She would not have been sure if the echoes of her screams were in her mind or reality if it wasn’t for the raw anguish on Raiden’s face that told her that she had been screaming for Lucian again.
The contradiction of love and hate was set deep. She remembered the vampire whispering over and over to her in the grey room that she loved and adored him, and she knew that insidious whisper had become bound in the blood, entangled, and enmeshed within her and surfaced to torment her now. Love and hate, anguish, and shame, crying out for the source of her misery and tearing the heart out of the man she loved.
“I am sorry,” she told Raiden repetitively in the moments of lucidity between. “I am sorry,” in moments when the shame in her weakness undid her. “I am sorry,” in the moments after she had cried out the vampire’s name, pleading for him to come, for mercy. The look on Raiden’s face was simply unbearable.
She was bound to ring points on the wall to prevent her from clawing at herself and, to her great humiliation, seeking to escape the cell in order to find Lucian when the blood cravings were so unbearable that returning to him had seemed the better option than continuing to suffer them.
There were times when she was absolutely certain that she was back in the grey room and had hallucinated escaping with Elior. They had moved cells as she had set fire to the futon in a fugue in which Lucian had been upon her, and she shook now in the cold which she had caused by casting a spell for freezing, one that she vaguely remembered once trying to use against Lucian, as if in her delirium she was moving through her catalogue of spells in an effort to defeat a vampire who was not even present. And for whom she alternated between fighting off and be pleading for.
Raiden sat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, his head resting against the bricks, trying to sleep whilst she was peaceful.
“I am sorry,” she did not want to say it again, did not want to wake him to say it, but the guilt in the echoes clawed at her.
Raiden opened his eyes. “Lia,” he murmured and stood, clutching the blanket to him, his breath like steam in air chilled by her spell. He reached for the rope binding her to the ring points, giving the rope enough slack that he could draw her down with him, so that they could both sit, her on his lap, the blanket about them both. “You are so cold,” he murmured. He was gloriously warm.
“I am sorry, Raiden,” she whispered. “I am sorry for calling for him.”
“Lia, you are not calling for him,” he replied patiently resting his cheek against her head. “It is what he did to you causing you to call for him. As often as you call his name, you call mine, and you fight against him far more than you call for him. You are so strong, fighting so hard. I am…” he sighed heavily. “I am so proud of you.”
She pressed her face into his neck and wept silent tears, breathing in the scent of his skin and enjoying the heat of his skin. She curled on his lap, wrapped in the blanket and the man, trying to sleep but afraid to do so, her body and mind exhausted, and felt his body relax, his breathing ease, as he slipped into sleep.
“Raiden,” Ward spoke from the top of the stairs, and Raiden snorted awake, his eyes opening blearily. “Alatar is here,” Wade stepped aside to let the man down.
Lia gripped Raiden’s shoulders in sudden panic.
“It is alright,” Raiden stroked his hands up her back. “Alatar is a warlock, the one I was going to take you to see. He owns a magic shop, of all stupid things. Hey,” he greeted the man who approached the bars.
The man’s green eyes were striking against his pale skin and dark hair, and he wore a faded band t-shirt, jeans on a body slightly too lean, and scuffed biker-style boots that looked oversized on his thin legs.
“Raiden,” he replied looking around the two cages with wide eyes. “This is interesting, even for you. It smells like burnt hair down here and feels like the inside of a cool room. What happened? Got too cold and tried to light a fire using a mattress?”
“Opposite, pretty much. Lia, this is Alatar, Alatar, this is Cecilia, my mate,” Raiden yawned widely, lifting Lia as he stood and setting her to the floor before adjusting the length of the rope. “Alright?” He asked her.
She nodded, sagging against their restraint.
“This shouldn’t take long and then we will rest again,” he said, touching her cheek before turning to face the warlock. “What do you need to know, Alatar?”
“Your father has told me a bit about what is going on,” Alatar replied. “About the vampires, and why you are locked up. He told me about the warlocks that tried to kidnap you, Lia. That is just plain weird. But things are weirder than even that – I don’t know you, Lia, or of you, and that is unusual. The witch and warlock clans are close knit.”
“Does it matter that you don’t know her?” Raiden asked wearily moving to the bars that separated them. He did not touch the metal, which was cold enough to burn the skin. “I don’t think her heritage is up for debate,” he gestured to the room, the scorch marks, and ice that hung from the roof in heavy stalactites.
“No,” Alatar said, but his tone disputed it even as his eyes rose to the icicle pendulums. “But it doesn’t answer the question, Raiden. Why don’t I know her?”
“Someone’s indiscretion?” Raiden suggested.
“That is what I am thinking. It happens, though most keep an eye on the children of those indiscretions and pull them into the coven if they show any power – which most do, by puberty. Makes for some interesting dinner conversations, I image. Honey, thirteen years ago, I had a fling with my receptionist…
“Anyway, there is a test I can do which will let us know whose indiscretion,” he met Raiden’s eyes through the bars. “And that might answer why there’s been an attempt to abduct her. But I need your help, Raiden.”
