Chapter Sixteen –
The Wolf and His Fair Prey:
Lord Valdeth and Princess Elowyn Have a Waltz
When the Princess Odessa-Gadriel had presented her young faery relative to her veritable army of handmaidens with the command to transform her into what would prove to be none but the most dazzling of royal debutantes, there was a mixture of apprehension, reluctance, and anticipation in the air. The ladies glanced at one another, in questioning silence.
It could not be denied that it would be a most wonderful task of turning the faery princess out into the masses of guests at the upcoming Embassy Ball, to be gazed upon and admired by all…but then, there was her rather checkered past with attempts towards making her a court lady, a beauty of royal blood with a wardrobe, comportment, and face to match…
"Make her feel beautiful," were Odessa-Gadriel's last words in her speech to them, and that clinched it. The Elven ladies would make the Princess Elowyn a court beauty.
The process was long and arduous, but incredibly intriguing, Elowyn found. The whole horde of them descended on her like moths seeking the light of a lantern, and, instead of worming her way out of their midst and running as if the lords of the underworld were after her soul, she remained where she was and let them go to work.
And it wasn't at all as she had imagined…
First, they combed out her glorious long hair and worked all sorts of wonderful-smelling products into it; they were 'preparing it', they told her, 'for the later work.' Well, this wasn't unpleasant at all, and she let herself be almost lulled off to sleep by the massaging touch of the handmaids' fingers on her head. Then came the lotions, the oils and perfumes, until she felt as if she were walking in a veritable cloud of sweet fragrances: rose, gardenia, bergamot, and a thousand others. Her fingernails were filed and buffed until they gleamed, and then the one painful part of the whole ordeal – the eyebrow plucking, which she would always remember with a shudder.
She had always hated this: all the fluff and fuss, the ruffles and baubles and constraints – but, now that she had been forced by inestimable Fate to change her ways, she was beginning to realize that she really did love what she had thought she had despised all along.
In her case, such a principle – of hating and then loving something – applied to fashion and appearances alone, she told herself.
Didn't it?
Of course it did.
They tried out a hundred different looks of accenting makeup on her features: never once actually letting Elowyn see herself in a mirror, for they wanted to save the surprise for her until the very last – which would be the grand Embassy Ball, six days away. In the meantime, she was fitted and created a whole new wardrobe…of gowns.
Gowns, the very articles of clothing that she had, for so long, despised; and all were full-skirted, elaborate-sleeved, jewel-ridden affairs, with undergarments, jewelry, headpieces, and shoes to match. The colours and textures blurred before her eyes, and she could only do but one thing – nod yes: yes, yes, with increasing delight and interest as the materials and accents and styles were paraded before her in one long, seemingly endless train. How surprised Robbie and Sala will be when they come, she thought…
And slowly, the night of the Embassy Ball approached.
Elowyn felt that that moment couldn't have come soon enough, when her special group of handmaidens came to collect her from her walk in the gardens, with Orpheus strolling along at her side. Whirling around her in a haze of pastel silk and flying hands, they swept her up and bore her along with them into her rooms, where she bathed and had her makeup and hair done for the night's events. The look was to be dramatic but shimmering, she was told.
Then, they brought out the gown.
Elowyn recalled how, in all of the stories of her predecessor heroines of family and friends, there had always been at least one gown: The Gown.
And now, she was looking hers in the face.
Of silver velvet, it was, and accented with sparkling white tulle and a deep, velvety blue satin that was as dark as the night sky. Gems of diamonds and sapphires and pearls were scattered all about it on the sleeves and elaborate skirt, and its voluminous train swept out to at least two feet behind her, whispering secrets whenever she moved. The ornately detailed bodice came away from her shoulders, framing her bosom becomingly, edged with lace; its sleeves were tight until just above her elbow, and then poured down, full and elegant, to a point far below her fingertips.
Her hair was studded with gems, piled in all of its curls atop her head, with a ribbon of that same sapphire blue tied around it as well. The final touch of the glamorous outfit was her jewelry: a diamond and sapphire necklace that emphasized the gracefulness of her swan-like neck, the perfect proportions of her head face, and the soft curves of her young figure.
Here was the Princess: Elowyn of Avalennon.
She gazed at herself in the mirror, and – for a single moment – all the darkness and uncertainties and fears of her life at that time fled away, like bats from a bell tower at dawn.
Is this me?
