Notes: Let's get this party started!
Title: Lord of Unkindness: Chapter Thirty-Five
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Chapter Thirty-Five
Photo by Mariola Grobleska
Ciro would give almost anything for the numbness that used
to come to readily to him. Ever since he let Angelo take him in, the lack of
feeling that was starting to overwhelm him has pulled back. Even when he uses
his magic, it’s like having a protective golden blanket covering his body,
protecting him from himself. But now, back on the couch and weighed down with
rats covering his legs and a Doberman to either side of his torso, Ciro is
uncomfortably aware of his own form. He feels every touch—the scritch of claws
sinking into his clothes and the thud of stubby tails knocking against his
thighs. The only space for his raven is on top of his own head.
Ciro’s sure he looks like an idiot. The important thing, though, is not to look like a victim. If Angelo walks in here and sees Ciro in tears or worse, he won’t react well. If all Ciro can do at this point is keep blood from being shed the moment his father and his lover are in the same room together, then that’s what he’ll do.
The distant power he’s learned to feel through his chest roils in response to his own sense of indignation at being sidelined. It’s here to be used, so use it! The temptation is strong, but Ciro knows he can’t give into it. He’s not as strong as his father; he’s just not. That’s a lesson he’s had beaten into him over and over throughout his childhood, and he’s learned it like second nature by now. His father and Nephele combined…well, that’s so impossible it doesn’t even bear thinking about. No, the best thing he can do is protect Angelo by being an obedient little captive until he figures out his lover’s plan.
Because Angelo has to have a plan. He must. Otherwise he’s walking straight into a trap, and Ciro can’t bear to even think about that. It’s impossible, it’s infuriating.
He’s smarter than that. Angelo will know what to do.
The intercom on Victor’s desk sounds. “He’s coming up,” Richard says.
“Good. Make sure he catches a glimpse of the girl, but don’t engage. If he comes your way, kill her and make your escape.”
“Understood.”
“You can’t kill her,” Ciro insists. “Maria is important to Angelo. If you kill her, he’ll never negotiate with you.”
Victor looks at him with an odd expression Ciro can’t quite understand. “I might have been too hard on you after all,” he says finally, and Ciro wonders when he slipped into an alternate dimension where his father admits to potential wrongdoing. Even Nephele is taken aback. “I believe in instilling a reasonable amount of humility in those around me, but you take it to lengths that verge on stupidity.
“You’re the mate of a kinnara, my son. I could have that useless girl cut into pieces and tossed along his path, and he would still come to me if it meant getting his hands on you again.”
“But he won’t,” Nephele asserts from where she’s standing in a corner, no fewer than five dogs penning her there so she can’t come back to hunch over Ciro like a vulture. “Because he’s mine, Uncle. Remember, you promised me Ciro would be mine.”
Victor doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at her. Ciro can feel Nephele’s tension rise through her link to her familiars, who are twining around each other and chittering angrily, but not quite biting yet. He focuses on his own familiar instead—the comforting weight, the warmth, the feeling of love and protection—and then realizes that he can feel another bird.
His other bird. The familiar he sent to Angelo is still with him, and they’re both almost here. Ciro lets himself slip into his other bird’s eyes, and he sees the double doors of this office right ahead of them, turns and sees that he’s on Angelo’s shoulder. His lover seems to sense the change, because he turns and looks at Ciro’s familiar. He doesn’t say anything, though; his mouth is in a terse line, and a second later he bends over to set Chiffon on the floor. Ciro has to flap wildly to keep his perch, and not just because Angelo is bending over. He brought Chiffon? What was he thinking? He can’t help it—he pecks Angelo in the middle of his forehead.
“She’ll be fine,” Angelo says in a very measured tone. Then he steps forward and, without knocking, enters the room.
Ciro slips back into his own eyes to look at Angelo. He’s dressed in a suit of embroidered silk, his hair slicked back, gold around his neck and in his ears. He looks distant, powerful, and so beautiful Ciro’s heart aches to see him. The raven on his shoulder suits him somehow, and if Ciro didn’t know better he’d say Angelo was a witch himself.
But he does know better, and now that they’re together again he can see the gold threads emanating from Angelo’s body like waves, curling around and over him. Those threads reach for Ciro the second Angelo walks through the door, and Ciro braces himself for the rush he’ll feel the moment they touch him…
But the touch never comes. Something blocks them from reaching Ciro, a shield extending more than a foot in front of the couch, and it strikes Ciro that his father never does anything without a reason. The things he’s filled this room with, all his objects of power…one of them must be responsible for keeping Angelo’s power from touching him directly right now.
If Angelo realizes that, he doesn’t let on. He doesn’t even look at Ciro, just keeps his eyes on Victor, who sits behind his desk with the smug air of a man aware that he holds all the aces. “Mr. Hambly,” Angelo says evenly.
“Mr. Fabroa.” Victor nods his head. “I see you brought a guest.”
“I could hardly leave Chiffon behind,” Angelo says airily. “She pines without me. Don’t worry, she’s no threat to you.”
“I’m not talking about the dog.”
Angelo tilts his head at the raven, which leans over and preens gently at his hair. Nephele makes a furious noise, and when Angelo smiles at her, he goes from calm to vicious in an instant. “Everything that belongs to my mate belongs equally to me.”
Victor nods slowly. “You admit it, then.”
“Of course I do.”
“Then I hope you came ready to bargain.” Victor extends a hand toward the chair across from him, but Angelo shakes his head.
“I don’t bargain with thieves. I hope you came to this meeting ready to apologize for taking what’s mine.” His voice is cool and controlled, and Ciro’s heart is in his throat. He doesn’t know what kind of game Angelo is playing, but Victor hates being dictated to. “You’re going to relinquish my mate to me and give us your blessing, and a promise of distance from here on out. I also expect the return of my employee.”
“Oh, is that all?” Victor’s tone is mocking. “I think you’ll find that I’m the one holding all the advantage here, Mr. Fabroa. What can you possible do that would compel me to give my son to you for nothing?”
Angelo crosses his arms and looks around the room. “You’ve done a good job here,” he says almost absently. “Some of these artifacts are impressively powerful. You’ve even blocked the manifestation of my bond to Ciro, and you’ve limited the amount of power you and yours can do down to your familiars.”
“Your point?”
Angelo smiles. “My point is, you’ve cut off all spell power. What you didn’t cut off is internal manifestations, and that shows me that you know almost nothing of kinnara magic. You’ve left me my internal power, which is all I need to sing every last drop of emotion out of you.”
Victor looks a little puzzled. “What, you’re threatening to make me into some sort of automaton?”
“Oh no. You’ll stay a man…a man who is unable to feel a single thing, from anger to joy to pain. And before you start thinking that’s a good idea,” Angelo adds, “consider this—with no emotion to drive your actions, and no pain resulting from them, you’ll do…nothing. Nothing at all. You’ll sit there until you die of dehydration, in a puddle of your own filth, utterly unmotivated by anything and everything.
“You’ll lose your empire, and you won’t even notice.”
Victor looks aghast in a way Ciro has never seen before. He could cheer…but from the way the dogs are growling and the rats are seething against his skin, he knows it’s far too soon to take anything for granted.
Especially a win.