“Alright,” Raiden agreed readily. “What do you need?”
“A few strands of her hair. A few drops of blood.”
Lia recoiled, the back of her head hitting the wall. “No.”
Raiden sucked in air through his nose and blew it out, his exhaustion visible in the shadows beneath his eyes and the pallor of his skin. “That is the only way?”
“Basically,” Alatar shrugged. “The quickest way, at least. Sorry, man.”
Raiden looked over his shoulder at Lia. “How do you need it?” He asked softly.
Alatar carefully threaded his hand between the bars, holding out a square of linen on which he held a thin bladed athame.
Raiden sighed and nodded, taking the athame carefully, keeping the cloth between his hand and the metal. He turned and approached Lia, holding her eyes.
“Lia,” he murmured.
Her head sagged forward onto his shoulder as he came up to her. He took her hand in his and nicked a fingertip, gathering a few drops of her blood onto the athame blade, before gently pulling a few strands of hair from the root, and placing both onto the cloth.
She lifted her face, and he brushed his lips over hers before returning to the bars.
Alatar accepted the cloth back onto his hand and withdrew.
Lia watched through heavy eyelids as he laid the cloth containing its blood-stained blade and strands of hair, and stood over it, muttering half heard incantations under his breath as he focused on the objects before him.
He brought the palms of his hands together, and she saw the snap of bright light, the match strike of power, but this time, it exploded into crackles of energy, like a lit strand of magnesium, and Alatar turned away shielding his face, his hand held out in a warding symbol, as the last flare burnt hotly.
For a moment he stood, breathing heavily and then he pushed his hair back with both hands leaving a smear of soot over his forehead and scowled at the scorched ground as if affronted by the mark.
“Not good,” Raiden murmured, watching the warlock’s face.
“I have to do that again,” Alatar decided. “It did not work for some reason. Not my spell casting, man,” he said defensively. “Maybe something contaminated the test.”
“Could it be because of the vampire blood she has consumed?” Raiden asked quietly.
“I… don’t think so. It shouldn’t. But I don’t know for sure, I have never seen a spell react that way before.” The warlock was shaken. He picked up the athame in the cloth and returned to the bars. “Sorry.”
Raiden turned and returned to Lia. “Sorry,” he murmured as she hissed under the bite of the blade. He kissed her cheek in apology before he selected a few strands of hair and returned them to Alatar.
Alatar took them back to the center of the open space and this time fished through his pockets, searching for something. “A moment,” he said to them and ran lightly up the stairs, the soles of his boots clopping on the treads.
They heard conversation above, and after a moment, Alatar ran down with Tara trailing behind. She stayed on the staircase, watching the warlock with interest as he used a saltshaker to form a ring about the cloth and athame.
“Just a bit of protection for me so I don’t end up a well-done warlock, I like my Alatar rare, as do my ladies,” the warlock explained with a lascivious wink at Tara. “Right, let’s give this another go,” he took up a pose like a fighter facing off in a boxing ring.
He droned the words so that they blended one into the other, and Lia could feel the power that he drew upon but was not familiar with his method.
The athame and cloth burst into flames, smoke rising in a mushrooming plume that formed into the silhouette of feathered wings, before crumbling into ash, with one final flash of power that rebounded against the salt barrier, blowing it’s edges out and making Alatar dance backwards.
“F-k,” the warlock said. “Shit.”
“Alatar?” Raiden’s voice was tense.
“Salt circle was a good idea. A very good idea. Imagine if that had not been contained!” The warlock exclaimed.
“What happened?” Raiden demanded.
“Well, it is just not possible,” Alatar was still staring at the salt circle. “That would mean… That is…”
“Alatar?” Raiden used the alpha command and the warlock’s head snapped up, his green eyes widening. “What does that mean?”
“Okay,” Alatar muttered to himself, looking at the salt circle and then back at Raiden. “Alright. So, werewolves and vampires create new bloodlines constantly, whenever they turn someone, but witches and warlocks don’t. It is not something we can pass on to someone, other than through having children. Our blood lines therefore can always be traced back to the original lines.”
“And your test told you what, exactly?”
“Well, that Cecelia doesn’t belong to any of the known witch or warlock blood lines, which shouldn’t be possible.”
“Obviously it is because Lia exists.”
“Where would a witch come from, if she wasn’t from one of the existing blood lines, I don’t know?” Alatar held his hands out, palm up. “But then we don’t know where the originals came from either. Some think the ability just developed when humans evolved, like a mutation, others think something from outer space changed us, others believe we originated from gods, angels and devils.”
“Angels and devils,” Raiden’s Other flared in his eyes. “”Lia has a grimoire…”
“Really? I inherited one too,” Alatar brightened. “It is not something many families have any more. They tended to get burnt along with the witches in the Middle Ages or burnt by witch families so they didn’t end up being burnt as witches. So, they are pretty rare. I would love to see yours.”
“She can’t take you to see it right now,” Raiden pointed out patiently.
“Oh, yeah,” Alatar tilted his head. “A bit tied up at the moment. So, what about the grimoire?”