She could hardly believe it, but it was. The bold, adventuresome, free-spirited Princess Elowyn had always been beautiful, although she had never felt it: dazzling and fair as the first day of a new Spring…but now she saw before her the fair creature who was within, the Princess Elowyn that could be, when she so desired.
The Princess Elowyn who she had dreamed of being, deep within her heart.
She turned round and looked at the ring of handmaids who stood around her; all of them had tears in their eyes, and were smiling in unabashed pride and happiness. Elowyn heard the noise of swishing skirts, from behind them, and looked to see Odessa-Gadriel, just as she entered the room. The Elven princess stopped and gazed at her: full red lips curving, her eyes sparkling knowing and proud. Elowyn smiled at her, in pure ecstatic joy.
"Thank you," she told them all. "Thank you so much…"
You've no idea how grateful I am to you…
And a fleeting thought passed through her head then: one that was pushed firmly, immediately aside…I wonder what He would think of me…
* * *
The ball was just getting underway when Elowyn made her way onto the jade-accented dais upon which the thrones of Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel were to be found. Skye looked as devastatingly handsome and gallant as always in his tunic and breeches of midnight blue, which had slashes of pure white satin showing through here and there, and embellishments of silver, including the circlet that he wore on his head to signify his rank. Odessa-Gadriel was resplendent and dazzling, as always, in her full-skirted gown of deep wine-red and gold, the jewel-tones of the material matching her perfect complexion and ebony hair, and bringing out the sparkling intensity of her rich emerald green eyes.
Elowyn smiled, happy to see them, and went round to stand in front of the thrones, dipping in a profound, swelling curtsey: ultra-formal faery style. Skye's vivid golden eyes held more than just a hint of surprise when he'd seen her, and then his entire face nearly split in a dazzling white grin. Odessa-Gadriel merely smiled a small, immensely pleased smile, looking on.
"Elowyn!" Skye said, rising to greet her. "You look absolutely stunning! Dearest," he said, turning now to his wife with a rather playful look on his face then, "Whatever did you let your ladies do to her?"
"Only what she requested, my love," was the Elven princess's demure but equally mischievous reply. "Elowyn, I am so glad that you like the dress."
Upon hearing this, Elowyn couldn't help but smile as well. The whole scene – the seemingly theatrical picture of herself, in a lavish ball gown, done up as a regal princess, at a gala ball held in celebration of international friendships and alliances – seemed all too wonderful, and yet still all very real, to her. She knew that, before, she could have never imagined herself there, as she was at that very moment; she had always fought so strenuously against the bonds and rules of society…but now, it was different. She no longer fought…because she had made the choice. She had set her own rules. She didn't have to change; she merely formed a new reality for herself, made an addition to her life. She hadn't been coerced.
She had made the choice.
And how she now loved it!
Her smile lighting her sea green eyes and making them sparkle like jewels, she curtsied again to her two friends, and replied, "Thank you so much, Odessa-Gadriel – and you, as well, Skye. You have been so wonderful to me, this entire time that I've been here…and you have no idea how grateful I am to you, for everything. I can never hope to repay you fully."
Skye held out a hand to Odessa-Gadriel, who rose from her throne, and they both came to stand with Elowyn, forming a circle of the three of them: hands linking.
"You don't even have to think about it," Skye said. "Know this, if you are certain of nothing else, now – we love you, Elowyn: all of us do, and nothing will ever change that."
"Our hearts hold you as more precious than you can imagine," added the other princess, and Elowyn smiled at them both, then reached out and put her arms around both of them.
"And I love you too," she whispered.
Then, they all three assumed their seats – Skye and Odessa-Gadriel in their thrones, looking out upon the guests in the ball room, and Elowyn, in the smaller throne that had been placed behind both of theirs, as an indication of her place of honour as a visiting princess. The ball became more lively and gay as more and more guests arrived, and more songs were whirled out by the full orchestra that was in the royal family's employ. Elowyn sat and watched each dance – each waltz, pavane, minuet, allemande, and a host of others – from her seat behind the two enormous golden thrones. She was content to remain in her secluded spot and simply observe, although she was asked to take a turn on the dance floor several times by various gentlemen.
Her thoughts strayed far and near, focusing at one moment on one particular lady's headdress, to the way the moonlight grazed upon a rose's soft petals just outside the windows nearby, to thinking of her family, to Robbie and Sala's upcoming arrival, to many, many other things. She slowly slipped out of reality, becoming wrapped up in the world of her mind…
And it wasn't until she had heard the voice – heard the greeting it gave to the prince and princess before her – that she noticed the tall, imposing, and strikingly attractive figure who had just materialized out of the crowd of guests, coming to stand on the steps that fronted the dais, making an elegant bow to the pair in front of her.
