“The elves are trying to save face. The custodes have always been well loved. Their absence has only created a deeper fondness. This will create turmoil for a kingdom already harvesting unrest.”
Lucifer thought back to all that Vlad had said. His plans for striking at the heart of the elves. His assurances of success. His confidence in the players at his disposal. He only needed the might of the Underworld to see his plans unfold, he’d claimed. With Lucifer’s help, their victory was assured.
Had Vlad suspected these events would transpire? His hints seemed to indicate it was so.
“And the woman?” Lucifer asked, calmly collecting his thoughts so as not to react hastily. His actions now would create lasting ripples. One misstep and he could be pushed further down the ranks in the magical world. But if he pushed an advantage, perhaps he could right old wrongs.
“Without a doubt, the rumors are true. She has both Incendium and Glaciem magics, has merged them, and uses them both. The working of her magic is rudimentary at best, but her power level is that of a mid-level five with room to grow.”
“With room to grow?”
“She is but mid-twenties in human years. She has many long years to fruit.”
Lucifer stared hard at Victoria.
She nodded. “She could reach a level six. And more, she looks quite a bit like her mother.”
“Her mother?”
“Yes.” Victoria didn’t look away as she pointed at the window overlooking the garden. “The inspiration for the statue down there. There can be no doubt she is yours.”
Lucifer said nothing for many long moments, taking in that information. He’d always hoped for another heir. A child who could survive this world. An heir the Underworld could be proud of, and who would take his place when he desired to visit the Brink. Someone to help him work his creations.
“She has been in the inner kingdom,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He’d had many heirs in his never-ending life. He’d lost them all. No father should have to magically freeze their child for all of time in the pits of fire. A child was supposed to do that for the parent. If only he could keep one. Just one. “She can at least survive here for a time.”
“The vampire Vlad has been in touch. He has apparently done some digging.” Victoria narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t too keen on that vampire. It was wise of her not to trust him. “Reagan Somerset’s mother—”
“Amorette.”
“Yes. She is said to have had godly power.”
“Godly power?”
“A human notion. We know it as the touch of angels.”
Lucifer hissed. Angels were nothing but meddling, troublesome creatures that could stay holed up in their “paradise” for all he cared. They kept their so-called gifts to themselves, for the most part, which was the best idea they’d ever had. His kingdom had been plagued with much less riffraff because of it.
He thought back to his powerful attraction to Amorette. It hadn’t been logical, his need for her. His ardent desire. One look at her beautiful face, and he’d been caught. He hadn’t been able to get enough, always begging for one more smile, one more touch.
“She beguiled me with an angel’s kiss?” he asked, trying to conceal his reaction to that thought.
“No. It was in her heritage. In her blood. It would not have a direct effect on a dark ange—”
His look cut her off. She’d nearly forgotten herself. He would not suffer his person to be spoken of in the same sentence as those fools, regardless of his origins.
“The blood will act as a crutch to keep her human elements from deteriorating,” Victoria went on. “We already know she does not need oxygen, assuming she was the woman you glimpsed, and I feel we must. There could be no other. Now we can assume that many long years here will not break her down as it did with the others. Something the elves do not yet know.”
“And why is that?”
“The vampires clearly know it, but they and the elves have been at odds for centuries.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And two, the elves’ questions are going unanswered.”
“Their questions…” He’d heard what the Realm had devolved into. What the elves had devolved into. He’d seen it himself on his visits. Despite his power and might, they always treated him as lesser. Mocked him. “They are torturing her?”
“Yes.”
“They suspect she is my daughter?”
“Yes. That is the only reason she lives.”
“And yet they are still torturing her?”
“Yes, sir. So far—and this news is half a day old due to travel time—she has not broken.”
Memories crowded him. Of a glowing, dewy-faced Amorette, so serene and content even after losing her breakfast every morning for a month. It hadn’t bothered her, the human sickness, and she’d looked so radiant in those final days he was with her, so earthy and peaceful, resplendent, that he hadn’t pressed. She was everything the Brink could boast for beauty. It had given him countless ideas for new creations.