To Hell and Back by L.B. Gilbert
Chapter Twelve
Valeria walked into the formal dining room, struck dumb at the sight she beheld.
The chamber was like something out of a medieval castle, with rough walls made of wood instead of stone and a very long table capable of seating at least two dozen people. Only two places were set at one end—a fact at odds with the sheer volume of food on the massive wooden table.
It was a feast.
A large fowl—a turkey or a goose—sat in the middle, the crisp skin a perfect golden brown. Next to it was a slab of meat, garnished with apples, a roast of some kind. There was also a ham, several savory pies, a cheese-crusted dish that appeared to be a pasta casserole, as well as several platters of cooked greens. Interspersed between the larger plates were bowls of fruit, some cut into bite-sized pieces, some not.
It was an embarrassment of riches. The sight and smell of so much food was a physical slap in the face. Forcing herself to walk slowly, Valeria reached the chair next to the head of the table—the only other place setting.
She reached out and held the back of the high-backed chair, making a desperate attempt to regain her equilibrium.
Rhys was tracking her movement, his eyes so black that she almost stopped in her tracks. But they weren’t cold or angry. Instead, they glowed like burning embers. Just like in the mirror…
It was probably a dragon thing. Rhys was a creature of ash and flame. That was reflected in his eyes. It wasn’t threatening, just a reflection of his nature, she assured herself emphatically.
His eyebrow twitched as her hesitation stretched a few seconds too long. “Are you all right?”
Despite having eaten Tom’s second sandwich earlier, she nodded jerkily, her mouth salivating. Valeria cleared her throat. “Are we expecting more of your clan?” she said, gesturing to the mountains of food.
“Not tonight.”
Valeria tensed as he approached, the hair on the nape of her neck rising. But Rhys didn’t touch her. He gripped the chair, pulling it back for her in an old-world courtly gesture. Masking her discomfort, she sat, letting him tuck the heavy chair closer to the table.
She touched the satiny surface of the table. It was remarkable—a vertical cross-section of a huge tree varnished to a glossy shine. The natural whirls and striations more beautiful than any decorative carving would have been, the roughly polished edge retaining enough of the bark for her to feel the pitted and uneven surface. Frowning, she squinted down the length of the table. There were no lines to suggest there were separate leaves. There wasn’t even a seam to indicate two slabs had been glued together.
“Is this a single slice of wood?”
He nodded in confirmation. “I made it,” he added. There was the tiniest hint of pride in his voice.
She traced the darker mark of a knot of wood in the grain. “Did you use a laser to cut it?”
Rhys stared at her blankly. Then he shook his head.
“A giant saw?”
His mouth twitched. “Such things did not exist at the time.”
She stopped fondling the wood. Good Lord. He made it by hand by himself. Awed, she twisted in her seat to examine the highchair back and then all the others. The backs were smaller versions of the table, each unique. The cushions attached to them were fastened with flat copper nails that echoed the reddish tint of the wood.
“It’s incredible,” she said, her hunger momentarily forgotten .”It must have taken a very long time.”
Not to mention the amount of skill required to keep such a massive piece intact.
His shoulders rose and fell. “It was something to pass the time, and it serves a useful purpose. Many of my warriors dine here almost every day.”
Her brows puckered. “Then where are they?” She didn’t understand why there was so much food and only two places set.
Rhys leaned forward, taking a plate of what looked like little phyllo dough sacs. He offered it to her. Mouth watering again, she took one, unable to stop herself from biting it.
An explosion of savory flavor burst in her mouth. Thomas’ sandwich had been delicious, but this mix of meat, mushrooms, and crisp layers of pastry was an onslaught to her senses.
“I’ve asked my warriors to see to their own needs for the evening,” he shared, pushing a plate of cut fruit in her direction. “I thought a crowd might overwhelm you.”
Swallowing reluctantly—the flavor in her mouth too good—she reached for the glass of water at her side.
“I guess dragons require a lot of calories,” she said, feeling self-conscious.
Those smoldering eyes seemed to be studying her, as if he could see the spells of self-protection around her, assessing them for chinks, any weaknesses he could exploit.
She forced herself to slacken her muscles, feigning relaxation as he picked up his glass.
“Even I can’t finish all this. But Aggie likes to show off when a guest first arrives. Also, the younger members of the clan have the run of the kitchen at all hours. They raid the icebox after their security shifts. Rest assured, nothing will go to waste.”
He began to carve the bird, handling the knives so deftly she could easily imagine him carving up a person.
“Oh,” she said weakly, subtly edging to the other side of her chair. Though Rhys ignored the small movement, she had the sense he was aware of her retreat. He put the knives down, loaded her plate with the efficiency of a steakhouse server, and then helped himself.
With a single nod, he began to eat. Her faux relaxation slowly became genuine as he consumed a startling amount of food. He wasn’t glutinous or messy—he simply ate steadily, his table manners flawless until he’d eaten almost a quarter of the offerings, urging her to eat her fill with the occasional murmur.
Whatever half-formed ideas she might have had of being aloof or reserved fell away. Valeria began to eat, trying not to fall on the offerings like a slavering dog. She almost failed, carried away by the assortment and skill with which each dish had been prepared.
Only when it felt as if she was going to burst did she stop, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin in a belated demonstration of good manners. She opened her mouth to compliment the chef when she hesitated, realizing the plates had thinned between one blink and the next.
