Page 25 of Enslaved

I cast him a short glance. “What about the food?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think that’ll be an issue.”

His tone doesn’t inspire confidence. Nevertheless, we follow the crimson-gowned woman and leave the chilly courtyard behind. Stepping through that door feels unsettlingly like slipping down a living throat. I could almost swear a blast of warm air like an exhale wafts through my cloak. But it’s probably just my imagination.

All is lit within by red torches. These don’t illuminate so much as emphasize the shadows surrounding us. It’s stiflingly hot, despite the lofty ceiling supported by tall, twisted pillars. Ahead of us, the lady in red moves with an uncanny, floating gait, her garments billowing gently behind her. Her back is very straight, her head high. Now and then, movement stirs in the darker corners, sudden, half-lunging shapes. To these she motions sharply with one hand, sending whatever they are cowering back. By the time the Prince and I draw near those same shadows are deceptively empty. I take care not to set foot within their reach, regardless.

We follow the woman all the way to the entrance of a grand hall. This is even loftier than the arched passage we just traversed with more of those twisted pillars supporting a ceiling so high it’s lost to view. What I can see are the four giant chandeliers which seem to be made entirely from skulls, both animal and . . .notanimal. I shudder and look away quickly. At the end of the hall, surrounded by brasiers of shimmering coals, stands a chair—not quite a throne, but enough to give the effect—covered in animal hides and antlers. The heads of the animals are still affixed to their pelts, eyes wide, mouths open, tongues lolling.

Upon this ghastly seat lounges Lord Vokarum himself.

I recognize him at once, even without the hideous hunting mask. The bones of his forehead bulge to support the weight of massive antlers, each point red and dripping with blood. Beneath this crown is a face as handsome as it is cruel, all hard lines and sharp angles. He wears nothing save a black cloth slung low from his hips and draped casually across his loins. His muscular legs spread wide, and his bare feet boast talons rather than toenails. His is a deadly form of a beauty, a beauty that will go for the throat without provocation.

The lady in red wafts between the braziers and drops into a deep crouch before her lord, bowing her head so that her white braids sweep the floor. “The Librarian of Vespre,” she says, once more ignoring the Prince’s presence entirely.

Vokarum doesn’t bother to acknowledge her. His gaze is fixed upon me. I’ve never felt more like a mouse daring to crawl under the cat’s nose. I would not be at all surprised if he suddenly sprang from his seat and lunged. Nevertheless, I proceed until I stand no more than five paces from his chair. Directly overhead, one of those hideous skull chandeliers creaks ominously on its chain. I fight the urge to curtsy—no, to throw myself on my face at the feet of this mighty lord. But no, the urge is brought on by the glamour emanating from the horned lord. I grit my teeth, resisting.

Vokarum leans forward, his magic intensifying. In response, I pull my satchel from under my cloak. It’s a simple gesture, but when I meet his gaze, the dark lord’s eyes glitter beneath that broad browbone. He settles back in his seat, and the glamour dissipates, leaving me a little dizzy but clear-headed. I let out a slow breath. It seems I’ve won our first little skirmish. But the battle isn’t over yet.

“Well, Librarian,” Vokarum says at last, drumming long claws on the severed head and pelt of a wild boar which makes up one arm of his hideous throne. “You have a lot ofdakathshowing your face here.”

I don’t need to know the word to hear the foulness in his tone. Any response I offer will sound defensive. So I hold my tongue.

Vokarum’s gaze flicks beyond my head for an instant before returning to me. “I see you’ve brought your pet princeling along. Did you think he would intimidate me?”

Behind me, the Prince snorts. “She doesn’t appear to need any help on that score.”

At this Vokarum rises from his seat, one hand gripping the hilt of a great, notched sword hung without a scabbard from his belt. “And what’s to stop me even now from setting my people on you? They’re eager for another hunt. This time, they’ll rip you limb from—”

He stops. For while the words tumbled furiously from his mouth, I opened my satchel, snatched out both book and quill, and flipped the cover open. Now I stand with quill poised above the page, staring up into his terrifying face. He remembers; I see it in his eye. He remembers all too well who was ripped limb-from-limb the last time we met. His teeth flash again in a hard grimace under the light of his gruesome chandeliers.

