Sometimes, the most dangerous things come wrapped in the most innocent packages.
Cursed Tome
The chair clattered loudly against the floor as Des's fury erupted. His veins seemed to pulse with venomous rage.
"What do you mean, he's gone?" he demanded, glaring at Mica.
"They think he's escaped," the vampire replied, his voice edged with frustration, "But that's impossible. He's been kidnapped."
"It's started," Ruben murmured to himself, a sense of foreboding in his tone.
"There's something you need to know before everyone rushes to his rescue," Lilinette interjected, drawing the attention of the group. Her eyes were sharp, her demeanor calm yet resolute. "He went with Mazen of his own free will."
Des's eyes widened with disbelief. "How do you know that?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"He knows that the hunt would never end after this. He infiltrated the enemy to strike a decisive blow at the right moment," Lilinette explained, her gaze steady.
Mica sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "But how did he manage to get them to take him with them?" he asked, his voice tinged with exasperation.
Lilinette paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully before speaking again. "Mazen's specialty is memory modification," she revealed, "I'm not sure he even remembers you all."
Des was on the brink of a complete breakdown. Even Alice's attempts at reassurance had failed to calm him. Sensing the escalating tension, Lilinette began humming a soothing incantation. Des slumped into a chair, his demeanor visibly softened as the calming spell took effect. Mica adjusted the chair beneath him, his eyes filled with concern.
"Carry on," Des's voice was still menacing, but the edge of despair was palpable.
"Shay might have been manipulated, which could be why he went along with Mazen," she continued, her tone both factual and reassuring. "I informed him about the memory spell Mazen uses."
"Shay's no fool," Rolo said, his voice firm, "He must have devised a plan to counteract it."
"Otherwise it wouldn't make sense," Alex added, his brow furrowed in thought. "He's not one to take unnecessary risks."
"Let's hope so," Coffee said, putting down her cup. Even the simple act was laden with tension. Her usual calm demeanor was replaced by a palpable anxiety.
Without a word, Des rose and, before anyone could stop him, clambered up the stairs to the top floor. He stepped into the room, which might have seemed a little empty. Only the bed and the table gave away the fact that anyone lived there at all. Des was not surprised and instead stepped over to the wardrobe. His steps were measured and deliberate. Two boxes were stacked in one corner, with an open suitcase lying beside them.
With a practiced hand, Des retrieved one of the boxes and opened it. Inside was a hunting mask, meticulously crafted from bone. Carefully he took out the hunting mask. Des handled it with reverent care, his fingers brushing the inside as if afraid to damage it.
Alice quietly opened the door, his eyes softening as he saw the young hunter with the bone mask. He approached him gently, a sad smile on his lips. Custom bone masks were always patterned after the face of the wearer. Alice crouched beside him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders in a comforting embrace.
Meanwhile, the vampire girl made her way home. As Coffee reached her front door, she saw her father, Mr. Blutkaiser, waiting for her. His face was a mask of stern disappointment.
"I still don't accept your decision," he began, his voice firm. Before Coffee could respond, he raised his hand to silence her. "But I must allow you to make your own mistakes. If it comes to that, take as many vampires with you as you need to survive."
Tears welled up in Coffee's eyes as she nodded, her gratitude evident. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
Mr. Blutkaiser gave a somber nod and turned away, leaving Coffee to process his words and prepare for the challenges ahead.
I sat alone in my room, the memories Simon had shown me still swirling in my mind. The faces of my friends, the tension in their voices, and the expressions of concern.
Simon was looking at me. His expression was unreadable, a mix of anger and lingering resentment.
"You called," he said, his tone flat. "I didn't expect that."
I knew that I fucked up big time. When Simon disagreed with me he punished me with silence. This was a new level of anger.
I chose my words wisely, feeling the weight of Simon's disappointment. "I know you're upset with me," I said, trying to bridge the gap between us.
Simon's form wavered slightly, a sign of his internal conflict.
"You always think you're doing the right thing, Shay," he replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "But you don't value your own life the way you should. You play with it like it's a game."
