Page 13 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
She grit her teeth. “Of course you do.”
His expression shifted, just slightly. It was wicked but laced with an elegance that made it hard to look away. “I don’t make the rules, Vampress.”
“I don’t believe that for a damn second,” she snapped, returning her hand to the sharp needle.
He tsked, enjoying her discomfort. “Remember, once I start, avoid lifting that finger until I am completely finished or the spell won’t work. And then, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do anything to save you from King Salen’s deadly wrath.”
“Wouldn’t that break our deal?”
“Is stripping me of my powers worth your life?” His gaze challenged hers.
She ran her free hand over her skirts, attempting to hide her surprise. Zarathos’s power came from never breaking a bargain. She had thought that if he ever did, it might kill him, but apparently, that wasn’t the case. According to him, it would only strip him of the ability to uphold the other deals he’d made.
Unless, of course, he was trying to trick her, as demons often did.
She raised her chin. “Maybe it is.”
“I don't enter into deals I will lose,” he said, knowingly. “Let’s find out if I’m right, shall we?”
Despite her threat, she saw to it that her blood ran down the length of the needle by the time he started. The wheel spun around and triumph flashed across Zarathos’s face as he muttered a spell under his breath, one hand guiding the straw through the feeder and the other summoning more to his side.
Crimson flowed from her, dripping off the needle’s base and gathering in the little wooden indentation beneath it. When enough gathered, it trickled down through the open hole and onto the straw twisting onto the spindle.
She watched in wonder as the straw did indeed change into gold as the spindle spun, curling around it in long, golden threads.
She’d never seen anything like it.
Aryana had always enjoyed the art of tapestry weaving. Her threads were typically dyed in a myriad of colors, each chosen with care. But spinning straw into gold? That was something entirely different. It wasn’t just about transforming color. Straw wasabundant, nearly limitless. To turn it into gold would mean an endless supply of precious thread for whoever could master such a feat.
“How…” Her words trailed off as a misty grayness obscured her view, her head spun and she felt lightheaded. Suddenly, the mist took over her entire vision, blocking out the room and the stinging pain in her finger as her reality clouded over, drawing up memories from her past.
Aryana danced around the sword that struck at her. Her opponent retreated, readjusting his saber, fixing his grip, his eyes constantly on her. She raised her awl pike, a short, square, rapier-like spear that ended in a deadly point. She couldn’t wound or inflict injury in the manner of a blade, but if she got close enough, she could impale her opponent on its end.
The stone floor muted the sound of their movements. Large braziers brightened the throne room, standing out against the burgundy curtains that were open to let in the moonlight, giving the entire hall a silvery-orange tint.
The male moved closer, a sneer on his lips, but she noted the sweat on his face, the light scent of desperation rising from him. He understood this wouldn’t end well for him. She remained focused as he came in at her again, and she parried his erratic and wild blows. She crossed him, taking advantage of his sloppiness. Moving in close, she stabbed her pike into his arm, drawing a cry. His grip loosened on his sword and she tore it from her opponent’s grasp while swiping her feet under his legs, laying him out on his back. She pushed the sharp point of her pike to his chest.
“No, please.”
She had him pinned. Her uncle watched from the side withhunger in his eyes. She knew what he wanted next. What he expected. Instead, she held him there, her weapon pressed against him.
Stake, pike, or sword through the heart of a vampire. It was all the same.
“Y-yield,” her defeated opponent said, fear flashing through his gaze.
“Do not stand down.” Uncle’s steel voice cut through her indecision, making her flinch with its sudden nearness. He was next to her, looming over them. “Finish him.”
Her sweaty hand tightened on the pike. “I don’t know what he is guilty of.”
“Have you not learned by now? They are all the same. Traitors, rebels. He sought to steal my portion of the scepter. Tried to assassinate me, your mother…”
The male under her weapon sucked in a shaky breath. “N-no. I did—”
“END HIM. If you love me, if you loved your father, you’d end him. Remember what your hesitation cost you before.”
Her hesitation. That night. That night she had cost her father his life. And now…
“Do you love me? Do you love this kingdom?” Her uncle’s voice ground through her thoughts, demanding, relentless, a jagged knife striking against the uncertainty stilling her movements.
