. The mage grabbed Penn’s chin, tilting it up and stroking his thumb over Penn’s lips. “You’ve been so eager for my attention today. Almost as if you’re trying to distract me.”
Penn’s lips quirked in a sultry smile. “Isn’t that what you want? My full, undivided attention and devotion?”
“Perhaps, but what I don’t want is a yapping dog.”
Penn tensed, waiting for ice to fill his mouth, for the mage to silence him the same way he’d silenced Niall. Instead, the mage leaned forward and pressed soft lips to Penn’s. A tongue peeked out for a brief taste before withdrawing again as he pulled away.
“Give me a few more minutes, then we’ll fetch Niall together and be on our way.”
“On our way?” Penn asked, trying to keep his voice casual. “Where to this time? Litus?”
Valistair ignored the question and returned to his research. After the promised few minutes, he closed the book and gathered all five volumes into his arms.
Penn thought of all the times he’d watched Alistair perform magic, how often he used his hands to direct the spells.
Were those necessary gestures, or a flourish for his own benefit?
Could a mage with his hands full still defend himself?
It would only take a few seconds to drop the books, but sometimes those seconds decided the victor.
If I knock him out, would Valerian be the one to wake up?
But if Penn failed, how would the mage retaliate? The image of Niall’s frozen mouth flashed through Penn’s mind. How much of him could the mage freeze before he died?
Penn had worked hard to keep his freedom, and he wasn’t ready to risk it yet. When he did attack the mage, it would only be once he had a solid plan to free Valerian.
Smiling cheerfully, Penn opened the door and gestured through it, “After you.”
Valistair arched a golden eyebrow but didn’t otherwise comment on the exaggerated gallantry as he led Penn down the street.
They found Niall stewing in the inn’s dining room. As soon as he spotted them, he jumped from his seat and exclaimed, “You found them!” He stared at the books in Valistair’s arms with a ravenous hunger, fingers twitching as if he wanted to snatch them up and devour them.
Valistair shifted the books away from his student’s grasping hands. “We’re done here. Pack up the room and prepare the carriage.”
Niall nodded eagerly and rushed to follow his master’s orders. Within the hour, Valistair, Penn, and the grimoires had been stuffed back into the carriage and they were off again.
As Penn watched the passing scenery through the carriage window, sticky dread clogged his veins. They were headed east, toward the mountains. Toward Arnsveld.
“Where are we going?” he asked again.
This time, the mage answered him. “Somewhere I’ve always wanted to see for myself.”
Before Valerian woke enough to register his surroundings, his blade was already buried in the belly of the man looming over him.
Slick blood dripped onto his hand and down his arm, staining the sleeves of his nightshirt.
He’d stopped sleeping naked the first time someone had tried to kill him in his sleep.
Unfortunately, that meant he would need to launder or replace the shirt, both expenses he preferred not to incur.
Please don’t be the landlord. He’d warned the man a hundred times not to disturb him unless the damn building was on fire.
Valerian peeled one heavy eyelid open and looked at the man’s unfamiliar face. He grasped the man’s shoulder and shoved him backward off the blade with a wet, squelchy release. The man collapsed dead at the foot of the bed, staining the sheets.
Normally, Valerian only killed criminals or other trained fighters.
People who could be stabbed in the stomach and keep going.
The fact that the man had simply collapsed and died rather than fought back implied he wasn’t a professional.
Dammit, did I kill some innocent drunkard fumbling around in the wrong bed?
Valerian shoved the still warm corpse onto the floor with a heavy thump. Hopefully that wouldn’t wake the downstairs neighbors. He crouched next to the corpse and searched through the pockets until he found an aged bounty notice, offering a nice reward for someone’s capture.
His own face stared back at him from the crumpled parchment, drawn in careful black ink. A few details were off—the shape of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks—giving the image a younger appearance. How many years had it been since he’d looked like that? However long he’d been running.
He looked older now, still half his real age, but the barkeepers no longer refused to serve him. Would that be enough to keep the bounty hunters from identifying him?
Would it be enough to fool the mercenaries he’d worked with over the years? Some of them were his friends, people who might hesitate to sell him out. But he’d been betrayed by friends before.
The payout at the bottom of the notice offered more than Valerian had ever made on a single job. He was almost tempted to turn himself in and tell Maksim to simply remove the amount from his debt. Valerian couldn’t expect anyone else to pass up that kind of money.
He had to leave before anyone connected the poster to him.
He gathered up all his belongings, shoving them into his satchel, never happier to have perfected the complicated expansion enchantment. It allowed him to quickly pack everything in the room except the furniture, which belonged to the landlord anyway.
Bag slipped over his shoulder, Valerian slunk down the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked. Sunrise was still a few hours away. No one would notice he’d left until morning. Once he found somewhere safe to hide, he could change his face, his name, everything about him.
Maksim had made a mistake. Valerian had spent the last ten years diligently paying off his debt.
He took measures to ensure Maksim couldn’t follow him—never used the same messenger service twice, never wore his real face or used his real name—but the son of a bitch couldn’t claim Valerian had welched on their bargain.
Now that he’d decided to hunt Valerian, to drag him back to Krasna Manor, Maksim wouldn’t see another gods damned coin.
Valerian slipped out the backdoor and inhaled the clean, crisp night air.
It was almost freeing, to be a wanted man.
He’d have to shed his former reputation, start from scratch, but he would work his way back up again.
And this time, he’d keep every coin for himself.
Save it for retirement. Maybe he’d open a shop somewhere.
While his eyes were locked on the starry horizon, picturing a brighter future than he’d ever imagined before, something smashed into the back of his head. The stars winked out and his bright future vanished.
Valerian didn’t remember waking up the second time.
One moment he’d been knocked out, the next he stared up at Maksim’s face.
There should have been events between—a struggle against his captors, the time it took to travel from Valerian’s small apartment to the massive estate—but when he tried to recall it, there was only darkness.
Like someone had ripped out the pages of a book.
“Welcome home, Valerian,” Maksim said. His clenched jaw and the fury burning in his eyes put too much heat into the warm words.
Every part of Valerian ached. His head from the blow that knocked him out.
His knees from kneeling on the hard ground.
His arms from the ropes wrapped around each wrist, binding them to two wooden posts, stretched to their limits.
His mouth from the cloth gag shoved into it, the tight fabric cutting into the corners of his lips.
He didn’t have the energy or the ability to tell Maksim exactly what he could do with his ‘welcome.’
“My father made a mistake sponsoring you,” Maksim said as he circled around Valerian.
He didn’t like having Maksim standing at his back, but he refused to show any concern by craning his neck or struggling against his bonds.