Page 26 of Enslaved

The Prince takes a loud sip from his skull cup, catching my eye over the brim. He needn’t worry; I wouldn’t dare touch a bite.

Vokarum serves up his own plate and begins eating with savage enthusiasm, tearing into the meat with his sharp teeth and spattering blood across the fine white cloth. I try not to speculate as to what that beast was before it found its way onto the horned lord’s table. Something—orsomeone—he and his sons hunted, no doubt. Just as they’d hunted me.

“So,” Vokarum says at last around a large mouthful, “you’ve come to claim your prize, have you? We expected you much sooner.”

“I was . . .” I stop and swallow several times, for my throat has gone dry. “I was much occupied the last month.” I flick a glance at the Prince. He leans back in his seat, swirling his drink idly. No help to be had from that quarter. I forge on, forcing myself to meet Vokarum’s hooded gaze. “But I am here now.”

“So I see.” Vokarum cracks a bone and chews it soundly, grinding it with his back teeth. “And what exactly do you expect as your reward, hmm?”

“What do you mean to offer?”

He narrows his eyes at me. Then, he waves a bloody hand to the far end of the table where his wife sits, carving neat little bites of her meal with a pair of delicate silver utensils. “You can have that throat-jewelry of hers. It’s an heirloom of her house, the Torc of Neremyn. Said to have been blessed by a demi-goddess. My wife claims it protects against dark magic or some such nonsense.”

The woman freezes, one bite of meat partway to her mouth. Then she goes on eating just as though she has not heard. “No,” I reply hastily, shocked at how casually the horned lord would give away his wife’s possessions. “It is a fine piece, I’m sure. But it’s not what I’m looking for.”

Vokarum grunts and leans back in his chair. He draws a hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his muscular calf and begins to pick his teeth. After a moment’s contemplation he casually points the blade at the beautiful young man seated at the far end of the table. “How about him? You can have him for a husband.”

The young man sits up straighter and tosses me a seductive smile. Was it me, or did the Prince just growl into his cup? “No,” I say at once. “That won’t do.”

“Him, then?” Vokarum points at his next son, the broad brutish one. He’s in the middle of tearing into a hunk of meat, but pauses, droplets of blood caught in his beard, to cast me a disinterested look, eyebrows raised. When I shake my head, Vokarum curses. “Fine then! You drive a hard bargain, Librarian, but have it your way. Take that one instead.” He points to his eldest, the ugly, twisted creature. “You won’t get a better offer. He’s not much to look at, I’ll grant you, but he stands to inherit all this should he ever manage to slay me.”

The eldest son turns a stare of such intense hatred my way, it freezes my blood. Red light flickers in the depths of his small, mad eyes. I have no trouble believing he’s made any number of attempts on his father’s life over the cycles. But he lifts his chin, curls his lip, and speaks in a low, insidious hiss, “If my beloved father so wishes it of me, I will take the Librarian to wife.”

I’ve scarcely opened my mouth to protest before the Prince leans forward and pounds a fist on the table, rattling cutlery. “Stop trying to bargain to your own advantage, Vokarum. She’s not going to take one of your gods-blighted sons, thus bringing all that mortal magic she possesses into the keeping of the Skullkreg family. She’s here to benefit from her win. So offer her something of value.”

“Fine,” Vokarum sighs. “I promised a shower of jewels, and that offer is still good. Name your preference. Emeralds? Rubies? Diamonds?”

A momentary flash of temptation passes through me. After all, while these jewels mean nothing to this powerful fae lord, they could buy a lot of comfort back in my own world. They’d set Oscar up for life.

I bite my lip. The truth is, Oscar doesn’t need jewels and wealth to throw away in pursuit of his addictions. He needs someone to care for him. To watch over him until I can return and take over the duty. I must not be swayed from my purpose. Besides, fae gems tend to lose their luster the moment they hit mortal air.

“I want no such cheap trinkets,” I declare in a bold voice. “I want a true trophy.”