Then, all at once, her eyes narrowed.
Who are you…
"May the Seven's blessings be ever upon you, Prince and Princess," the guest had said; now, he was straightening from his bow, coming up from it to stand at his full height. He looked to be remarkably tall, even from fifteen feet or so off.
Elowyn found her gaze riveted on him.
She had not yet before seen this person, whomever he was, which meant that he had obviously arrived later than most of the other guests, and was also apparently not of the normal inhabitants of Iordania. Her scrutiny of him revealed an intriguing figure.
His height was, she judged, around the upper level of six-foot range: probably about six foot eight or nine was her decision, and with a figure was properly suited to that height – slender and straight, without being incredibly thin or lanky either, with hints at fine musculature in the bones of his neck and hands. Most of his form was elegantly draped in a long, full-cut black cloak and tunic, the latter of which was some sort of black velvet that glinted a dark maroon colour in the light at times; belted with leather, which showed the slim, tapered waist of its wearer. Its hem reached to a little past his knees, cut on the sides and front to allow greater freedom of movement, revealing the black breeches and boots that he wore underneath it. Its sleeves were also full-cut, with a tighter-fitting shirt of pure black velvet underneath, the cuffs of which came down low over his gloved hands, and the neckline of which came up high on his neck.
And his face – that face!
It was coincidence, that was all, she tried to tell herself; it had to be true that there was more than one person in her entire world who resembled another person…it was possible that someone could, in all truth, have an appearance similar to Him – she was just spooking herself, making herself see things, think things, that were not, in reality, what she thought…
But that face!
He – whomever he was – had certainly the most unnervingly handsome face that she had ever seen, in complete concordance with his figure. And this was saying quite a lot, for all of her life, Elowyn had been surrounded by the most beautiful people in Evyrworld as a whole. His features were proud and bold, masculine with a fairness that took her breath away. There was a sort of knowledge, an inner, secret mysteriousness and intelligence, wit and subtle sarcasm, in his features: his eyes were outlined by dark lashes, overshadowed by sweeping brows that quirked perfectly in their darkness, watchful and piercing in the midst of his broad, high forehead.
She could not tell what colour those eyes were…
His chin was flawlessly sculpted, down to the chiseled, romantic dip in its center, and he had, she realized, the very fullest lips that she had ever seen – marked with a scar on the right side of his upper lip, giving him a roguish and dashing look as his mouth curved in a smile, etching into the corners of itself. Good cheekbones, she noted, with slight indentations under his eyes that appeared as he smiled, a strong, prominent nose that looked as if it might have had a run-in with blunt force sometime in the distant past, nevertheless extremely attractive.
He moved well also: graceful and elegant, self-assured with an edge of some sort, almost as if he were daring the world to confront him. The gestures that he made with those long, slender hands, underneath their gloves, were fluid and poised, as if their owner had no doubts as to his own accomplishments and strengths whatsoever.
And his head was totally shaven – utterly bereft of any hair whatsoever.
Elowyn leaned forward, ever so slightly, trying to see his eyes; if anything would tell her the truth, it would be his eyes. Part of her desperately wanted to know…but part of her was shrinking back, trying to escape, to hide, crying out: No! No, it's impossible! It cannot be – it cannot be! No, the shadows cannot return – make them go away – LEAVE ME BE!
And then, out of her whirling delirium, came Skye's voice, replying in a cordial but somewhat perplexed tone, "And you as well. Whom may we have the pleasure of welcoming into our realm of Iordania?"
The specter – for, surely, that is what the figure that she saw before herself had to be: only yet another bad dream, a haunting, a wraith of her own tormented imagination and mind – swept another elaborate bow, and straightened: an utterly charming and somehow mischievous smile playing about his full lips. Not only did he have good features, Elowyn's mind told her: in an offbeat moment of thought, he also had the look of one who is neither young nor old, but somehow both. His eyes seem as if they could tell of the history of the world, and yet his face is one of a boy as young as me…
"I am Lord Valdeth of Isinvaele, emissary of Premier Rensellus – who sends his best wishes for your continued well-being and the eternal prosperity of your rule."
