The Vampire & Her Witch

”High Inquisitor,” Diarmuid breathed when he saw Ignatious enter the room.

Diarmuid still hadn’t figured out where he was supposed to sit and he’d been standing somewhat awkwardly to the side as other dinner guests arrived, but the instant he saw Ignatious enter the room, his whole body went stiff and petty concerns seemed to melt away as he came face to face with the vampire who had once been one of the Inquisition’s most storied heroes.

Ignatious might not be carrying his Holy Flame Blade to this gathering, but to Diarmuid, it hardly mattered. Years of reflexes combined with deep admiration and respect, compelling him to kneel in reverence to the man who was thought to have died more than eighty years ago during the Brothers’ War.

”None of that,” Ignatious said gently, moving with inhuman speed to appear before Diarmuid, catching the man by his shoulders and preventing him from kneeling. ”They never bestowed the title of ’High Inquisitor’ on me while I was alive,” he said with a warm, gentle smile that revealed the barest hint of his sharpened fangs. ”And I’m sure I’m even less deserving of it now. Just ’Ignatious’ will do, or ’Sir Ignatious’ if you must, like the rest of Mistress Nyrielle’s progeny.”

For a moment, Diarmuid couldn’t even form words as he stood face to face with Ignatious.

The first thing that struck him was that the vampire looked much younger than he’d expected, as if time had stopped for him when he was in his mid-twenties. But as Diarmuid looked into the other man’s dark eyes, he saw a weight of years rivaled only by the most venerable of priests in the Holy City, or the Saint himself.

The next thought to strike him was to wonder if he’d made a mistake in forsaking his robes when he realized that Ignatious had draped himself in the crimson and gold of the Inquisition. But, looking closer, he quickly realized that despite the familiar cut and color of the High Inquisitor’s robes, they carried none of the familiar icons of the Inquisition.

In place of the Burning Suns that should have trimmed Ignatious’ robes, he wore a much older symbol of a figure-eight made of yellow disks, marking the position the sun traced in the sky at noon during different times of the year.

Similarly, though there were patterns of golden flames embroidered up the lengths of his voluminous crimson sleeves, the design of those flames seemed more complex than anything Diarmuid had ever seen within the walls of the Church, as if they contained secrets he’d never been meant to know.

”You, you really are alive,” Diarmuid stammered as his mind struggled to catch up with all of his observations about the other man. He’d been told that vampires were cold and pale, like corpses, but Ignatious’s complexion was ruddy and healthy, and his hands on Diarmuid’s shoulders were warm enough to give the impression that he’d been sitting close to a hearth just minutes before entering the dining room.

”No, I’m not alive, not anymore,” Ignatious said with a rich, warm laugh as he glanced over his shoulder at Lady Heila’s diminutive figure. ”But I’m not dead either, especially not now that Heila has rescued me from myself.”

”You did the hard work,” Heila disagreed as she walked across the room to join the two men. ”I just gave you a spark. Your flames are yours and yours alone,” she said sweetly as she placed a hand at the small of her lover’s back, standing close enough to him to bask in his warmth.

”I’m sure you have questions,” Ignatious told Diarmuid as he relaxed into Heila’s soft touch. ”If Madame Zedya is willing to move down, you can take the seat next to Sir Ollie,” he said as he gestured to the table. ”I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your company over dinner either.”

”Mistress Nyrielle is going to feel like I’ve abandoned her for Lenny,” Zedya said, her amethyst eyes twinkling with mirth as she wrapped both of her arms around Lennart’s strong, muscular arm, pressing herself close against the bearish man even as she teased her older ’sibling.’

”But I don’t mind,” she added quickly. ”I lost my seat at Mistress Nyrielle’s side when Lady Ashlynn became her Seneschal, and my seat beside Thane when you and Ollie traded places,” she said with an overly dramatic sigh as she led Lennart toward their seats opposite Virve and Isabell. ”I just need Marcel and Wolstan to come home so Lenny and I have company at the far end of the table.”

”Marcel should be home soon,” Thane said as he took his seat opposite Heila, immediately adjacent to the place where Nyrielle would sit at the head of the table. When he did, Ollie had to stop himself from staring at the intricately embroidered tunic the Lord General had chosen to wear over his usual loose-sleeved undershirt.

It wasn’t that it was the first time he’d seen Thane dress up, even though his teacher usually preferred to eschew formality for comfort, even at gatherings of Lady Ashlynn’s war council. It was that Thane’s tunic sported the emblem of a woodsman’s axe, crossed with a sheaf of wheat, representing the Village of Corcan in the easternmost territories of Lothian March that Thane would have ruled nearly a century ago if his family hadn’t been stripped of their titles and lands.

Out of everyone present, Sir Thane was the oldest, and Ollie had learned early on that his mentor never did anything accidentally or casually, no matter how relaxed his manner was, but even he was uncertain why he’d chosen to bring such an old symbol out of the back of his closet on this particular occasion.

”Marcel’s most recent letter arrived yesterday,” Thane continued, relaxing into his chair and leaning back casually as if he were oblivious to Ollie’s shock. ”He had to go all the way to the edge of Keating to find what Lady Ashlynn was looking for, but he’s on his way back.”

”I doubt we’ll see Sir Wolstan until Lady Ashlynn is ready to meet with High Lord Dirar,” Heila added from her seat next to the chair that Ashlynn would soon occupy. ”I’m sure he’s working hard to convince the High Lord not to raid the southern baronies until Lady Ashlynn has had a chance to settle things with the Lothians,” she said, though she deliberately stopped herself from glancing in Loman’s direction when she mentioned the wounded priest’s family.

As far as Heila was concerned, Loman had already been defeated, and any sway his words had in the discussions to come was entirely due to Ashlynn’s generosity. She might have thought differently about the young Lothian Lord if he hadn’t resorted to vile sorcery that consumed the lives of his own followers to launch a futile defense of Hanrahan Town, but she’d lost any ability she might once have had to forgive the young lord when she cared for his victims in the aftermath of that battle.

She could accept that he was here because Lady Ashlynn hoped to make peace with the current rulers of Lothian March when she seized the throne from Bors and his son Owain, but unless Loman could find a way to demonstrate that he’d turned over a new leaf after learning the truth of his Church’s wickedness, she doubted that she would ever be comfortable in his presence.

For now, however, Heila did her best to put the one-armed priest out of her mind. Tonight, Lady Ashlynn wanted to bring them together in celebration of victory and to enjoy a small moment of peace before she made her next move against the Lothians, and Heila wasn’t about to spoil her lady’s plans for the evening.