Page 3 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

Soon, I was stealing away to the library in the middle of the day when I was sure that most of the castle was asleep. I’d devoured all the literature I was able to get my hands on, discovering illusions, conjuration, and even how to lay minor enchantments on my tools to make my life the tiniest bit easier.

Now I wandered between the towering shelves, my fingertips skimming the spines of the books that were nestled against each other. There had to be hundreds of thousands of tomes housed here: historical accounts from the king’s court, religious texts, even romance novels. I stroked the golden lettering of A Guide to Reminiscence, savoring the sensation of the calfskin bindings against my skin.

Setting my tools on the floor, I glanced up and down the deserted chamber, quietly placing Application of Psychal Magic on the Dream State back on its shelf. It was early evening, and most of the nobles would have only just risen for the day. Vampires preferred the evening, finding the sunlight to be rather uncomfortable. And despite the large human population in Valnar, time moved according to the vampires’ schedule. I was confident I wouldn’t be disturbed. My fingertips warmed as magic spilled out of me, bringing my tools to life to begin their work.

I strolled between the bookcases, in step behind the broom as it scratched rhythmically against the carpeted floor. The library was organized, of course, but by whose system I couldn’t tell. The shelves were not labeled, so I would have to sort through the tomes one by one until I found anything more useful about dream magic.

What little light had been seeping through the windows was lost by the time I arrived at the opposite end of the library. I had unearthed a manuscript on oneironautics and was lost in its convoluted prose, the text brimming with words I had never seen before. Unfortunately, though, I feared that dreaming lucidly and being an active participant in my nightmares might do more harm than good.

I sighed dejectedly, tucking a lock of chestnut hair behind my ear as I rounded the corner, reading as I walked. Nine chimes of the bell tower in central Valnar signaled that the day shift was nearing its end. Mrs. Cathers would expect us to report to the kitchens before long.

A cool pulse of surprise washed over me, wrenching me from my reading, and my head snapped up, my book and broom shattering the silence as they clattered to the floor.

A man with black hair lounged in an armchair by the hearth, a weathered tome lying open between his palms. His face was strikingly handsome, with a straight nose and sharp jaw that could have been sculpted from marble. He carried an air about him that was reserved for only the wealthiest and most powerful of Valen. A ruby was nestled into the silver band on his index finger, the gem so large that I could spot it from where I stood. It glowed in the warm light of the fire. Unlike his eyes, which were depthless and black as obsidian.

Shock rattled through me as I realized I had seen his face before. I had caught mere glimpses of him in person on the rare days that he rose before sunset, but I was intimately familiar with his likeness as it was captured in a massive oil portrait in the great hall. I had spent countless hours on my knees beneath its gaze, scrubbing the floor with linseed oil until my muscles ached. And I’d known his name since I was a child in the Outlands.

King Mordric, First Son of King Norrix and Queen Sybil, Ruler of the Realm and Head of the Hellebore Bloodline, among other titles.

His lips parted as if to speak, revealing the sharp tips of his fangs. I instinctively sucked in a breath, the snap of fear I felt a vestige of a time long past when vampires fed on humans for sustenance. And in fairness, they looked fairly lethal up close. Cursing myself silently for my carelessness, I dropped into a low curtsy. The thrum of my pulse was all I heard as I stared at the carpet. Witchcraft was not forbidden in Valen, but I’d learned long ago not to draw attention to myself.

The creak of the armchair was my only warning as he rose. I flinched, holding my breath. But there was only silence.

When I finally lifted my chin, I was alone.

Niamh glanced up as I entered our shared bedchamber, her fingers weaving through the bouquet of black curls that framed her face. “Are you alright?” she asked.

I nodded, the bitter tang of iron on my tongue. I yanked open the top drawer of my rickety nightstand and tucked the book on oneironautics carefully inside. I hadn’t meant to keep it, but so hurried was my flight from the library that I’d forgotten about it completely. “I’m fine,” I replied, disturbing the rushes that stuffed my mattress as I collapsed onto the bed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said. “Nathalie swears there’s one haunting the western staircase.”

I scoffed. “She said the same thing about the broom closet on the third floor, but I’m fairly certain she just overheard two of the footmen enjoying an afternoon tryst.”

She giggled. “Probably. So, what are you doing back here so early?”

I avoided her gaze, my eyes tracing the fissures in the stone above my head. Until today, Niamh had been the only person in Valnar who knew my secret. Vampires were notoriously finicky, and I’d been caught using magic instead of doing my duties like an obedient servant. And by the godsdamn King. I’d read that his forefathers had thrown folk in the dungeons for less. What would he do to me?

“I could ask you the same question,” I said, the tone of my voice a touch higher than normal. “I thought you were cleaning the royal apartments today.”

She shrugged. “I only need a couple hours to do the King’s suite. I feel like lately I’m never assigned to anything else.”

Sitting up, I shot her a wry look, certain that Maxence had more than a little to do with it.

She rose, smoothing her apron over her waist. “Shall we?” she asked.

We padded out of the room, our footsteps echoing against the uneven flagstones as we made our way to the servants’ kitchen. It was simple and utilitarian, unlike the one above our heads where the Master Chef crafted extravagant feasts for the King and his guests. Sometimes, especially on holidays, we might be lucky enough to get their scraps.

The rest of the staff had already arrived for supper, squeezing onto benches at the long, honey-hued tables to take their meal and socialize after yet another long day. I spotted a lone scullery maid absentmindedly stoking the fire beneath a pewter cauldron. The kitchen staff had been working around the clock to prepare for the solstice, and the scent of spiced meats and candied fruits hung in the air even here.

Sliding onto a bench beside Niamh, I eyed the steaming platter of sausages and potatoes warily, my stomach twisting into a knot. Standing at the head of the table, Mrs. Cathers reluctantly shuffled aside to allow Maxence through. Her irritation hung in the air around her like a dark cloud.

“His Majesty’s guests will be arriving from the distant reaches of the kingdom over the next few days,” said Maxence, “and so I’ll take this opportunity to remind you of the importance of decorum.”

I flinched.

“Absolutely no tomfoolery or impropriety will be tolerated, is that understood?”

“A good servant is an invisible one,” barked the housekeeper in support. “If I hear any whispers of trouble, from any of you, you’ll find yourself back on the streets before you can beg me to stay.”