Page 11 of Embers of Fate
I nod placation, fighting the urge to glare. Open defiance will only provoke his ire. He trapped me in this visit; now I am chained to his side. So much for my hopes of exploring the legendary gardens and galleries alone... But who knows, given the proper distraction, I may still find a way to escape.
My role this evening is clear—distant politeness masking utter obedience. The good Ursa sister. I will play my part flawlessly.
Inside, the manor looms quiet and cavernous, the household staff given the night off to celebrate with family, as is tradition on Samhain. Our footsteps echo across marble floors left dark and polished for the occasion, the spaces usually bustling with staff now eerily abandoned.
Gavriil and the Elite walk through the parlor’s double doors, but I lag behind, a moth drawn to the manor’s flickering lights. Let Gavriil deal with the necessary politics; I wish to wander a bit first and clear my head.
My heels sink into plush carpets lining the wide corridors, display cases, and gilt-framed paintings gleaming in the low light. This stately home oozes old wealth, every surface polished to a smug shine.
I stroll along the portrait gallery, scanning the painted faces of centuries of Deveraux witches. Stern, proud visages follow my passage, silently judging the Ursa intruder in their midst.
At the end hangs Cassandra, the current heiress, flanked by her ancestors. Cascading raven hair and pale, freckled skin—not the usual red hair look found along generations of Deveraux women.
But while the witches’ painted eyes gleam with cunning and drive, Cassandra’s stormy gray irises hold only sorrow and resignation. Her beauty is merely a shell masking the frail spirit within.
Powerful magic may course through her veins, but her mind remains shallow and malleable. Yet Gavriil intends to yoke our clan to her line through marriage. The thought curdles my stomach. She is no fit match for an Ursa King.
But next to Cassandra’s portrait hangs a legend—Juliette Deveraux, the first Grand Witch of her lineage. Her blazing mane of strawberry red hair cascades down her back, framing high cheekbones and piercing emerald eyes that exude shrewdness even in stillness.
Her rosebud lips hold the slightest curl at the corners, hinting at the silent malice she harbors towards any who dare to defy her. Even captured in motionless oil, her preternatural allure will radiate from the canvas.
“Formidable,” I murmur in admiration. What must it have been to wield such unfettered power in an age when women were so utterly dismissed? A true iconoclast.
“The likeness is remarkable indeed,” a male voice agrees behind me.
I whirl, my pulse rocketing. A man stands casually in the archway, keen hazel eyes glinting with unnatural light—a vampire.Every muscle in my body tenses. Unlike the Deveraux witches, we Ursa have never trusted blood drinkers. After all, it was a vicious blood demon who took my father’s life.
“You’re a vampire,” I state bluntly. My fingers itch to summon magic, but I restrain the urge. Still, if he meant harm, we are alone here. No one would hear my screams.
But he merely smiles and spreads his hands, adopting a non-threatening stance. “I am. But I assure you, I mean no ill will. Dristan Brek, at your service.” He sweeps into an elegant, courtly bow.
I weigh him with a measured look. “Samara Alexeeva,” I finally offer in return. The old families all know each other by reputation, if not personally.
“A pleasure making your acquaintance. Are you here for the...festivities?” His playful, friendly tone eases some of my wariness. Perhaps legends and old prejudices do not reveal the whole truth about vampires. I should judge him on his merits alone.
“The summoning, yes.” Curiosity loosens my tongue. “Tell me, is it true?” I search his face closely. “Has Juliette Deveraux herself returned from the grave?”
The story seems fantastical, but if anyone would know the truth, it would be a vampire allied with the Deverauxs.
Dristan nods, his smile turning wistful. “It is no lie. I have spoken with her personally. She is still adjusting to this century, but her legendary power remains steadfast.” He sounds impressed, even intimidated.
Hope blooms inside me at his words. “To speak with such a renowned witch would be a dream come true,” I admit fervently. Skepticism melts away, replaced by growing excitement.
Dristan’s smile broadens, eyes glinting with understanding. He proffers his arm. “Then come with me, mademoiselle. Let us make your dream a reality tonight.”
I accept his offer readily, caution burned away by my eagerness and fascination. For a chance to speak with the most influential witch of the age, I would trust even the devil himself. Dristan seems a gentleman by comparison—my brother would surely have a fit if he saw me now. Luckily, he’s nowhere in sight.
As he escorts me through shadowed halls, a tingle of anticipation runs down my spine. Tonight, anything seems possible under this venerable roof. I cling to Dristan’s arm tighter in my growing awe, grateful for his reassuring presence beside me.
Dristan guides me to a candlelit salon. Ensconced on an antique divan sits none other than the living legend herself.
I inhale swiftly, the air knocked from my lungs. Dristan’s tales did not exaggerate—Juliette’s magic presses down with almost suffocating intensity, a tangible force that leaves me lightheaded.
Her piercing emerald eyes sharpen on me, stripping away all pretenses and probing my innermost spirit. I fight the urge to sink to my knees under her overwhelming presence.
Never have I felt magic like hers—ancient as tributaries carved deep into the bedrock of the earth, yet as vital as lightning splitting the sky. How can her fragile body contain such fathomless power?
“Juliette, may I present Samara Alexeeva, your guest this evening,” Dristan announces.
