“You forget the things that humans are capable of, when fear is a strong factor. But, what if the princess is assisted with her situation? She hasn’t faced her people in years, and they say such horrible things of her. Her little… gift of tongues is the bane of her parents’ existence. Think of how grateful they would be, if someone helped rid their daughter of her problem."
Laurent could barely follow the twists and turns of their conversation. First, Vivien wanted him to kill the princess. Now, the plan was to help her? “How could we possibly do that?”
“Not we, my dear, but she,” she replied, spinning to face him head on. “There is a witch who resides at the far end of Paimpont, just south of the pond. Her name is Ophelia; I’m sure you’ve heard of her—the only one willing to do both human and Darkling bidding so she can afford her drinking habit. She’s quite powerful and, to my knowledge, is one of the only witches accustomed to interacting with the townsfolk on a regular basis. She should be more than capable of crafting some spell or elixir to cure the princess.”
Laurent could only stare. If he wasn’t mistaken, Ophelia was a transplant. She certainly wasn’t descended from any of the original witches who’d settled alongside humans in Paimpont. Still, word of her arrival years ago had spread like wildfire; Ophelia quickly made a name for herself as the town enchantress, unique in the fact that she made a living by bartering simple spells and charms in exchange for goods.
In that way, magic was useful in a pinch, good for removing coffee—or blood—from garments, or keeping insects off one’s crops. But Laurent had never heard of the kind of magic capable of purging an entire language from a person’s linguistic arsenal. Such a spell or potion would surely require the very type of dark ingredients and magic prohibited by kingdom law. Ophelia could be executed on the spot, were she discovered practicing it.
The irony of it all promptly shattered his disbelief. Laurent covered a dubious smirk with his palm. “You humans only allow witches to reside among you because their powers are beneficial from time to time. Either that, or you’re afraid of what mischief they might get into if you didn’t keep an eye on them.”
“Irrelevant.” Vivien waved dismissively. “Drastic situations call for drastic measures. I have no real qualms with the magicfolk. They don’t have fur, or oozing warts, or fangs…” She suppressed a grimace before continuing. “The princess turns twenty years old in five days’ time, on the day of her ceremony. She has everything in the world she could want, except her public's affection. Ridding her of that useless ability would only be a boon to her.”
She was partially right, and he hated admitting it. But deep down, Laurent didn’t consider the princess’s unusual power useless at all. In the years following the discovery of her Darkling Tongue, Laurent secretly relished the idea of a monarch who would possibly be open to forging a mutually beneficial relationship with Brocéliande.
But instead, perhaps the girl’s ability would alienate her enough from her own people so that she would be unable to win their loyalty in the end. Such an outcome would not be beneficial to his cause, either.
Any other vampire would have jumped at the chance to kill a human noble. Regardless, assisting a Le Tallec felt wrong in his gut.
His warring thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a blinding flash. Laurent rubbed his eyes and blinked the remnants of light away. An ethereal blue orb the size of an apple floated inches from Vivien’s face. By light of the Will-O-Wisp, she was already scribbling hastily onto a piece of parchment. When she finished, she pocketed her quill — what else did the woman have in those dress pockets? — and slipped the folded parchment into an envelope. She mouthed something to the wisp, shot it a sharp look, then nodded. The lone forest spirit bobbed coherently, then soared away through the treetops. Though the glowing anomalies were commonly used to relay messages to nearby witches, Laurent was shocked Vivien would even bother summoning one.
“I’m alerting Ophelia of the unfortunate circumstance Miss Trécesson finds herself in, and that she should be expecting a visit from the princess within the next few days. I’ll have a sparrow deliver this to the castle courier before dawn.” She twirled the envelope between her fingers.
“And what is that?”
“A forged note to the princess,” she replied, trailing a corner of the parcel along the pout of her bottom lip. “An invitation from Ophelia, offering to rid her of her Darkling Tongue. I’m only expediting the process here. Poor girl is wasting away in that tower room of hers. I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to embark on this quest for that reason alone.”
“This is mad,” Laurent breathed. “The coronation is only days away, and you expect her to make this journey alone, with no magic to aid her?”
“She’s resourceful. If she wants to make it to her own ceremony, she’ll have to be.” Vivien waved her fingers playfully toward Laurent’s grimace. “Not to worry, Darkling. You’ll get your queen. Feisty little thing, she is.” She rolled her shoulders back and sighed. “This will be beneficial for us all. We both get our ideal ruler—free of her curse, and presumably compassionate towards you monsters.”
Laurent’s garnet eyes zeroed in on her exposed neck, on the throbbing vein running alongside it. He ran a hand over his face to gather his racing thoughts. It was a daunting journey; he knew as well as Vivien that it would be impossible to see through. No Darkling would dare attack the princess in the castle, but anyone—royal-blooded or not—who entered Brocéliande of their own will instantly became free game.
Best to deal with that when the time came.
Laurent swallowed, hesitantly fingering his silver bow tie. “You do know how extraordinarily dangerous this will be for her?”
“Without a doubt.” Vivien approached the Darkling until she was just within reach, then ran her nails along the leather trim on his vest. “But you know as well as I, nothing extraordinary comes free of sacrifice. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Her glacial eyes challenged the embers in his. Without hesitation or any trace of fear, she reached up to tenderly brush her thumb across his cheek.
He kept his mouth shut, in case his fangs dared sprout.
“One more thing,” she whispered, gripping his lapel with one hand.
Laurent gulped. “Sure.”
“You’re brave to defend one of our kind like that, especially the heiress apparent. However, I fear her god-forsaken talent will only lead to her own downfall. Nonetheless, we can only hope,” she added, tightening her grip on him and brushing her warm lips against his jaw. “Long live the Queen.”
And just like that, she drove the stake in and upward, lodging it deep into his heart.
* * *
Stepping back, the duchess watched as he slumped into the grass. In a poor last attempt, the vampire grasped helplessly at the stake in the center of his chest, desperation mangling his vulcan features. But it was too late.
Not even the head of the Brocéliande vampire coven was resistant to blessed Hawthorne bark.
She had come with a plan and left with a better one. The princess would fall waste to the trappings of the forest, while the throne fell under more suitable management—and really, who would miss her? Still, if all else failed, nobody in their right mind would permit her reign or resume aide to Brocéliande especially after the retribution that would ensue once Laurent Beaulieu was found dead in the middle of the woods.