"I..." his cold gaze made me shut up. Simon regarded me for a moment, then sighed.
"Life is precious, Shay. Even if you think you're invincible, the people around you suffer when you take unnecessary risks."
"I'm sorry, mate, I should have..."
Simon's form solidified a bit more, his eyes narrowing. "Sorry? Do you even understand what that word means? You say it, but you don't live it. Apologies mean nothing if you keep repeating the same mistakes."
I pursed my lips.
"This is the last time," I argued. "After this, we can live a quiet life."
"Promises," Simon scoffed, his voice sharp. "You throw those around like they're candy."
His anger was palpable.
"I know I've let you down," I said quietly. "But I don't want to lose anyone else."
Simon's expression softened just a fraction, but his voice remained stern. "I feel the same."
We stared at each other, the silence thick with unresolved tension. Simon's eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. I smiled a little as if to pacify him. Simon's gaze softened slightly, but the hardness in his voice remained. "Just make sure you don't die, asshole."
With that, he vanished, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the heavy burden of his disappointment.
(...)
In the morning, I walked into the bathroom, yawning profusely. I hadn't slept well—if this kept up, I'd end up gargling in front of the mirror with a strong black coffee every morning. I washed my face, barely registering Berry's usual snide remarks.
As I looked at myself in the mirror, I realized I missed his sarcastic comments about my appearance and the beautiful dark circles under my eyes. I sighed. It seemed I was going mad, now that I was missing that unrepentant bogey...
When I got down to the dining room, Mazen was waiting for me.
"Good morning," he greeted me.
"Morning," I said, stifling a yawn.
I couldn't understand why Mazen needed an ebony dining table for twenty if he'd been eating alone up to that point. The empty seats made me uncomfortable. There were only two chairs on either side of the long table, so I grabbed mine and placed it next to Mazen.
He was surprised, of course, but didn't say anything. Whether it was because he didn't care or because a servant had appeared with the food, I couldn't tell. We ate our hearty breakfast in silence—me half asleep.
Mazen, of course, sat there like a statue, swallowing and munching on his food. When I finished, I stole a piece of egg from his plate. He looked at me, shocked, but when I grinned, his mouth twitched too. Then he just shook his head and took a sip of his tea. I was so proud of myself. Who else could say they had stolen food from the plate of a notoriously dark mage without punishment?
Mazen allowed me to hang out with him. That was only after I annoyed the hell out of him by constantly telling him how bored I was. I didn't suppose he trusted me more, as he hadn't planned anything special, but at least I knew he was growing fond of me. Who could resist my wonderful personality, anyway?
I spent the morning sorting through Mazen's books, reading a few while he did some paperwork. My persistence paid off when I found a book about mages. It was a tiny chapter hidden in the small print, but I discovered information about the power of mages' names. I knew a thing or two about mages and had heard the legends about their names. I tested these legends the other day during my little chat with Felis—surprisingly, it worked. The name really is power. If you can get a mage's name and mumble a few magic words, you can make the perfect servant.
Mazen would occasionally cast a spell or two, and I watched with my mouth open. I also watched with twinkling eyes as he simply waved a piece of paper in front of him. I couldn't help but notice the tiny curve of his lips. He liked the rapt attention, evident by the fact that he showed me some simple magic just for the sake of it. For example, he floated ink in the air or, with a wave of his hand, folded a butterfly out of paper and brought it to life.
"Can all mages do such things?" I asked, delighted.
"There are basic spells that we can all do, such as levitation or heating food," he explained patiently. "But once you reach a certain limit in your studies, your magic will show its true colors. Everyone's magic is different—some are skilled in controlling the elements, others excel in creative magic, and some are healers."
"Hm," I wondered. "And which group do you belong to?"
He was silent for a moment. Every time I asked him something that could have been even a minimal risk to reveal, he paused for a barely perceptible moment. Then he either told me or he didn't.
"My magic is special," he said.
"What does it mean to be special?" I continued.