His voice was frighteningly familiar. She was slipping further and further into one realization, which determined all – she knew this person, this Lord Valdeth.
Skye, meanwhile, had turned his head to glance briefly at Odessa-Gadriel, who barely noticeable raised a dark, curving eyebrow, returning his questioning look. Skye looked back to the figure who stood on the steps before them, and replied, "Ah yes – the ruler of the vampyres who make their dwelling in the distant west. We are pleased to have an emissary of his with us."
Valdeth, if that was indeed his true name, as Elowyn doubted it wasn't, inclined his head to the side, in an urbane show of respect and recognition. He had, she noticed, a very cool, but rather smirk-like expression on his face then – it could still pass for the charming smile of the moment before, but it had altered somehow, to her. Secretly.
Then, from Odessa-Gadriel: "You will be sojourning in our city with our other guests for some time, we hope, Lord Valdeth?"
And the vampyre nobleman turned to her with the most gallant and chivalrous air imaginable about him. In his voice that was not quite tenor and not quite baritone, dry and cultured with a tinge of wit that could surely be incredibly scathing and sharp, he told her, "That may be as may be, your Graciousness. I am flattered by your invitation."
The shaven head turned back, centering the gaze of those unreadable eyes back on both of the thrones again, and for the first time that evening, Elowyn rued having let them place her there, directly behind the two thrones, in perfect view of everyone.
"We are honoured to have all our guests." Skye said, in answer to his words.
Valdeth inclined his head once again: lashes flickering down to veil his impenetrable gaze, full lips curving ever so slightly.
"But of course." And then, of course – the inevitable happened. He raised his head and looked directly past the thrones, past the prince and princess, to Elowyn: his gaze piercing straight and unflinching into her eyes. In that moment, she knew just who she was looking at. For his eyes were silvery gray, with flecks – hints – of violet in their depths…
The dark eyebrows rose.
"Ah, and this fair creature who lurks here behind the thrones, looking as if she had much rather be off in a library somewhere, curled up with only a book for company – this must be the famed Princess Elowyn, daughter of the Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada of Avalennon."
Elowyn stood.
It didn't matter why he was here, or how he had come – nothing mattered now, except that he was here; he had followed her, when haunting her every waking and dreaming hour had proved not enough for him to torment her. And her anger knew no bounds.
But, very carefully masking that anger, she stepped around Skye and Odessa-Gadriel's thrones, coming to stand at the very front of the dais, just above the first step down. Looking down, straight into the face of the vampyre nobleman who stood before her, she scanned his features: searching, knowing, and very coldly. Finally, then, she spoke.
"When came you to this realm, Lord Valdeth?" Her tone was like breaking ice.
The liquid-mercury eyes gazed back into hers: unhesitating, unafraid, cool, and completely unreadable, although they, in turn, scanned across her face as well.
"Only this very night, fair one."
"Then tell me – what road did you take?"
Enigmatically, and knowingly, purposefully so, she thought: "One that led me o'er hill and dale, and through many a dark, twisted wood."
Many a dark, twisted wood indeed – now tell me, do you simply want me to trap you?
Sea green eyes narrowing even more, Elowyn inquired of him, coldly and evenly, her voice utterly devoid of any motion but for suspicion and dislike, "And what can you tell me of such forests?"
Valdeth stood back, straightening to his full height again, and seemed to tower over her, even though she was standing above him on the dais, and was wearing high-heeled slippers.
Elowyn glared at him.
I know who you are!
"Only that they are even as labyrinthine and shadowy as they are made out to be in the stories we tell…" he replied. Then, even more cryptically, but playful at the same time, "And that they may be very threatening – if one has no guide."
And on that note, he lapsed into silence and they stood there: staring at one another, Elowyn's eyes full of loathing, fulminating in her anger; his, cool and calm and as totally unreadable as before.
The moment stretched on, wordless and seemingly bound for infinity.
Then, finally, Odessa-Gadriel asked her young cousin, "Elowyn…what kind of puzzle are you putting to Lord Valdeth?"
Elowyn stared at the vampyre in silence, with still narrowed eyes, for a moment longer, and then she replied, without taking her eyes off of him, "One of wolves and men." Then, looking at her guardians, she said, in a murmur, "Excuse me, milord – milady."
And she turned and left the dais, sweeping in a whirl of whispering skirts, gently stirring curls of pale gold, and a breeze of perfume, right past Lord Valdeth. She disappeared into the crowd, her beautiful silver figure melting into its masses even as they all three looked on. Valdeth watched her go: his eyes the only part of him to move. Yet another long, silent moment passed – then, at length, Skye spoke again, making an attempt to fill in the uncomfortable gap.
