with sorcerers, one could never tell.
She had heard that vampires could not enter where they were not invited. That didn’t seem to apply within the Castle. Atreus’s magic was another matter. It might do more than stop her. It might destroy her.
Her scalp prickling with nerves, she cautiously waved a hand in the archway of the chamber door, half expecting it to be blown off in a whoosh of flame.
Nothing.
She slid one foot inside the room like a swimmer testing the temperature of a pond.
Nothing.
With her heart in her mouth, she drifted inside Atreus’s rooms like a guilty ghost, tiptoeing across the flagstones, every sense on the highest alert. What she wanted was in the trunk. At least, she was fairly sure it was. She might never have set foot inside this room, but that did not mean she had never spied on her master from time to time.
Constance nervously watched the table where Atreus did his magic. While the Castle interfered with so many supernatural energies, it had never stopped him from weaving spells. She had no idea what wild spirits lingered among his books and wands, ready to jump out at the unwary.
The guilty. Justified or not, what she was doing was wrong. She didn’t like herself at all, but that didn’t slow her down one bit. Sylvius needed her.
She knelt beside the trunk. At the height of Atreus’s power, they had lived in splendor. Now all that wealth was gone, the remains of his kingdom whittled down to just the contents of the trunk. It was old and strapped in greening brass, the lid heavy as a coffin’s. There was a padlock, but it was ancient. Constance broke it in seconds. The lid rose with a crackle of old leather hinges, releasing the scent of aromatic woods. Clothes, books, and a bundle of scrolls lay neatly piled inside—but she was looking for something else.
The jewel chest sat in one corner. She lifted it out and set it on the cold, gray stone of the floor. The chest was a cube of tooled leather the shade of old, dried blood. The handles on either side were ornate silver gone black with age, but there was no lock. No hasps. No hinges.
She turned the cube over and over, but couldn’t figure out where the lid was fastened. Only the handles gave a clue as to which side of the cube was the top.
It was sealed by a spell. Damnation .
Frustrated, she ran her fingers over the surface of the box, seeking any means of prying it open by sheer force. Her long nails found the crease where the lid closed and dug in, grabbing the silver handle with her other hand. She pulled, gritting her teeth and giving every ounce of anger to the task. Her fingers began to ache, the nails bending away from her flesh.
The only thing that gave was her grip on the handle. She slipped, cutting herself on the tarnished metal.
“Bollocks!”
Blood welled from her finger and dripped onto the tooled leather surface of the box. Constance hastily swiped it away, but left a dark smudge across the lid. As if I needed to leave more evidence of my crime!
The box made a noise like the pop of a latch. Startled, she pulled her hands away and it slithered from her lap to the floor, landing with a bump. Grabbing it again, she barely stopped it from tumbling over.
The top of the box sprang open in a corona of light. The only thing missing was a fanfare of trumpets.
Bloody hell!
Literally. The sacrifice of blood had opened it. What’s the point of that?
Then she was distracted.
Rubies glinted in bracelets of beaten gold. Pearls snaked in endless ropes, winding in and around a glittering confusion of brooches, rings, and the crowns of long-forgotten kings. After years of the gray, drab monotony of the Castle, the glitter of light and color nearly burned her eyes.
She picked at the top of the pile, rattling the riches with impatient fingertips. And then she found it. There. That’s what she was after: a circle of patterned gold no bigger than a cherry. She might have mistaken it for a coin. It was worth more than
She had heard that vampires could not enter where they were not invited. That didn’t seem to apply within the Castle. Atreus’s magic was another matter. It might do more than stop her. It might destroy her.
Her scalp prickling with nerves, she cautiously waved a hand in the archway of the chamber door, half expecting it to be blown off in a whoosh of flame.
Nothing.
She slid one foot inside the room like a swimmer testing the temperature of a pond.
Nothing.
With her heart in her mouth, she drifted inside Atreus’s rooms like a guilty ghost, tiptoeing across the flagstones, every sense on the highest alert. What she wanted was in the trunk. At least, she was fairly sure it was. She might never have set foot inside this room, but that did not mean she had never spied on her master from time to time.
Constance nervously watched the table where Atreus did his magic. While the Castle interfered with so many supernatural energies, it had never stopped him from weaving spells. She had no idea what wild spirits lingered among his books and wands, ready to jump out at the unwary.
The guilty. Justified or not, what she was doing was wrong. She didn’t like herself at all, but that didn’t slow her down one bit. Sylvius needed her.
She knelt beside the trunk. At the height of Atreus’s power, they had lived in splendor. Now all that wealth was gone, the remains of his kingdom whittled down to just the contents of the trunk. It was old and strapped in greening brass, the lid heavy as a coffin’s. There was a padlock, but it was ancient. Constance broke it in seconds. The lid rose with a crackle of old leather hinges, releasing the scent of aromatic woods. Clothes, books, and a bundle of scrolls lay neatly piled inside—but she was looking for something else.
The jewel chest sat in one corner. She lifted it out and set it on the cold, gray stone of the floor. The chest was a cube of tooled leather the shade of old, dried blood. The handles on either side were ornate silver gone black with age, but there was no lock. No hasps. No hinges.
She turned the cube over and over, but couldn’t figure out where the lid was fastened. Only the handles gave a clue as to which side of the cube was the top.
It was sealed by a spell. Damnation .
Frustrated, she ran her fingers over the surface of the box, seeking any means of prying it open by sheer force. Her long nails found the crease where the lid closed and dug in, grabbing the silver handle with her other hand. She pulled, gritting her teeth and giving every ounce of anger to the task. Her fingers began to ache, the nails bending away from her flesh.
The only thing that gave was her grip on the handle. She slipped, cutting herself on the tarnished metal.
“Bollocks!”
Blood welled from her finger and dripped onto the tooled leather surface of the box. Constance hastily swiped it away, but left a dark smudge across the lid. As if I needed to leave more evidence of my crime!
The box made a noise like the pop of a latch. Startled, she pulled her hands away and it slithered from her lap to the floor, landing with a bump. Grabbing it again, she barely stopped it from tumbling over.
The top of the box sprang open in a corona of light. The only thing missing was a fanfare of trumpets.
Bloody hell!
Literally. The sacrifice of blood had opened it. What’s the point of that?
Then she was distracted.
Rubies glinted in bracelets of beaten gold. Pearls snaked in endless ropes, winding in and around a glittering confusion of brooches, rings, and the crowns of long-forgotten kings. After years of the gray, drab monotony of the Castle, the glitter of light and color nearly burned her eyes.
She picked at the top of the pile, rattling the riches with impatient fingertips. And then she found it. There. That’s what she was after: a circle of patterned gold no bigger than a cherry. She might have mistaken it for a coin. It was worth more than
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