Page 74 of Enslaved

Dropping my eyes, I offer a demure curtsy. “My lord, I am eager to be of service. Name the task you would give me, and—”

His fist smashes into the vanity mirror, shattering the glass. Then he rounds on me, his hand bleeding. Glamour swirls around it, disappearing the cuts, but the wound is still there. I can smell the blood. I stare up at him, no longer able to disguise my terror.

“Love me,” he says. His words contain the full force of command. But it’s a command from which the law itself protects me. I clench my teeth. “Love me,” he urges, stepping closer. I press back into the door, trembling in every limb. He curses viciously and pounds his wounded fist against the door, just beside my head. I choke back a scream and turn away. “Love me, gods damn you,” he growls. “I need you to love me. It’s all I’ve ever needed from you.”

I don’t weep. I don’t beg. I don’t apologize. I scarcely breathe.

Finally, just when I’m certain I cannot bear a moment more, he snarls, “Move.”

Hastily, I sidle away, making room for him to pass. He opens the door, steps out into the passage, and slams it shut behind him. It rattles in the frame, echoes inside my head, throbbing in time with the pulse of my heart.

All of Aurelis now seems more dangerous than Vespre ever did. If I could, I would stay hidden in my room for . . . well, forever, honestly. Hidden and cursing myself for my stupidity.

Gods, above! It’s not as though I didn’t know what Ivor wanted. Though I’ve tried to deny it, he’s been persistent in his attentions. Somehow, I’d never truly believed it would go this far. Particularly not in the midst of his own betrothal celebration! Granted, he and Estrilde are not Fatebound; they can and likely will do as they please, keeping lovers on the side once the initial passion of their union fades.

Estrilde would never stand for Ivor taking a human lover, however. Particularly not me.

I shudder, collapsed in a heap on the floor, arms wrapped around my abdomen. My only real hope now is that Ivor will simply lose interest. He is fae, after all. An ancient being with many lifetimes’ worth of experiences. He’ll forget about me soon enough. The Lords and Ladies’ passions burn hot and flare out quickly. I just need to keep my head down and stay out of sight in the meanwhile. Which, granted, will be difficult now that I’m serving in his household.

My stomach lets out a cavernous growl. I press my hand against it. How long has it been since last I ate? A fleeting memory of enchanted, crusty bread flickers in my mind. It feels so very long ago.

Well, I can’t stay here. I’m starving. And I can’t think straight on an empty stomach. I used to have friends among the Obligates working in the palace kitchens. They’ll be busy keeping up with the demands of the betrothal feast, but surely someone can be convinced to find me something safe to eat among all the dangerous fae fare.

I rise, wipe my eyes. Adjust the sleeves of my gown and straighten my hair. My hand trembles when I reach for the doorknob, but I grip it firmly, pull the door open, and step out into the passage. For a moment, I stand still, shivering. Listening. Tense. But this is foolish—it’s not as though Ivor is going to jump from one of these rooms shouting,“Boo!”

Gripping my skirts with both hands, I creep down the servants’ passage to the door at the far end. There I pause again, draw a long breath. Then open it, step out into the next room . . .

And find myself staring straight into Danny’s battered, bloodied face.

I step to the lip of a deep trench filled to the brim with blood. Darkness surrounds me, churning and alive. Sometimes faces appear—images of ecstasy melting into horror before vanishing. All around me, just on the edge of my awareness, the atmosphere is full of screams.

“Idreloth,” I call, my voice loud and firm, echoing through the Nightmare Realm. “I have come to bargain.”

On the far side of the trench, mist parts. Now at last I behold the Eight-Crowned Queen in all her glory. She is beautiful. Terrible and beautiful as only a nightmare may be. Her prime head is visible, a glorious image of savagery, with bloodstained teeth that would tear flesh from bone with ease. She sits upon a massive throne, some twenty feet high, made up from the naked bodies of men and women contorted into unnatural positions, clinging to one another. Upon this gruesome seat she lounges, one hand draped across her bare hip, the other resting under her chin.

“Welcome, my sweet, my love,”she purrs in a voice of pure poison.“It is not often that my dear ones come to me of their own accord.”The contorted bodies beneath her squirm and whimper only to be silenced by a soft hiss between her teeth. Then Idreloth stands, displaying her naked flesh, and tips her head to one side so that cascades of dark hair fall across her soft, round shoulders and ample bosom. She runs a hand down her torso, her throat vibrating with a soft moan.“Tell me, have you come to taste of the pleasures I offer?”

I stand like stone, unmoved by her display. Instead my gaze fixes on the glinting black jewel resting between her breasts. A powerful aura of dark magic pulses around it. The bloodgem. At last.

I hold out a box of carved ivory, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. “I have your head, Idreloth. Here you may see the proof.” With that, I hand the box over to the lowest body of the living throne. The pale, twisted creature passes it on to the next and the next, until finally it reaches the Noswraith herself. She narrows her red eyes but accepts the box and lifts the lid. Another hiss escapes through her clenched teeth. She turns the box around, revealing the two eyeballs resting inside on a bed of silk.

“Where is the rest?”she snarls and takes a step down, her foot planted on the back of a supplicant.“Tell me!”

“Safe in my keeping,” I reply. “You will have it in exchange for that necklace you wear and for my own safe passage out of your realm.”

Her eyes flash. Her teeth bare. But she peers into the box again, and an expression of exquisite longing contorts her features, somehow rendering her simultaneously more terrible and more beautiful.“I must have my head,”she murmurs, as though to convince herself. Then addressing me once more:“And is this trinket all you would have, my dear? Is there not something more you would ask of me?”Again, she runs a hand down her body, trailing between her breasts, down her hips, between her thighs.“I smell the longing in you—the heart given but not accepted. The pain, the need. I can give you ease, sweet one. I can give you relief and release.”She smiles sweetly.“I’m sure I can find a face more to your liking.”

With those words, her head rolls back grotesquely as though her neck has suddenly broken. When it straightens again, her features have changed—large, doe-brown eyes, a soft, full mouth, delicate cheekbones, and that determined jaw. All framed in a bounty of wavy, nut-brown hair.

My lip curls. “No fantasy you offer could hope to match the dream I cherish, however forlorn it may be. I want nothing from you save that necklace you wear.” I hold out a hand. “Give it over, and I shall have my man write your head back into this spell where it belongs.”

The Eight-Crowned Queen snarls. The image of that gentle face vanishes, replaced with a vicious visage. Enormous teeth bulge from her mouth, black and sharp as blades. Then, with a sigh, she yanks the necklace from her neck and tosses it in a flying arc. I catch it, clench my fist around it, and immediately turn to go.

“We’ll meet again, my love!”Idreloth calls after me.“You and I are not yet finished. Your city, your world will yet taste my delights and curse you for keeping me imprisoned so long.”

I make no response but hasten back through the churning darkness. My pace is swift but not swift enough to imply flight. I know too well how easily provoked a Noswraith may be at the prospect of fleeing prey. So I part the mist with one hand, refusing to look over my shoulder, no matter how the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle or the flesh crawls up and down my spine.

At last I spy the open doorway through which a bookshelf-lined chamber, a pedestal, and a great grimoire are visible, along with my own physical body, bowed over the pages of that spell. Mixael Silveri and Andreas Cornil, my last two surviving librarians, stand close by. Their eyes are fixed on me, their brows tense and worried. I hasten on, step through the door . . .

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