Then, with a sigh, he lets go of his weapon and settles heavily back into his chair. He assumes an easy air, resting on one elbow as he gestures with the opposite hand. “Tell me, Librarian, did my lady wife invite you to dine?”

His wife? If I remember the Prince’s story correctly, Vokarum took many women as his brides. Following each wedding night, he subsequently convinced them to kill themselves for love of him. From this dark sorcery, he created the bloodgem necklace which is even now my goal. I steal a glance at the woman in red. She has moved to stand silently in the shadow of Vokarum’s seat. Her eyes are downcast, her hands folded in her long sleeves. Somehow, she escaped the fate of the previous wives. Not a mercy, I’d wager.

Vokarum awaits my answer. I nod, once. Satisfied, he barks, “Wife!” and snaps his fingers. The woman in red steps forward, head still inclined. “Is the meal ready?”

“It is, my love,” she replies in a voice of stone.

“Excellent.” The horned lord rises and motions with one arm in a sweeping, magnanimous gesture. “Come! I bid you join me at my table. There we shall drink and feast and soon become fast friends. No more limb-ripping, agreed?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but strides across the hall to where a long table covered in a fine white cloth stands before a roaring firepit. I don’t like the look of it. I like it still less the nearer we draw. A stink of blood fills my nostrils. The meal, arrayed across many platters, looks to be made up entirely of great hunks of uncooked meat sitting in pools of blood.

Three tall men wait on the far side of the table, standing beside their chairs. The first one is handsome and golden and beautiful, the middle one broad and muscular and brutish. The third is ugly as sin, with ragged black hair, a sallow complexion, and a twisted face and body which he’s not bothered to disguise with glamours. All three of them fasten their eyes on me with predatory interest.

The woman in red steps to the head of the table, but Vokarum barks a harsh word at her. Immediately she steps aside, moving to a place lower down. Her husband pulls back the head chair and motions for me to take it. “Our honored guest,” he says through smiling, bloody teeth.

I stop in my tracks. Cold thrills in my veins. The Prince, however, steps in close behind me, bending his lips to my ear. “Don’t falter now, Darling. You’re doing well. If you keep on like this, we might even get out of here alive, which is more than can be said for most of Vokarum’s guests.”

I shudder. Then, still holding both book and quill where Vokarum can see them, I allow the horned lord to push in my seat for me. “These are my sons,” he says, indicating the three fae men. “Vaelza, Kosbar, and Golvuth.” Each man bows when his name is spoken, then takes a seat. The youngest and most beautiful sits just to my left and gives me an admiring once-over. His father reaches out and hits him up the back of his head. “None of that now, lad!” He growls and turns to me once more. “You met them last month, of course, but were not properly introduced. Their sister, Asresith, is no longer with us.” He inclines his head, his breath hot against my cheek. “She met her end during your last visit. We picked her up in pieces.”

These words are accompanied by a dark chuckle. Before I can decide whether he’s joking, Vokarum takes the seat at my right and proceeds to pour black liquid into the skull-shaped vessel before me. On second glance, I’m not certain if it is skull-shaped or truly a skull. My stomach knots.

The Prince, meanwhile, moves to stand behind the youngest son’s chair. He clears his throat, drawing the fae man’s gaze to him, then tilts his head and tips one eyebrow meaningfully. The fae begins to clench his fist then seems to think better of it. With one last glance at me, he rises and, without a word, moves down to the far end of the table near the woman in red. The Prince takes the empty seat, pours himself a skull-full of black liquid, and raises it to Vokarum. “To your health,” he says, and downs the drink in a single draught. I can almost hear the silent addition of:May it deteriorate rapidly.

Another growling chuckle in his throat, Vokarum addresses me once more. “Pray, Librarian, set aside your weapons while we break bread together.”

I hold tight to both book and quill, not at all inclined to slip them back into their satchel. Vokarum’s eyes flash; for a moment, I fear he will press the issue. Instead he reaches down the table and carves a great hunk of dripping red meat from the . . . I won’t call it aroast,for I’m not convinced that slab of carcass saw more than a flicker of flame before it was served onto that silver platter. Vokarum plunks a large serving onto a plate and sets it before me. “Help yourself,” he says, all hospitable grace and ease.

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