Page 583 of Flirting with Darkness

Ghost noted the massive stone lions on either side of the fireplaces’ black stone mantle and hearth.

It might have been funny, all these lions, yet somehow, it was not.

They did suit him, as much as Ghost hated to admit it.

His father motioned with his fingers then, subtly, telling Ghost to approach.

He complied, again without thinking about it overly.

When he reached the circle of warmth around the fireplace, his father’s voice rose.

“Ah!” he said, his full mouth sliding into a warm smile. “Here he is now. I would like you to meet my son and direct heir, gentlemen… Lazarus Chronos Aslanov. He has been abroad these many years, studying. Or so they tell me.”

When Ghost met his father’s gaze, eyebrow quirked, a faint spark shone in those blue eyes. If Ghost didn’t know better, he might have thought it humor.

“He has now returned to me,” the old man added. “For which I am more than grateful. It has been far too long without him at my side.”

Heads and eyes turned in Ghost’s direction.

Ghost prided himself on keeping surprise from his face and manner, even under stressful situations, but he found himself taken aback at the intensity of their stares. The look he saw in those eyes was more than casual interest.

A kind of hunger lived there.

They looked at him with envy, awe, even a sort of reverence.

He did not find those looks flattering or remotely reassuring.

He found himself thinking these were a different caliber of guest compared to most of the others. They were closer to his father for whatever reason. They were perhaps even students, or acolytes of his father.

“You are correct,” the Count said, still watching him narrowly. “That is the most accurate. I require supporters for some of the work I do.”

Ghost knew without asking he meant magick.

“Yes,” his father affirmed.

Without looking away from Ghost’s face, he went on casually to the men standing with him, his tone friendly, conversational.

“He is extremely gifted in our arts, brothers. That is what you are feeling on him. It is power.” He paused deliberately. “…My power. But also his own. It is the power of our blood. The Aslanov lineage.”

Ghost felt a touch of anger reach him.

He remembered his mother.

He remembered her facility with the healing arts.

He remembered his grandmother, his aunts.

The fortune telling, the herbs, the ways they read the stars and cast charms and spells of learning and wisdom. A part of him wanted to throw that magick back at his father, remind him he may have gotten his gifts from somewhere different altogether.

Before he could decide whether that might be prudent, his father smiled.

Again, Ghost got the impression the old man somehow picked up on at least some portion of his thoughts. It reminded Ghost of what he’d felt in the carriage with his half-sister, Serafina. The whole family seemed to have some measure of these mystical gifts.

Ghost turned this over, still conscious of the acolytes’ eyes on him.

His father’s next words made him flinch.

“I mated with his mother, for her magic was strong, too.” Staring flatly at Ghost, he continued in the same, casual, lilting voice, speaking Russian. “Once I was certain I had impregnated her… once I was certain she would birth me a son… I threw her out.”

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