Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
4
Lucian
There she is—my Queen.
The sight of her curvy body, her shining eyes, the way she bites her lower lip when she’s nervous—it’s enough to make my fangs ache. I watch her in the obsidian surface as clearly as if I stood beside her. The Crimson Eye never fails me.
And then it happens—the vermin dares to touch her!
The human male she works with—Donald Pugh, I believe she calls him—passes behind her and uses his filthy fingers to pinch her lush behind. She jumps and cries out—but he just laughs at her—laughs at the careless way he violated her.
A sound rumbles low in my throat, primal and dangerous. The growl shakes the crystal chalice on my desk until wine slops over the rim. My guards shift uneasily outside the door, hearing the menace in my voice but not daring to enter.
How dare he?
How dare that bastard touch what is mine, and without even asking permission?
Fury surges in my veins, burning, clawing, demanding I rend flesh from bone, that I make him pay. Only the thin veil between our realms keeps me from storming across and ripping open his throat to drink him dry.
No matter. I will see him punished.
“Bartholomew!” I bark.
The door opens at once. My Underboss enters, tall and broad, his crimson-and-black coat cut sharp as any blade. He bows his head respectfully, eyes lowered.
“My Don.”
“Make arrangements,” I snarl, my fangs bared. “Contact the Ossuary Circle. I will have words with their leader. At once.”
Bartholomew inclines his head.
“As you command.”
He produces the device we use for such things—a shallow silver basin, etched with sigils of binding. Into it he pours black water, drawn from the Wells of Night. The liquid smokes as it hits the metal, shadows writhing like snakes.
I step forward, pressing my hand to the rim. Power surges through me, mingling with the magical tether that bridges the syndicates. The water ripples and darkens until a skull-faced visage rises to the surface.
It is the Head Necromancer— Don Malthus Veyl, Lord of the Ossuary Circle.
His mask is made from the bleached skull of some beast with antlers curving like claws. Shadows drip from his shoulders like oil, writhing around him. His voice, when it comes, is low and echoing—like earth falling into a grave.
“Lord of Blood,” he intones.
“Lord of Bones,” I acknowledge. My voice is iron, steady—though the sight of him chills me to the marrow. Of all the Syndicates, the Necromancers are the most dangerous—harder to read than the Fae, more merciless than the Demons, less predictable than the Dragons or the Shifters. And unlike others, they can reach across realms with ease.
“I require a service,” I say.
A pause, then he gives a dry chuckle.
“One of your rivals, I presume?”
“Not a rival. A pest. A human male who dared to lay hands on what is mine.” My jaw tightens as I remember what I just witnessed in the Crimson Eye. “I would see him visited. You understand me.”
The skull nods slowly.
“Flesh-and-blood creatures cross the veil with difficulty. But spirits? The hungry dead walk where they please. I can send them. They will whisper in his ear…claw at his soul…drain him drop by drop until he begs for release. Or if you wish, they can simply drag him down to the underworld where I will tend to him personally myself.”
Satisfaction coils in my gut. This is exactly what I want—exactly what Donald Pugh deserves.
“Good. That is acceptable—more than acceptable,” I acknowledge.
“Payment, then.” His long skeletal fingers emerge from the black water, palm up. “The Circle does not work for charity.”
I reach into my coat and draw out a leather pouch. The weight is familiar, comforting. I spill its contents onto his bony palm: heavy golden coins, each one stamped with the Crimson Chalice of my Syndicate on the face, but bearing the Magistrate’s sigil on the reverse—a sun eclipsed by a blood-red moon.
All Syndicates mint their own coins, but the Magistrate’s mark makes them equal in value, no matter which Court they come from. Same weight, same purity, always accepted between kingdoms.
The Necromancer inclines his skull-mask, shadows flickering around his antlers.
“The payment is acceptable. The visitation will occur.”
“But not yet,” I warn him. “Do not unleash your spirits until I command it. I would have my bride witness their justice. She must see she is protected—that none will ever touch her again without my consent.”
“As you wish.” The skull-face dips lower, the empty bones seeming to grin “They will be ready. The Hungry Ones are always eager.”
The image fades, the image rippling until only the black water remains. With the connection broken, it boils away, leaving nothing but the dry basin behind.
I stand there, chest heaving, fists clenched. The urge to cross realms and slaughter the human myself still burns. But this will be better. More instructive.
When Julia sees the fate of the one who dared to grope her, she will understand. She will know she is safe…claimed…protected.