PROLOGUE
Gillian could feel the weight of her mistress’s stare and allowed her eyes to dart up to the woman on the throne. She had many titles, but Gillian knew her best as mother. At least, she had. Once.
There was nothing left of the mother Gillian had once known in the woman sitting above her. In truth, it felt like there was a chasm that separated the once kind, if only mildly affectionate woman who raised her from this aloof and cold-hearted queen. Now instead of mother, she was simply referred to as Mistress by Gillian and Rowena by those too stupid to know what was good for them. Or those that had a death wish.
As the last Damaskiri, she was both Helena’s predecessor and a woman believed dead by the people she once ruled. She was a Queen in hiding, biding her time until she could strike against her enemies and reclaim her rightful place amongst the Chosen.
Rowena leaned back slowly, her eyes never drifting from the red-haired girl kneeling before her. Sitting as she was, she was the personification of queenly grace, her posture perfect and unflinching. She was stunning in a cold and frightening way. Her face was currently schooled into an expressionless mask; her ice-blue gaze glacial as she stared. Her colorless blonde hair was pulled up into an elaborate mess of braids and surrounded by the glittering and twisting spikes of metal that comprised her crown. A fitted black satin dress encased her lithe body, the severity of its color only enhancing the luminosity of her skin. Rowena tilted her head to the side, the movement deliberate and calculating, a predator assessing its prey. The silence lengthened and became uncomfortable until Gillian finally shifted nervously, her skirts rustling as they moved against the ground.
There was a metallic tinkling as Rowena’s fingers tapped a steady beat on the dark arm of her throne. Gillian’s green eyes widened, noting the sharp-clawed tips of the rings which adorned each of the slender fingers on mother’s right hand. She forced herself to look away, shifting her focus back to the stone floor. After another long moment of strained silence, Gillian bowed her head lower, allowing a waterfall of copper curls to spill over her shoulder and obscure her face. The protection from Rowena’s scrutiny was welcomed, even if only imagined. That icy gaze missed nothing.
“The prisoner?” Rowena finally asked, her voice as expressionless as her face and as weighted as her stare.
Gillian felt her shoulders stiffen as she relayed the latest report, “Still under the effects of the Bella Morte, Mistress.”
“You were careless in your dosage.” It was both a statement and judgment, the words leaving absolutely no room for doubt; she would be punished for her transgression. Gillian swallowed thickly. Her mistress’s punishments were unfailingly harsh and varied. One thing Gillian had come to expect was that she would never see it coming.
“I do not believe he is lost to the dreaming, Mistress.” Gillian winced, hearing the quavering in her voice.
“You do not believe?” The question was a harsh crack. Gillian found herself grinding her teeth before she could respond.
“He is not showing any side effects besides the hallucinations,” she amended.
“Other than remaining in a drugged stupor since his arrival,” Rowena contradicted caustically.
“Yes, Mistress. It is as you say,” Gillian meekly agreed.
“You had better hope that he wakes, and soon. For your brother’s sake, if not your own. Micha’s remaining days on this earth are a direct result of your success…” She paused for one endless moment before adding contemptuously, “or your failure.” The words were savage but measured, the threat delivered as matter-of-factly as one might discuss the weather.
Fear scratched down her spine and Gillian could feel her body break into a sweat, despite the chill in the room. Before she could respond further she was dismissed, Rowena standing and exiting from one of the doors in the back of the cavernous room.
Gillian did not move immediately, not trusting her limbs to support her or that her mother would not be back. While she waited, she let her eyes bounce from the arched windows and soaring ceilings back to the throne of twisting metal sitting in the center of the dais. After it was clear Rowena would not be returning, Gillian stood and made her way to the door. Her legs trembled as she exited the room but she made it to the safety of the corridor before slumping against the stone wall. Her eyes fluttered closed as her heart raced and a thought tinged with desperation raced through her. One moment. I just need one moment. Gillian struggled to calm her heartbeat. Eventually, she peeled herself off of the wall and took a final, shuddering breath as she continued her journey to the prisoner.
He would wake; she would see to it. She would bring his mind back to his body even if it required her to take him to the brink of death to do so. There was no room for failure. Micha’s life depended on it. No matter how much she enjoyed her plaything, Micha’s life was worth infinitely more to her than stolen moments in a prison cell. One way or the other, it was time for Von to wake up.