When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 227

“It has recently come to my attention,” Azrael spits across the table, his fingers clacking against the wood in a rhythmic, insistent hum that continues to drone around the room like the hum of a hive.

It is clear from the way the conscious faery at the end of the table glances around to his tranced associates that Azrael’s actions are rendering him entirely uncomfortable- for he has barely even touched the food on his plate. The only thing he has managed to tolerate is the wine, evidence of its blood red hue staining his lips. I suppose it takes a certain lack of soberness to address the Prince of vampires when your life is very much on the line, and the fate of your kingdom, too.

“…that recently you housed a young girl for about five years with a particular set of… powers that I am looking for. I mean her no harm, you see. I only wish to speak to her.”

Lies, I think to myself. Every single one of them. In fact, I don’t think there has been a time in the whole of me knowing Azrael where he could ever once be credited for leaving his victims unharmed. Every single one of them have been inflicted with some sort of wound or mark, or the slit of claws across their throat when Azrael’s use for their particular skill set has come to its demise.

If Azrael gets her hands on ‘her’- whoever she is, I can guarantee she will not be left unscathed.

A little sensation runs inside my head as Azrael’s voice makes itself apparent inside my mind.

‘Help me convince them,’  he pleas roughly. ‘Ensure they are willing to lend us their aid.’

As Azrael says this in the depths of my mind, he splays his hands across the table, another coming to settle by my side.

“The girl we are searching for is very important to me and my companion here, we have been looking for her for a very long time.”

To this I nod over mouthfuls of food, swallowing down another bite of bread as I plea:

“Please good faeries, we really need your help. She is vitally important to us, and we do not want to see her harmed.”

To this Azrael looks remarkably pleased, as though surprised to see things working so efficiently. But inside, my heart pangs with dreadful guilt and gnawing worry: guilt for this girl who he intends to find. Worry: that the voice who keeps speaking to me might be leading me to her when in reality, that is the last thing I want to do. They had told me to find a girl, a girl who I have no knowledge or description of, save for the fact- given the circumstances, she is likely a faery, or a soul, or both. My leads are loose, and my chances to find her are slim. My only hope now is to perhaps pay attention in this meeting and glean whatever information I can from the faeries that sit blindly pouring wine at the table.

I need to stay one step ahead of Azrael one way or another.

Swirling his own glass of wine in the throne like chair next to me, Azrael chews over mouthfuls of barely cooked meats, droplets of blood glistening on his lips like the fall of fresh dew upon a leaf. It is clear he is enjoying this position of power, the one he always yearned for in his countless years in the palace of Sezeria. To be able to test and toy with his people is something Azrael has always delighted to indulge himself in, and so I can only imagine that he is having a rather plentiful time manipulating the minds of everyone at this dinner table into a watery submission of mush.

Everyone, that is, except me and the ancient faery from across the room.

When Azrael speaks next, it is in the language of the Fei:

“You don’t happen to have any news of this faery, do you, Asocrates?” Azrael says with a mild yet bemused expression playing on his lips as he once again takes another long, draining sip from his cup, eyes flickering shut as a flush of colours runs through his cheeks- blood.

A sick feeling rises in my gut as my mind begins to plague with questions over where exactly this blood came from in the first place.

From across the table, the slender faery shifts uncomfortably as the attention is directed entirely to him.

“My Lord, I-”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Asocrates,” Azrael demands, slamming his fist against the table. “No playing coy today. All you brethren proved useless to me, and look at them- mindless slaves. Perhaps before you consider playing me around, bear in mind what it is you will become if you do.”

Asocrates- the faery man across the table, scratches his chin warily, attempting to maintain an aura of composure, but his heart is thudding wildly in his chest, and I would hazard a guess that his mind is racing too. Whatever Azrael seems to find there, he throws me a look of faint amusement. Like a shark, his mouth uplifts into a devious grin as he at last brings his hands to rest against the large oak table, fingers pattering against the wood.

“We haven’t seen her for at least a month,” he offers timidly, to which the other courtiers, though drugged, nod their agreement talking in the language of the Fei. Ah, so he isn’t lying then.

Always a good start. If Azrael deals with traitors and liars in a similar fashion than Soren does… Well, I can only hope that Asocrates knows well enough of the infamous ways of the vampires to not do as such.

“She used to have these…” he moves his hands frantically in a circle around the air, searching for the words. “Visions. Of sickness, of death. She would know when an infant was to fall ill a week before they did. She could sense when people were going to die, and sometimes, if she was strong enough on the day, she would do something.”

Asocrates pauses to take a nervous sip of his wine, ruffled wings shivering behind him as he shifts on his seat. The other courtiers nod their head in agreement, but I realise then that they have no purpose here other than one: fear. From the way Azrael’s eyes are trained on the faery man, it is easy to deduce that the only information he wants is from him. The others are here for show, to apply pressure, and ensure no lies are slipped between mouthfuls of food and cups of blood wine and tea. It is the perfect trap.

For merely a form of distraction, with a nervous hastiness, I dig my knife and fork into the meats on my plate, picking at the cooked meat with a dull fascination. But the hunger in my stomach has long turned stale.

“What would she do?” Azrael presses in perfect Fei, his eyes narrowing as he drains the last dregs of blood wine from his glass, exhaling his satisfaction. Asocrates quivers, the cutlery in his hands shivering.

“She would call to the spirit. If they were dying, or dead, there were time where she said she could…” he pauses once more, lost for words. “I don’t know how she did it- I have never seen anything like it in two hundred years. But somehow, she managed to bring these people back to life. Mind you,” he adds, fiddling with the cutlery beside his plate. “She never looked very much alive herself.”

At this, my stomach lurches inside me. Oh no, I think, heart pounding like a jackhammer inside of me. Oh no, oh no.

The soul of death. This is her.

I should have known that Azrael would have a lead on someone, that in his scheming and conniving ways he had sniffed out a lead that Soren had not managed to trace. But I had not expected him to find a soul so quickly. I thought perhaps we might have a chance to ward them off, warn the defenceless souls before Azrael could wreak havoc upon the world. I see that now that is just a baseless hopeful optimism. Azrael was two steps ahead from the start.

“That’s great,” Azrael hisses through clenched teeth, clearly losing his nerve and patience with the whole matter. “But where is she now?”

To this, all the courtiers fall into a submissive, shocked silence, their hands stilling as all heads turn to Asocrates, waiting, watching for the answers that he, and he alone could give, stored in the secrets of his mind and tucked away from the cruelties of the world.

“She said that she had a vision of her death if she stayed in the palace. So she left a few weeks before you came-”

“Lies,” Azrael hisses lowly, clenching his fingers around the table, causing Asocrates to scream, as though he had been struck by a knife. The air turns bitter with the taste of magic. Clutching his fingers around his head with a despairing agony, tears roll down the Faery’s cheeks as Azrael’s fists continue to tighten. The noise of the screams makes my head spin with pain, a whirling dizziness rising up in my head in a cacophony of noise and flaring agony. I almost consider begging Azrael to stop until Asocrates burst out:

“A week ago, she left a week before you arrived here. I don’t know where she is now, please, I don’t know any more!”