Page 72 of Hidden

“Out!” Farras ordered, pointing toward the door. “I need the room now.”

The servants immediately downed their tools and left, not even pausing to mop up the puddle of spilled wine. Farras pushed Lila forward until she bumped against the steel doors of the refrigerator, then finally let her go. She spun to face him, her hands on her hips.

The bright lights of the kitchen bleached all subtlety from the embroidered hues of his silk tunic, washing the cream color to a dirty white. It did nothing to soften his angry pallor.

“I know you tried to leave,” he said, taking in her ill-fitting clothes in one sneering glance. “I adjusted the perimeter wards on this property, but anyone who was paying attention felt them activate.”

“Why keep me here?” she demanded. “What good does that do?”

The intense smell of the hot wine made her eyes water. She wondered if it was possible to get drunk by inhalation.

“They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” His finely-carved features shifted back to his usual expression of mild amusement. “It’s a human saying, but true nonetheless. You have an agile mind—better than either of your parents’. I have no idea what information you’ve managed to piece together about my activities, but I’m disinclined to let you leave right now. Not until your loyalties are assured.”

She heard the threat but refused to show her mounting panic. “Ironic, since I can’t get anyone to tell me what’s going on.”

“What do you think is going on? And why are you so quick to make an ally of the wolf?” To her surprise, he seemed genuinely curious.

“The wolf—Rafe—came here on the trail of the Magician. He wasn’t the first. We found the graves of his pack members in the woods, and no one here knows a thing about how they died.” She flung the last words down as a challenge. “Does that mean anything to you?”

His eyes narrowed. “The Magician. I have heard something about him.”

“Who is he?” she demanded. “They say he’s a light fae.”

A brief silence followed. A clutch of partygoers passed outside the window, their raucous laughter bearing witness to the free-flowing drink. Lila wished herself out there with them. Farras cleared his throat, drawing her attention back into the room.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” Farras replied. “There are a great many theories, but little proof.”

That wasn’t the same as not knowing. “The shifters and the Undead have tried to stop him. Have the fae?”

He straightened, pacing the few strides to the cooktop and back again. The floor sounded sticky beneath his feet. “Not officially. There have been informal investigations. In most cases, those revealed who the Magician is not.”

“He’s killing people.”

Farras stood, hands on hips, mirroring her pose. “The dead are not fae and, therefore, not our affair.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He paused to push aside the empty wine bottles resting on the counter. “I am. Our concerns are greater. What the Magician has in his arsenal is access to a kind of power the fae have never considered before now. It is not widely known, but what he offers his victims is a drug popularly known as bacchante. It was named after the murderous fangirls of the Greek god Bacchus.”

Lila’s mouth drifted open. “A drug? We use occasional potions, yes, but what do fae—or any supernatural, for that matter—have to do with drugs? That’s a human vice.”

“This one is different from the others. As you’ve no doubt heard, fae power dims when we’re surrounded by concrete.”

“People say that, but I don’t believe it.”

Farras gave a slight shake of the head. “Believe it of those with less magic in their blood. They’re fading like cheap paint. The drug sharpens magical powers, brings back what’s been lost. Unfortunately, users develop a craving for the rush of magic, especially when they’ve feared it lost forever.”

“It makes them addicts,” Lila replied. “The cost doesn’t sound appealing.”

“Some users claim to see the angels,” Lord Farras said with a hint of laughter. “But who believes in such things?”

She shifted her weight to one hip. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He was instantly sober again. “The important facts are that the drug exists, the Magician sells it, and any who use it are quite prepared to dance to his tune. It gives him influence and the most democratic power of all—wealth.”

“And they pay him even if it might be fatal?”

“No one believes the worst will happen to them.” Farras shrugged. “The dead are not fae. Humans can’t tolerate bacchante at all, but other species experience a euphoric state once or twice before the drug drives them mad.”

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