Chapter 11 #2
“And they do not recognize the lycan royal line?” Revelie asked before sipping her tea from a mug much too large for such a drink.
No Caersan-worthy tea sets could be found in all of the mountainside dhemon keep, and there had been something freeing about the lack of porcelain.
It had been weeks since Emillie had used such fine dishes, but she had worried for Revelie.
To her amusement, the Golden Rose-turned-seamstress found so few reminders of Valenul to be a relief.
“Not since the rebellion,” Luce confirmed, adjusting her seat on the bench so her leg rested flush against Emillie’s.
“My great-grandmother traded her life to protect the remaining lycans, including her daughter and heir. All titles were stripped, and we became second-class citizens without even a place amongst the politicians.”
Revelie cursed under her breath. “And here I thought the fae were well and beyond such barbarics.”
“No kingdom is free of its pitfalls, it seems,” Emillie said. She could feel Luce’s gaze resting on her, the mere presence a weight that had her breathing a little more shallow.
“Definitely not.” Luce turned back to Revelie. “So you were a Golden Rose and gave up all the prestige to slum it with the Rusans as a seamstress?”
The responding laugh turned heads. Revelie nodded.
“You could say that. As Ariadne could attest, the title of the Golden Rose is suffocating. After my father died and passed his estate on to my mother and me, we parted ways. She thrives in the Society. I put as much distance between it and myself as I could manage, using my inheritance as a means to launch my business.”
“I respect that.” Luce nodded. “You have experienced all Valenul has to offer, then.”
“I would not put it that way.” Revelie swirled her mug of tea absently. “Though I have made friends with Caersans and Rusans alike, my family name has done more for me than most would admit. I have never struggled as some vampires have under the thumb of the Council.”
Another nod of acceptance from the lycan. “It’s a strange juxtaposition to be in the middle, is it not?”
“Most certainly.”
Emillie opened her mouth to add her thoughts to the conversation, but a hush fell over the great hall. In unison, the three of them turned toward the source of the silence. Her heart skipped a beat.
Ehrun stood at the entrance to the hall, his massive form obscuring the dhemons lingering behind him—the dhemons assigned as his shadows to ensure no relapses. To ensure the ritual held firm and he remained connected to Keon.
At first, the imposing dhemon looked prepared to turn and make a swift exit.
His brows pinched, not with anger or hurt, but grim understanding.
He set his mouth into a thin line and cast his glowing red gaze to the floor in defeat.
Emillie had not seen him since their arrival at Auhla, and she suspected this was his first true venture through the keep.
“Ehrun!” A familiar voice rose above the low murmurs. The hall went still, then everyone turned to see who spoke, including Ehrun. The dhemon’s eyes widened as they landed on Madan, standing beside his partner. “Come. Sit.”
A collective exhale ran through the onlookers. Tension flexed through Ehrun’s features before he turned and did as he was bid, exposing the dhemon guards behind him.
The first Emillie had been introduced to at the camp on Lake Cypher.
Lhuka, she recalled, had been close to the dhemon who never made it back from Laeton, Gavrhil.
Since his close friend’s death, Margot Caldwell had informed her that he stepped down from his duties in running the keep to watch over their latest and most dangerous prisoner.
Behind them both, a smaller dhemon with sinister-looking knives, half an ear missing, and a permanent scowl followed.
Emillie overheard someone refer to him as Jakhov.
Of the two guards, he was the one she saw the most dhemons give the widest berth as they moved through the great hall, turning in their seats to face away or nod in reverence.
But it was Jakhov who slid his eyes across the new faces, calculating each non-dhemon he saw before landing on her.
His wicked red eyes sparkled with recognition for a brief moment, then flickered to Luce.
When his gaze landed on Revelie, however, his steps faltered.
The crimson glowed hungrily, and his lips parted a fraction as though the entire world had careened to a standstill.
“Who is that?” Luce demanded, her unseen hackles rising as she looked from the dhemon to the vampire across the table.
Revelie frowned as Jakhov found his footing again and hurried after Ehrun to sit at Madan’s table. “I have never seen him before.”
Emillie tilted her head. “I believe he is called Jakhov. I overheard Madan assigning him to Ehrun’s guard.”
“Why did he look at me like that?” Revelie glanced over her shoulder to where Jakhov turned in his seat, keeping them in his periphery.
Though Emillie shrugged, Luce’s cheeks flushed.
She glared at a spot in front of her before muttering something under her breath.
The lycan’s slide back into the distant reservation piqued Emillie’s interest. Whatever happened with Jakhov had Luce on edge…
and it had Emillie recalling all those moments when the lycan had looked at her with the same devouring gaze.
Madan’s lungs refused to expand as Ehrun settled onto the bench across from him.
