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“He’s taken her to the Castle of Wolves,” he replied. “Volkov, it is called.” Aldor waited for her to call him out, to drive a blade through his heart, to bury him in agony and pain. No such thing came.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes,” he replied, swallowing a lump of nerves. Volkov was an ancient faerie castle enchanted with spells to keep it hidden amongst the deep Austrian wilderness. It’d taken Aldor some time to uncover the identity of his enemy, but he’d done it. It gave him some pride knowing he’d killed the leader of the Clan of Wolves. The Hound of Hell himself.
He could feel her eyes on him. “Vampires rarely allow outsiders into their halls,” she pointed out. “The Wolves are known to have ancient magicks that shield their castle for that purpose.”
Aldor forced himself to breathe as he knelt before her. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, pulling the knife from his belt and holding it up to her. “I wasn’t able to bring you his heart.”
Nestra plucked the knife from his grasp. “He survived?” she snapped.
“Only long enough to flee,” he bit out. “I beg your forgiveness.”
The hem of her flowing, cream-colored dress shifted past his knees. “And you know for certain he took her to his castle?”
Aldor was shocked. He’d thought she would plunge the blade into him the moment he admitted his failure. Instead, she’d moved past it as if it were nothing. Xel’s words of warning screeched in his head. “Yes. I’m certain,” he assured her again. “Without question.”
His mistress was silent for several moments, lost in thought, he assumed. “This works in our favor,” she said at last. “If he died after bringing her to the Castle of Wolves, the servants or whoever remains would not be so quick to cast her out, which gives us time.”
Aldor made no mention that they’d escaped him weeks ago. He had to trust Xel’voth’s guidance that Gwendolyn Moore still remained at the vampire’s keep.
Nestra moved to the center of the room, dagger in hand. Her long blonde hair was woven up into the silver gem-encrusted diadem she wore. Her cream dress cascaded down her tall slender form, exposing her bare back.
Tendrils of her magick slipped away from him, and Aldor let out a breath of silent relief. It had worked. Xel’voth’s plan had actually worked.
“It is good you’ve returned,” she told Aldor as she placed the knife back into the box she’d first retrieved it from. “The king is plotting to remove me. We must act swiftly.”
His chest tightened at the news, a thrum of dread coursing through his blood. If Thurin was planning to remove Nestra as High Priestess, the delicate situation in Court had escalated quickly in the time he’d kept himself locked away.
“I will do whatever you require,” he offered.
“You will kill Marcus,” she told him. “Then I will take care of the king. When it is done, we will find the Star. Once we have the Star, the Court will fall in line, and the people will finally have their true queen.”
Nestra slid toward Aldor, and his eyes fell to the floor. She brushed his cheek with her palm. “Can you not feel how my powers have grown?” she asked him in that sweet voice of hers that made his skin shudder.
He could, and it frightened him. “Yes,” he breathed.
Aldor had noticed the paladins were more timid than usual. That none lingered in the halls as they usually would. Even her most devout followers seemed to cower under her growing power. Xel’voth may have been right in his guidance, but Aldor believed him wrong in underestimating his mistress. She was power. He felt it in his bones.
“Thurin is a fool, like his father,” she said, her voice growing dark but staying sweet. “The Light chose me. It is only by my grace that his tainted line has held the throne this long, but they will soon see. With the Star, no one will ever question me again. No one will question Strye or the Temple again. All who dare to will wither under what I am to become.”
She brushed his cheek with her fingers. “Only the most loyal will be allowed by my side.” Aldor swallowed, his eyes still locked on the marble floor. He was too afraid to look into her face. “Are you my most loyal servant, Aldor?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he stammered.
He heard her take in a breath and let it out. “We shall see,” she replied coldly.
The shift was sudden. Aldor knew he was as good as dead the moment it happened. He fell to his hands and knees, blinded by the pain. As if claws had buried themselves into his mind. He struggled to breathe.
“You’re strong, Aldor. Stronger than most. It’s why I chose you over one of my own paladins, but I fear you forget your place.”
The black grip dug deeper into his skull. He slumped to the ground, his face mere inches from the cold floor. “Please.” He pleaded for her mercy through the pain. “I am?—”
“Yes,” she agreed. “You are mine.”
Aldor dragged himself closer until his fingers touched the edge of her skirts. “I am yours,” he repeated.
The bitter truth was that until he could win back his soul, Aldor would fear death above all things. That fear was his true mistress. At that moment, he would’ve said or done anything not to die.