"There are basic categories into which we classify magic: creative, destructive, transformative, elemental, and healing magic. But sometimes there are mages who don't belong to any of these categories," Mazen replied, scribbling non-stop on his page.
"So what is your magic like?" I asked.
He was silent again for a moment, then, looking up, he smiled slyly. "Suffice it to say, the rarest special magic."
"So you use mirror magic?" I grinned, surprising him.
His eyes flashed suspiciously, so I explained. "Remember I was sitting in the window reading yesterday?" I said. "One of your books was the Encyclopedia of Magical Abilities, I think. It was quite interesting. I read in it that only two people had ever been recorded as having this ability." My grin widened even more. "Apparently, you're the third."
He opened his mouth to speak, then turned his gaze back to the document and just nodded. Actually, of course, he was the second. But he couldn't say that, given that he was supposed to be my brother.
I now understood a little more how it was possible for him to alter my memories. What he didn't want me to remember, because he couldn't take it away, he hid somewhere in the depths of my consciousness. Then he took his reflection and placed it in my memory. It was an unnerving ability.
"Do you think my ability is of magical origin too?" I asked thoughtfully. "I've never found anything like it in the books."
He nodded. "Vampires have pretty good regenerative abilities, and since you have elven and mage ancestors, you inherited some of their magic. These two abilities merged in your case, creating an unusually fast, magically enhanced healing ability. This rare coincidence suggests that this is your attribute, and if you were a simple mage, it's more than likely that healing magic would be your forte."
"Do you think I could do magic properly?" I asked, a bit wistful. "I mean, like you do."
He raised his eyes to me again, studied my face for a moment, and sighed. "My honest opinion?"
"Yes, please," I replied.
"I don't think so," he said. "Your magical powers are pretty weak. They're enough to boost your existing regeneration ability, but not for a simple spell."
"But what about my hair?" I said. "I could change the color of that, and I could make my claws disappear."
"Indeed, that is also due to the human blood that flows in you," he said. "Especially since it's present in greater proportion."
I sighed in frustration and collapsed onto the enormous desk.
A slight smile appeared on Mazen's lips, then he ruffled my hair. "Your ability is unique and valuable too."
"Hrrrm," was all my response.
Mazen was really starting to act like a big brother.
Mazen's ruffling of my hair had an almost tender quality to it, and I found myself both comforted and annoyed by the gesture. I swatted his hand away playfully, but the small smile on my face betrayed my true feelings.
"What's on the agenda today?" I asked, trying to shift the focus away from my magical shortcomings.
"More paperwork," Mazen replied, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
The morning passed slowly as I continued to sift through Mazen's extensive collection of books. Each one offered a glimpse into a world of magic and mystery that was both fascinating and frustratingly out of reach.
By the time lunch rolled around, I was more than ready to get out of his study. As we made our way back to the main part of the mansion, I couldn't help but glance at Mazen. He caught my eye and for a brief moment, and I smiled. The tension between us seemed to ease.
(...)
In the afternoon, Mazen finally presented me to his followers. They were all wearing dark cloaks and hoods, of course.
"This is my brother," he declared. "Treat him with the respect you would treat me with."
The hooded henchmen bowed. But with my enhanced hearing, I caught some of them muttering softly or whispering that their master had no brother. A few even guessed who I was, referring to me as "the dirty royalty" or simply "the mixed blood." I would have loved to introduce them to my fists, but I held back, not wanting to blow my cover prematurely.
Instead, I grinned sweetly and waved. To my amusement, I heard a few hearts flutter in response. (I love my fae ancestors at times like this.)
I was surprised. I mean, Mazen showing me off to his followers surprised me. He had no obligation to do so, nor was it necessary. That's when I realized how perfectly my plan was working: Mazen actually liked me. Perhaps he was already thinking that when this was all over, he would keep me as his brother. I admitted that he must have been fucking lonely.
Mazen gave some orders to his henchmen, torturing a few of them for not doing their job. When he committed the first act of punishment, he glanced over to me to check my reaction—at least he knew it wasn't normal to torture your allies—but since I was completely unimpressed, he calmed down a bit and seemed to enjoy himself. Why should I care? I don't care how many dark mages he tortures, as long as I don't know them. Until then, he only benefits me by weakening his own ranks.