"We hope that you will enjoy the ball, Lord Valdeth."
The vampyre's eyes seemed to have focused on something – more specifically, someone: a certain medium-height, golden-haired and perilously fair young princess, to be exact – and he didn't reply for a beat. Then, returning to his former charming and elegant self within that exact same instant, he turned back to the prince and princess, a bright smile cascading across his handsome features: fully exposing the set of straight white teeth that resided behind his lips, along with their sharp, curved incisors – vampyre fame.
"I thank you, your Graces. I will."
With that, he bowed once again to them, and made his departure.
* * *
The song that the orchestra was now playing was one that Elowyn remembered well: for years, as a child, she had lain awake in her bedroom and listened to the sounds of laughter, music, and general gaiety coming from the rooms beneath her own chamber – the noises of the various balls and other events that had been held at Avalennon. As an adolescent, she had always shunned such events, having preferred to run off to her room, the Tower of Lore, or one of the many libraries, to read a book and shut out the noise of the formalities that she so deplored.
But the songs were still there, inside her mind, ingrained in her consciousness…
Now, as she stood in the wings of the ballroom, just to the side of the dance floor, almost completely under the shadows of the pillars that lined the space, she watched the couples that were twirling about on the marble floor, listening to the music.
But her thoughts were elsewhere.
He was there; he had come for her.
Her train of thought was interrupted by the sense that someone was standing behind her: quite close at hand, actually. She could feel the warmth radiating off of his body. Preparing herself for battle and ignoring the frisson of fear that went through her entire frame, she clenched her teeth and flexed her fingers; then she turned.
The sight that greeted her, upon her movement, was a conjured picture of a wood: trees, undergrowth, ground, and all, were there, with shafts of golden sunlight piercing through the heavily foliated canopy overhead. A flickering shadow went through the dark lines of the trees, however – a wolf, lurking about in the shadows. Then, the vision disappeared in a burst of sparkling golden shards, destroyed by a gesture from the hands of its maker.
Elowyn looked up. Her eyes initially met the broad, flat expanse of a masculine chest, and slowly climbed up and up until she saw powerful shoulders, a throat, a neck, a chin – and at last, the shadowy face. Lord Valdeth's voice: cool, tainted with a velvety arrogance, and yet still dry and sarcastic as ever, cynical, cut through the air to her.
"Can a soul truly find comfort in wandering from the marked path and indulging in wild flowers?" he questioned her, putting a riddle of his own to her this time. "For their beauty will last in memory alone – they have nothing to do but fade and wither away, as time touches them."
Elowyn raised a questioning, arched eyebrow: as cool and haughty as he.
"Fleeting pleasures are memories, it is true," she replied. "But they can be forgotten."
"Or made much of," was his rejoinder.
Then he moved, stirred in the shadows, coming now to stand in front of her, so that the light hit upon the back of his head, highlighting those features that she now knew she recognized so well – for in the shadows was all she had ever seen him, before…
He smiled.
"Would the princess honour me with a dance?"
A gloved hand extended itself to her.
Elowyn glared at the black-leather palm and then up at its owner. With exceeding coldness, she answered, "Why would she stoop to such a thing?"
"That is for her to decide…" he told her. "But – she might enjoy it."
Oh you!
And she could do naught to resist – she was forced to let him lead her out onto the dance floor. There, they assumed the waltz position: his arm went around her waist, encircling her and drawing her unnervingly close to him, while his other hand clasped hers, his fingers moving to twine with her own as she gathered the skirts of her gown into one hand, in order to keep them out of the way of her feet. She looked up into the face of her partner; still he smiled at her, knowing and arrogant, tormenting her with his every strength.
They began to dance.
Look at the Princess Elowyn, was the whisper that went through the court then – quite a few of the souls present there that night turned to look and wonder at the pair. Look at her: such a beauty…who would have guessed? And the one who is dancing with her – that is the vampyre lord, arrived just this very night, not an hour ago. How beautiful they are together…
Meanwhile, Elowyn was inwardly surging with rage, and she only just hid it from everyone there, although the tight, frigid resistance of her body to his touch told Lord Valdeth just exactly what she was thinking at that moment. They whirled through the other dancers with great ease and grace, moving perfectly as one, but all the while in silence.