Vokarum’s bony brow lowers.

“I beat your game,” I continue, choosing my words with care, “by summoning a Noswraith. It seems to me my prize must be worthy of a Noswraith. Do you have anything of that nature?”

The horned lord is silent. He rubs one long finger across his upper lip. “I do,” he says at last. “I do indeed possess such a trophy.” With that, he rises and steps to a tapestry hung across the nearest wall. It’s a magnificent thing, nearly ten feet square, and embroidered in terrible images of monsters and madness. A single sweep of his arm, and the whole thing comes rippling down, landing in a pool of fabric at his feet.

And there, set in an alcove in the wall—fixed in place by a metal spike, blinking as though startled from sleep—is the severed head of Idreloth.

Her skin is a ghastly shade of green, like a corpse long ago drained of life. But the eyes are alight with a yellow glow, full of malice in their depths. They flicker back and forth from behind the long sweep of her dark lashes. Her features are exquisite, or would be, were they not fixed in a terrible death leer. Her hair is long and matted with blood. More blood drips from the gory wound of her neck. Drips and drips, but never spills from the alcove, for she is more dream than reality.

She stares out at us, her gaze somewhat foggy at first. It sharpens, however, as it settles on Vokarum. Her sagging jaw twists into a smile. More blood, thick and black, oozes between her teeth and dribbles down her chin.

“Time to wake, my sweet,” Vokarum says, pinching the apparition’s cheek. “We have visitors.” She twists on her spike, her bloodstained teeth snapping at his fingers, but he’s much too fast for her. He turns to me, shaking his massive antlers sadly. “My plan should have worked, you know. I spent nearly a hundred turns of the cycle plotting, planning, and preparing. I sought out the greatest minds of Eledria, captured, tortured, and stole the secrets of any number of mortal mages. I even journeyed into the Desolation of Gorre, seeking aid for the spell I would conjure.” He turns a grim look upon his captive. “It should have worked save for one small error on my part.”

“Do tell,” the Prince says. He reclines easily in his chair, but I can’t help noticing the tension simmering from his core. The sight of that monstrosity—one ofhismonstrosities, taken from his own household against his will—must be galling him.

Vokarum heaves a great sigh. “I chose the wrong head.” He strokes Idreloth’s matted hair, runs a knuckle along the line of her cheek. “I didn’t think it would make a difference. But this pretty lady boasts eight heads. I should have made certain I slipped my bloodgem around the prime head, for that one controls all others unless I am much mistaken. Too late did I realize my error.”

He takes her chin between his fingers, digging his talons into her putrid flesh. Then, to my horror, he bends down and kisses her. Kisses her right on her bloody lips, a long, slow, lazy sort of kiss. Almost sensual. He does it so casually, one cannot help suspecting he’s done it many times before. When he withdraws, Idreloth flutters her eyelashes up at him. But there’s murder in her gaze.

My stomach turns over. I’m glad I’ve eaten and drunk nothing, otherwise I would vomit right there at the table. As it is, I can only stare in horror, wishing I could somehow unsee that dreadful sight. The Prince surreptitiously touches my hand. I start, turn to him. He holds my gaze, his expression unreadable. I feel as though he’s a lifeline, the only bit of sanity I can hold onto.

“Ah well,” Vokarum sighs at last. “What could have been, eh?” He returns to the table, leaving the tapestry on the floor and Idreloth’s head still in open view. He stabs a fresh cut of meat and takes a bite. “You’re not the first person to come around asking about my little beauty,” he says, speaking around his mouthful. “Your cousin”—with a nod to the Prince—“was here a moon or so back. She’d heard the story of how I won this prize off you and was eager for details.”

The Prince, who has maintained a mostly neutral expression all this time, smiles sourly and takes another sip from his skull. Is he surprised? Of course, it makes sense that Estrilde was here. She named the bloodgem as the price for Danny’s freedom. Obviously she wants to take it for her own. But why? Does the Prince know or suspect her motives?

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