Rhys, who also seemed more relaxed now that they’d eaten, reached over to pour her a glass of fortified wine she was sure hadn’t been there at the start of the meal.
“Am I crazy or is Aggie clearing and switching out these plates with her magic?”
“You are not mad,” he said, that dark rolling voice managing to sound crisp and vaguely British in its formality. “It is an aspect of her abilities. They are considerable in their way, not unlike a house-elf.”
Valeria set down her glass. “Is that a Harry Potter reference?”
“It was required viewing.”
She bit her lip to hide her sudden amusement. “Someone made you watch Harry Potter?”
An expression of resigned chagrin crossed his face. Rhys leaned back in the chair, the subtle motion managing to highlight how large his body was. “We make it a point to keep current with human innovation. I would prefer other subject matters for our film nights—documentaries are far more informative. However, Sanaa has argued that it’s equally important to stay abreast of the cultural zeitgeist…whatever that means.”
He sipped more wine. “We generally watch movies here a few times a month or outside utilizing a large screen in the warmer weather of spring and summer.”
She was having a hard time picturing a bunch of dragons lounging around watching movies.
“What did you last see?” She already knew he hadn’t seen ‘The Terminator’.
His tone grew dismissive. “Something frivolous with a caped strongman.”
Her mouth quirked. “Superman?”
“Yes, that was it.” He rolled his eyes. “Flying without wings…ridiculous.”
A snicker escaped before she could help it. “I’m surprised you haven’t nixed all comic book movies.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I do try to be fair. Besides, I could hardly refuse given that it was one of my decrees that led to a regular movie night.”
Her eyes widened. “You make decrees?”
“We are not a democracy.”
She stared at him with a fixed expression. He leaned forward, his tone softening.
“It would be prudent for me to mention that the rules clan members follow are distinct from the ones we apply to guests. The clan strictly observes a coda of hospitality not unlike some Middle Eastern cultures. As long as you do not abuse our generosity or intentionally compromise the homestead’s safety, you will be quite safe.”
“And if I unintentionally compromise it?” she asked, chest tight.
“We will make sure that doesn’t happen.” He leaned forward without bending at the waist. “Did you sell them your blood? Is that how they’re tracking you?”
Valeria’s face flamed. “I’m not that stupid.”
He leaned back in his chair. “My apologies for offending you. It’s just that you said—”
She held up a hand. “I know. Although the offers were tempting, I’ve never actually sold my blood or hair.”
Valeria hesitated. “Well, to tell the truth, I did sell blood once and I did say it was mine, but I was lying.”
She stared down at the table. Her mother wouldn’t have felt shame about her deception, especially under those circumstances. But Valeria had never felt comfortable with the incident.
Yet, you did it.She had needed the money.
A large warm hand covered hers. Flinching, she snatched her hand back.
Rhys froze, his hand suspended over hers. “My apologies. I should know better than to touch without permission.”
He straightened in his seat, his face wiped clean of all emotion. “What about the hair that was taken by force?”
A corner of her mouth turned up. “I got it back.”
She’d had to burn down a derelict building to do it, but that she did not feel guilty about.
“Then how do you believe they are tracking you?”
She shrugged. “Persistence mainly. Some of our kind are good at tracking. Others who aren’t have outsourced the effort. I’ve been hunted by Fae and shifters. More recently one of those witches got close enough to mark me with a trace but I found it—eventually—and broke the hex. But I wasn’t able to get far enough away after, and they ran me down in that alley. You know the rest.”
“Your lack of resources must be a factor,” he observed.
“Yes,” she said stiffly. “I wanted to speak to you about that. Is there a way to earn money here?”
She fought the urge to cringe. Ravenna had never understood where Valeria got the stubborn streak of pride that made it difficult to borrow or scam people for cash.
“If you need to lie, cheat, or steal to survive, you do it,” her mother had argued whenever Valeria’s conscience had balked at a distasteful task. “No hunter will be merciful because you were honest in your dealings.”
Thinking of her mother depressed her spirits, but Rhys’ voice cut her reverie short. “Money will not be a concern here. You will not need it so long as you are our guest.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “But what if I wanted to earn some while I was here?”
Without funds, she’d never be able to leave, and she wouldn’t steal any of the glittering antiques she saw on almost every surface.
Despite Ravenna’s best efforts, Valeria had her pride.
“I know this may be something of a disappointment for a witch of your rare talent, but we do not need spells or any enchantments—I know many of your kind sell their services in this way. I’m afraid we don’t trade with the kinds of people who would buy such things. It would expose our location and that is something we just don’t do.”
“I wasn’t thinking of selling spells.” Doing that sort of thing had exposed them to danger too often. It might have even been the reason her mother was dead.
Wait. What had he said? “Fire wielders are not that rare,” she said, wondering what he had meant.
Yes, it was an atypical talent for a witch, unless they had Fae blood.
Rhys hesitated. He fingered the rim of his glass. “But fire-wielding is not the natural form your magic takes, is it?”
Valeria feigned confusion, willing her heart to stop racing. “Of course it is. You saw me do it in the alley. Sanaa knows that. She said as much when I woke it. It seemed to please her.”
The dragon’s sculpted lips parted. “Sanaa assumed after she heard the details of what happened, and I didn’t correct it. But I was there. I felt those flames…and I know that was not your fire. It was mine.”