Raiden looked over his shoulder at Lia. “There was a picture of a woman angel having her wings cut off by a man angel.”
“Evelyn,” Alatar said promptly.
“Evelyn?” Lia frowned trying to remember where she had heard that name.
“Evelyn,” Alatar prompted. “The story of when an angel fell in love with a human, which was a big no-no, but more so because she broke off a political marriage for her human lover, and in rage over her defiance and dishonour her father cut off her wings, which is supposedly a death sentence for angels.”
“The Wingless,” Lia murmured.
“Yes,” Alatar caught the word. “That is the story.”
“Pretend that we don’t know it,” Raiden told him.
Tara had taken a seat on the bottom step and Wade and Will were shadows in the doorway above her. Alatar glanced over his shoulder at them and pulled a face. He did not want to repeat the story. “Look, man,” he protested. “It is all a bit controversial, religious and all that. Werewolves have their own belief system. I am in your den. I don’t want to tread on toes or be sacrilegious or whatever.”
“It is just a story,” Tara said. “Chill, A.”
Alatar looked back at Raiden and Lia saw his eyes go to the locked gate, which seemed to give him some reassurance. “Fine. Some warlocks and witches believe that it all started off with two species – humans, and angels.
“The angels were superior in every way, and the humans were their slaves. But the angels wanted better slaves, stronger slaves, faster slaves, more loyal slaves. They used magic to create those slaves, and sometimes they succeeded, and sometimes they didn’t.
“The slaves they created are your wide range of weres, vampires, gargoyles, mermaids, minotaurs and so forth, right? I know,” he said hastily when Raiden sighed heavily. “It is not a popular concept, but you asked for it. So, witches and warlocks occurred when-”
“When angels and humans mated,” Lia had heard this before, from Cael. She frowned.
“Right.”
“Of course,” Raiden rolled his eyes. “Warlocks and witches would believe themselves to the be the children of a superior race.”
“Look man, not my story,” Alatar pointed out. “I am just the storyteller. So, according to this belief system, the angel’s got into a big fight as half decided that they didn’t want to keep slaves anymore, whilst the other half stood by their ancient ways of having slaves do all the work. That is where we get the division of angels and devils from, as opposing forces.
“No one won, they agreed to disagree, and they withdrew from our world, got bored, lost interest, whatever,” Alatar was warming up to the story and turned slightly to include the audience on the staircase. “They are gods, it is what they do, right? Lose interest.”
“Right,” Tara prompted encouragingly.
He flashed her an appreciative grin. “Thanks, T. So,” he turned back to Raiden. “Our world exists in a delicate balance. All the slaves are pretty much,” he held his hands out parallel making minute moves in the balance. “There is no real tipping point. No angels, no devils, so us slaves just sort of potter along.”
“Okay,” Raiden frowned. “I am pretty sure that we are crossing into blasphemy for most of the Others of this world, but whatever.”
“Yeah, not a popular theory with most Others,” Alatar grimaced and sat on the step next to Tara. “Amongst the angels, or devils, whatever you want to call them,” he nodded to Lia. “There is one punishment above all else…”
“Cutting off wings,” Raiden rolled his neck on his shoulders, trying to loosen tight muscles and regain some alertness. “Go on.”
“Right,” Alatar said. “So, this wing amputation is bad. Like, kill the angels or devils bad.
“The story of Evelyn is pretty much what I said before. She had a human lover and conceived a child. When her father found out, he was furious and cut off her wings. But, in the story, Evelyn survives and, what is more, she escapes… Hey, Raiden, I think we have lost Lia,” Alatar shot to his feet as Lia collapsed, sagging against her restraints.
Raiden caught her and released the rope that held her to the wall, sinking down to the ground and wrapping the blanket around them both as she began to shake.
“She is not doing well,” Alatar observed.
“No shit.”
“Blood withdrawals?”
“Yeah.” Raiden pressed his face into her hair. “Hold on Lia,” he murmured into her ear. “I have got you.”
“I might have a potion that could help,” Alatar turned and strode across the room, edging past Tara with a polite, excuse me, before pushing in between Will and Wade.
“What do you think Raiden?” Tara asked him.
“About angels and devils?” Raiden raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. I renovate buildings and paint cars for a living, Tara. That sort of stuff makes no sense to me. It is just as likely, I guess, as aliens from outer space or a moon goddess. But it doesn’t answer who tried to abduct Lia and that was what I wanted him to answer, so this whole conversation has been just a waste of time.”
“Maybe not, if his potion can help her,” Wade said from the top of the stairs.
“True,” Raiden sighed heavily.
“Take a break, Raiden,” Wade came down the stairs. “You are exhausted, and you can’t heal if you don’t rest.”
“I – ”
Wade’s phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “Sorry, Rai. It is your mother.” He put the phone to his ear. Diedre’s voice was urgent in tone. “Shit… No. That is… F-k. Alright… Okay. I love you.” He hung up. “We have to go.”
“What has happened?” Tara demanded, anxiously.
“Elior lost.”