Finally, from him: "The princess will not speak to me then – or at least of her own will?"
Elowyn steadfastly denied him the triumph of looking into her face; her eyes riveting on something on the wall, elsewhere, she replied, in a sweet tone that was really fraught with nasty coldness and venom, "I find more pleasures in calculus, you son of a pit-viper."
Her epithet seemed to have merely amused him. For he laughed, velvety and urbane, then commented, "Ah – so not quite as much the diligent scholar then? I think I may see why…"
Again, she refused to look at him, and Valdeth found himself forced to resort to darker methods. Lowering his head so that he could whisper directly into her ear, his lips brushing against her hair, her skin, he murmured his words to her.
"Something so perilously fair – so incredibly, undeniably beautiful, should not be so cold and so angry. You are as lovely as the dawn, as the newborn Spring, Elowyn. Do you not know this? For I can see no one, can behold nothing but you…and yet – what will become of this fair white lily? What ray of the sun will melt the cold frost which guilds its peerless perfection? In time, it must either bloom or die."
Upon hearing this – these words that held either a given fact of the future, or a hardly veiled threat – Elowyn tore her eyes from the floor, from his hand as it rested on her waist, holding her to him, and flicked them up to meet his. Her gaze of sea green jade met his of liquid, silvery mercury, and for a moment, something passed in between them: the mysterious vampyre nobleman, and the beautiful young princess – something that bespoke of more than word-fencing, and more than a simple dislike on her part…
Within a split second, she had taken her hands out of his, locking her fingers around his wrists, and dragged them both off of the dance floor, into the shadows beneath the pillars once more. Valdeth looked at her with a peculiar, unreadable expression on his face, although it could be seen, upon closer scrutiny, that something had just gone through his eyes again – some odd little emotion that could neither be duplicated nor defined.
Elowyn looked him full in the face: white and livid with either rage or fear, perhaps both.
"Do you think that I do not know you, dark one?" she asked him, her voice low and icy. "Can you possibly believe, for even a moment, that I have been unable to see through your mask – this guise?"
Valdeth looked on her with that same unreadable mixture of both light and shadow in his eyes once again, and managed to look convincingly innocent – although not to her.
"Princess!" he said, in a thoroughly wounded and confused tone. "I have put on no charade for you, nor anyone else. Do you not believe me? I told the prince and princess that I am the emissary of a ruler of the vampyres, my race – that I hail from a distant kingdom – betake yourself to ask any of them that came here with me of my identity and credulity, and they will tell you that I am, in truth, none other than Valdeth of Isinvaele."
Still the eyes of gray, flecked with their seemingly alight bits of violet, bored into hers.
"Even my lord himself would tell you the same."
But Elowyn shook her head, standing defiant and cold in his arms.
"Vampyre you may be," she said, slowly and evenly, and she drew closer to him as she said her next words: "That, at least, I doubt not. But I know who you are, and you serve only one true master – yourself. You lie."
"And why would I, Princess?" he asked.
Now he drew nearer to her, and Elowyn put up a hand between them, trying to push him back – to make him distance himself from her; only to have that hand arrested in his cold, vice-like, overpowering grip. Insistently, inexorably, he pressed on: the inescapability of his singular voice mirrored by the pressure of his hand on hers – "Whisper to me now," he said, "Tell me, this very moment, with no delay, no denial, no evasion…why?"
Elowyn wrenched her hand away, pulling hard, and simultaneously flattened her free palm on his chest, pushing him back with a surprising strength. Green eyes flashing, she stepped back: her jaw hard and set, her curving eyebrows made even more severe in their contour by the lightning of anger and loathing that was now in her face.
"Because that, villain," she told him, firmly and coldly, "Is what wolves do."
And again she brushed past him, her skirts whispering secrets – silvery secrets, of both danger and intrigue for that certain vampyre lord – and left him standing in the shadows, alone and bereft of his partner.
Valdeth watched her go, never once moving to follow her but with his eyes. A strange, dark smile slightly curved his full lips, an unnerving light glancing in his eyes.
"I can see that your clarity of perception will create some noteworthy difficulties for me, Princess…" Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, said to the retreating figure of the Princess Elowyn.
"Our game continues…"
* * *
A/N: Criminy. Not a new character after all…sorry, I just had to see if I could play with you all a bit there…but you probably saw it coming, didn't you? ^_^ To the next chapter, and final installation of this, my most recent update… Please r&r!