Beside the great dhemon, Lhuka slid into place, his gaze distant despite the alertness to his figure.
After a few tense beats, Jakhov straddled the bench, his own shoulders bearing more strain than Madan could remember ever seeing from the dhemon.
Of them all, he’d always been the sharpest and most brutal.
It was why Madan placed him on guard duty.
The dhemon’s gaze, however, wandered back toward Emillie, Luce, and Revelie.
Odd.
“What are you doing?” Whelan’s voice cut through Madan’s thoughts as his mate latched onto the vinculums between them.
Chewing his tongue a moment, Madan studied Ehrun and responded silently, “An olive branch.”
“He killed Kall,” Whelan snapped out loud, not hiding the venom in his words.
Across the table, Ehrun winced and looked down at his hands without speaking. The quiet pain that rippled from him looked and felt so much like their deceased friend that, had Ehrun borne the same scars on his face, Madan might’ve been tricked into believing Kall sat there instead.
“Sabharni, alhija,” Madan said, laying a hand over Whelan’s and giving it a squeeze. His stomach churned as he felt that phantom pain from Kall’s death again. Bringing Whelan’s hand up to kiss his knuckles, Madan continued in the dhemon language, “He did. And he is now paying for his crimes.”
After a century and a half of Ehrun’s mania, Madan braced himself for a snide remark. Some quip to cut him down or for the dhemon to gain the upper hand in some way.
None came. Instead, Ehrun lifted his gaze to them and said in the dhemon tongue, “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Believe me,” Madan said, “if it were my choice, you’d be rotting on the mountainside.”
Confusion creased the space between Ehrun’s brows. “Azriel didn’t want me dead? I don’t believe that.”
Whelan’s lip curled in disgust. When he appeared to be at a loss for words, Madan pulled a plate from a small stack down the table and shoveled roasted vegetables onto it along with raw venison. He shoved it across the table at Ehrun, who stared at it in shock.
“I have done nothing but torment you all for decades,” Ehrun rumbled, his voice quiet as his chest heaved with shallow breaths. “He hates me.”
“We all hate you,” Whelan corrected, his hands curling into fists. “And if my Queen hadn’t given the order—”
Madan elbowed him, cutting his words short, but it was too late.
Ehrun’s eyes widened. “Ariadne?”
“Wash her name from your mouth,” Whelan snarled, half out of his seat. “You do not have the privilege of even acknowledging her existence.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Fuck you!” Whelan stood now, slamming his hands on the table and towering over them.
Rage and sorrow crashed through the connection between them, making Madan wince alongside Lhuka and Jakhov.
Only Ehrun, with his bondheart too far away, couldn’t feel the flood of emotions, but he could see them clearly enough to have the good sense to be concerned.
Heart hammering, Madan stood and grabbed Whelan’s arm. “Whelan, take a walk.”
“I won’t leave you alone with this monster.” Whelan’s sharp teeth gnashed together on the final word, never taking his eyes from Ehrun. “He destroys everything he touches, and I’ll never forgive him.”
“Whelan—”
“He’s right,” Ehrun cut in, dragging their attention back. “I remember all of it. I am a monster, and I don’t expect forgiveness. Why, though, did you invite me to sit here and make me a plate?”
Madan swallowed hard and gave Whelan another firm squeeze. He teased through the possible answers before finally looking Ehrun in the eyes and saying, “Because Kall would want us to.”
Beside him, Whelan seethed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.
“And,” Madan continued, “my own brother has been losing the battle against his bond. I like to think that I understand you a little better now, even if I’ll never experience it myself.”
A strange mixture of sorrow and confusion swept across Ehrun’s features. “But…she’s still alive, right?”
“No thanks to you,” Whelan muttered. “Fucking broke her arm.”
Another grimace from Ehrun, but Madan pressed on, “His bond is broken. He doesn’t know who he is half the time when she’s not around. I sympathize…and I need your help.”
Silence pressed in. Lhuka leaned back to look at Jakhov behind Ehrun’s back and whispered something to him before swinging back up and into place. Whatever was said, Madan didn’t care. Neither did Jakhov, judging by the way he didn’t respond and merely looked back at the trio of women behind him.
“You know just how much I forgot,” Ehrun said at last. “How can I help him?”
Madan shook his head. “But you never forgot Rhana, and somehow you never forgot Ariadne. How?”
Ehrun’s lips pressed together in contemplation. “Something told me they were connected somehow. I don’t know. It blamed her for Rhana.”
It…as though the bond were a separate entity from himself.
“That’s more of a lead than we’ve had,” Madan said, giving Whelan another warning look as his mate growled in frustration.
“What he really needs,” Ehrun said, “is for them both to complete the ritual. There will be no peace until then.”
And as much as Madan didn’t want to admit it, he knew Ehrun was right.