Besides, I didn't really understand why every single person with some power needed a fucking platform. In my view, sitting at the same height as his followers doesn't make him inferior, but I preferred not to share that thought with Mazen. Anyway, his velvet throne was fine and comfy. (I couldn't help myself, okay?) I was sure Mazen knew about it, and I was also sure that if one of his henchmen had tried to sit on his 'throne', he certainly wouldn't have lived to see the next moment.
In my case, Mazen charitably ignored the matter. But maybe that was just because once he'd gone to so much trouble with me, it would have been stupid to kill me for such a thing. Or just because he really liked me. For the moment, I couldn't decide which was the truth. Maybe a little of both.
Anyway, I got a padded chair next to his—he just conjured it out of nowhere! At least that's what I thought, but when I asked him how this summoning thing worked, he said he could only summon things that were already there from places he'd been.
His followers watched, almost in amazement, as Mazen explained such a simple and ordinary thing to me. At least, it must have been simple and ordinary to mages. So, I was given this chair, which, just to make me feel what a buffoon I was, was smaller, even less ornate, than Mazen's 'throne'. But I figured I was still pretty well off because his minions didn't even get a chair, let alone one next to him on his fancy platform.
Then, sometime late in the afternoon, a strange mage arrived. He entered the great hall, where Mazen and his whole clan usually spent their time, and then bowed low. Only when he was allowed to did he straighten up and continue on his way. He paused before the platform, bowed again humbly as he held out a book.
My heart skipped a beat. I had a very, very bad feeling about the book. I shuddered as every hair on my back stood on end. My instincts were telling me to either run or rip his throat open. Being a quarter fae, it went without saying that I chose the latter option.
In an instant, I was in front of him, grabbing his throat and lifting him just enough so that his toes could still feel the ground. He clutched the book while holding onto my hand and grunted as if he were dying—and I didn't even squeeze that hard. Though, when you're used to monsters, it's hard to tell with humans.
"What are you doing?" Mazen questioned in a dangerous tone.
I glanced back, but I still didn't let go of the mage's throat. Meanwhile, one of the hooded men was about to pick up the book, presumably to hand it to Mazen.
"Don't touch it," I growled angrily, and he took a step back and stood up very slowly.
Then I glanced at Mazen again, thinking it was time to answer him before he did something stupid at my expense.
"The book is cursed," I declared. "It gives me the creeps."
Mazen's eyes twinkled with interest. He stood up but didn't approach the volume, merely muttered incantations.
"You're right," he admitted. "The spell has been well disguised, but there's no doubt it was intended against me."
I decided it was time to let go of the mage I was holding, both because I thought he was about to choke for real, and because I had some questions he needed to answer. He fell to his knees and coughed, stroking his neck.
"Did Pitou put the curse on the book?" Mazen's voice was icy, and I wouldn't have wanted to be in the mage's shoes. He hadn't even caught his breath, but he was being threatened again.
"I don't know!" he moaned.
"He's lying," I said dejectedly.
"How do you know?" asked Mazen. Those who didn't know him would have missed the curiosity in his voice because of the tension. I, on the other hand, have a good ear.
"I can hear the beating of the heart and recognize the rhythm of a lying heart," I declared, and the rest was for the unknown mage, "Answer with that in mind."
The mage trembled. "My Lord made me do it," he answered so softly that his voice could hardly be heard.
Mazen's fingers dug into the armrest of his chair. "I suspected they would try something similar."
"Then how did you not feel the curse immediately?" I asked later when we were alone.
"Dark mages don't really feel dark magic," he shrugged. "Maybe because we use it a lot, and get used to it."
"Hm."
"I didn't think you'd notice," he admitted.
"Watch out," I grinned. "If you underestimate me, I'll take you down!"
His lips curved upwards slightly.
I laughed, and he stifled a low chuckle. He did not know how true my words were.