Page 18 of Consort's Glory
The moment Theodoreclosed the door to her guest suite, Margot sprang into action.
She wasn’t the most gifted warder, and her concentration was torn to shreds, but there was no way she could sleep in a place not thoroughly warded against intruders — especially with Theodore Solbourne just down the hall. The Healing House came with generations of inlaid spellwork in its beams and insulation, each resident healer laying their own layer down, but like she explained to Theodore, none of it was for protection.
No, only her bedroom was impenetrable, and that was because Margot spent hours slaving over the spellwork to make it so.
There was no such protection on the small suite Theodore Solbourne provided her.
She could feel the hum of old elvish magic in the walls, but it wasn’t hers. It raised the hair on the back of her neck in the same way the sigils in the hall did. It was a deep, elemental sort of magic — something that wouldn’t necessarily respond to her in a moment of need.
Unbuttoning her coat, her chest heaving with harsh breaths, she moved toward the closed door on quick feet.
A small piece of white chalk from her pocket, something no self-respecting witch left the home without, and then a string of murmured words that were less language and more distilled intent compelled her hand to move on its own, scrawling sigils over the door in neat rows.
Her tutors once praised her for her perfect penmanship, even if her spellwork wasn’t always… conventional. It couldn’t be. Her magic just didn’t work with the normal methods. It didn’t want to conform to the hard lines and rigid structure of the spellwork taught to so many witches, their craft honed over centuries until it could be taught from a textbook.
For all that she was a nurturer by nature, hers was a wild sort of energy, implacable and aggressive. It was pure, elemental electricity that at once allowed her to communicate flawlessly with the cells of a body and yet could also be used to burn flesh to crisp. It struggled with the finer elements of warding and cursework. It was a raw power that could not be mistaken for anything other than the mark of a gloriana.
Blessed and cursed by the goddess Glory, Margot could heal the most complex wounds, understood the body on a level even the most experienced healers struggled to comprehend, and yet she could erect only the flimsiest of barriers between herself and the outside world. She could turn that howling energy inside of her into an electrical storm furious enough to wipe out a city, and yet that very same power was destroying her cell by cell.
But a flimsy barrier was better than nothing, and a howling storm at least took a bastard or two with her.
Margot was raised by a woman whose ruthlessness and paranoia were legendary. Sleeping in an unfamiliar environment without some barrier was incomprehensible. She had no desire to wake up with those silver claws on her throat, those black eyes reflecting the lights of the city from the shadows.
So why did the muscles of her abdomen clench when the image presented itself?
Because I’m dying,she thought, her bit of chalk making soft scratching sounds as she laid the final sigil down. My brain is collapsing. My neurons are frying. I wouldn’t think Theodore Solbourne was attractive otherwise.
Not that he wasn’t, of course, but under normal circumstances, Margot knew she would never, ever get close enough to him to have any sort of reaction, let alone the shocking curl of lust she felt in her belly when those terrifying fangs slid against her ear.
Yes, he was beautiful in the hard, primal way that so many elves were, but he also represented a lethal threat. That overruled even the most attractive body.
Not to mention the attitude.
Yes, the attitude. He hadn’t said anything unforgivable yet, sure, but something about his high-handedness, his intensity, made her skin itch. Sovereign or not, he filled up a room too much, she decided.
His voice was low and silky, carrying the unmistakable weight of command, and his scent clouded her senses until she couldn’t think or see or concentrate on anything but him. It was an unacceptable, dangerous reaction.
Stepping back from her work, Margot watched with a critical eye as the sigils flashed once, a vivid electric blue, before fading to a charred black.
The spell was not particularly sophisticated, but she had infused enough raw power into it that it would do the trick. A quick glamour and the sigils faded from sight entirely, leaving anyone who entered none the wiser.
Unless, of course, they were foolish enough to try and enter with malicious intent.
Stuffing the chalk back into her pocket, Margot paced away from the door to explore the rest of the suite. It contained a sitting area, a small, fully furnished kitchen, a gleaming bathroom with an overflowing basket of toiletries, and a single, decently sized bedroom with an empty walk-in closet. The colors of the walls and furniture were muted, ranging from cream to deep gray, and the design of the space was sophisticated but plain in the way that suggested it rarely, if ever, housed guests.
It made sense. Elves weren’t exactly the sociable sort — and even less inclined to let strangers into their homes.
After repeating her spellwork on the bedroom door for redundancy’s sake, Margot sank onto the edge of the sharply made bed. A fluffy robe lay waiting for her, a single lily and small, folded card resting beside it. Gritty chalk dust smeared the creamy cardstock as she flipped it open.
Welcome to Solbourne Tower, Healer Goode. I wish it were under happier circumstances. Myself and my staff are at your disposal, day and night. Please let me know if you need anything at all. Best wishes, Andy Yadav-Coran, Solbourne Houserunner.
A phone number and instructions on how to use the fancy intercom by the bed followed, each word written by a neat hand.
Margot’s hand dropped to her lap, deeply disconcerted.
Why all the courtesy?
She wasn’t a guest.She wasn’t staying in some fancy hotel. She was a witch in an elvish stronghold — a place her kind had only ever been welcome as breakfast, lunch, or dinner. At best, she was a now homeless low-level political prisoner.
