“What do you know?” Calliope asked.
“I know that I’m adopted. I know that Lucidia’s my sister, and that someone named Kenzo is my real father.”
She gave a light laugh. “Yes. Kenzo Draxos.”
“I know that the vampires want me dead because I’m a weakblood or something,” she muttered, anger tainting her words.
“Ah,” Calliope said, shaking her head. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“What?”
“You are the daughter of Kenzo Draxos, yes. But you were not mothered by a human.”
Robin’s eyebrows crunched together. “Then…”
“Do you know what makes a witch, Robin?”
She shook her head.
“Witches are singularly dedicated to their craft. In order to make a witch, you must select a human that can be imbued by magic, and then bind that magic to them. Thus, a witch is born. But when that happens, the body changes to accommodate the influx of power. Things are gained, and others lost. Witches, consequently, have no means of physicalreproduction.”
“Okay,” Robin muttered, still lost.
“Until now.” Calliope’s coal black eyes flared.
“I’m not following.”
“You are the product of centuries of experimentation to further the race of casters. Twenty-five years ago, I used Kenzo Draxos to create you.”
“Create me?”
“You are not a weakblood, Robin. You are the product of a strongblood and a witch, and the first of your kind. A brand new race. Kenzo Draxos is indeed your father, and Lucidia Draxos shares blood with you, but you are my biological daughter. I carried you inside of me for nine months, while the magic bound to you. All that’s left to do is bring our work to life.” She gave a glance to the ceiling, her eyes searching for something that Robin couldn’t see.
Robin’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yes.”
A silence set in between them. Robin realized that the witch wasn’t lying, and she fought to wrap her mind around the implications, remembering what Magnus had said about using her as a weapon.
“What are you going to do with me?” Robin whispered.
“In due time,” Calliope said. “You will learn everything.”
“Tell me,” she seethed, gripping the arms of the seat.
“Shhhh,” Calliope said, taking a lock of Robin’s hair and brushing it with an ornate, gold plated brush.
Robin found her lips sealed once more, unable to speak. She watched the witch move around her in cold, contained movements, as the fear inside of her chest increased exponentially.
Even though Calliope had said she was Robin’s mother, there was nothing remotely maternal about the woman.
When she looked at Robin, the only thing held in her eyes was the thrill of discovery, the brink of breakthrough. As she brushed Robin’s hair, as she brought her to a bath with piping hot water and some sort of oil that smelled like rich lavender, as she ran a sponge over Robin (who was still unable to move and very uncomfortable with the whole thing), the witch was singularly focused on her creation, her experiment.
Robin felt like she was a turkey, being prepared for the thanksgiving feast.
She got out of the bath and stood still while Calliope took a paintbrush and dipped it into bowl of glimmering purple something or another. A nauseous feeling sunk into Robin’s gut as the caster painted it carefully over Robin’s birthmarks. It seemed to sink into her skin, still visible, but immediately dry.
She put Robin in a flowing white gown that hung loosely over her. It reminded her of the Greek goddesses but made her feel naked and exposed. Calliope fastened two golden bands with swooping designs and curls around her arms, and then brushed her hair again before fastening it into some sort of updo. At that point, Robin wasn’t paying much attention to what was being done to her.
Instead, Robin’s thoughts were focused only on Reykon and what Magnus was doing to him so many floors below her, in the dungeon. Her whole body ached to see him one more time. She had a feeling that after tonight, she wouldn’t be seeing anything ever again.
Reykon
Magnus stood inside of the cell, his arms crossed, regarding Reykon with a smug anger.
“I put my trust in you, Reykon,” he said, narrowing his burning red eyes.
Reykon was suspended by his wrists, in a dirt cell in the dungeon. The iron manacles dug into his arms, and he could feel his pulse inside of his shoulder joints. His chest was aching from where Magnus had caved it in, but while he’d been unconscious, somebody had wrapped his torso in thick white bandages, resetting the crushed ribcage.
Still, though, hanging from your wrists didn’t exactly soothebroken ribs.
Reykon brought his head up half an inch and glared at Magnus.
The vampire’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I suppose I can’t blame you. She warned me that Robin would have this effect on others.”
“What?”
Magnus ignored his question. “I have to admit, I chose not to warn you because I wanted to see where your loyalties truly were. Grace under fire, and all that.”
“What do you mean, ‘she warned you’?” Reykon repeated firmly.
“Robin Wright was a special assignment that I gave to my most trusted agent. We’ve been planning this for months.”
“What does Robin have to do with it?”
“Robin has everything to do with it. She is the weapon that will allow me to take control over all the vampires. With her by my side, we will be an unstoppable force.”
“She will never join you,” Reykon said bitterly.
Magnus took a step closer, looking Reykon up and down. “She will if I keep you alive.”
A bolt of fear ripped through him and he knew that there was no use trying to conceal it from Magnus, the power-crazed, millennia-old leader.
“Yes,” he chuckled. “You two seemed quite fond of each other on the boat. I was surprised; Calliope informed me that the desire was only one way.”
“What desire?”
“Robin is a being of great magical potential. Her presence draws others towards her and invokes their adoration. Calliope assured me that it will work to our advantage in the next chapter of our
