The Vampire & Her Witch

Owain stooped briefly to retrieve the knife, ignoring Jocelynn’s obvious distress as he moved to the table against the wall and retrieved a small iron pot with a fitted lid that looked frightfully familiar to Jocelynn. The metal of the pot was blackened with age and use, and when Owain lifted the cover, steam rose from within, carrying with it the smell of thin porridge and something meaty and intensely unsavory.

Jocelynn’s stomach turned the instant the scent reached her nose. She knew that smell. Knew the sight of the grey, unidentifiable chunks of meat floating in the watery oats. She’d been served that exact meal on her first morning in the dungeons after spending a night shivering and wet from the bucket of water Percivus had dumped on her the night before. And, as much as she hated herself for it later, she had forced herself to eat it despite not knowing what the meat was, willing to trade away her rings and jewelry for anything that would fill her empty stomach.

At the time, she believed that she had no other choice, that she’d need the strength to continue to resist Percivus’s merciless torment. Now, however, she wished she’d never tried to bargain with the man. After all, no matter how skilled of a negotiator she’d become under her father’s tutelage, Percivus renegotiated deals whenever it suited him, and the promises he made were never quite the ones she thought she’d heard.

”I have an offer for you, Inquisitor,” Owain said, approaching Percivus with the pot in hand. ”A simple one, really. Eat this meal, all of it, and we’ll spare your life. Your men were very generous about making sure that you had something to eat, you know, and I want to honor that. Or, refuse, and... well, I’m sure Lady Jocelynn would appreciate the opportunity to show you the same mercy you showed her cousin, Eleanor.”

Owain reached up with one hand and unbuckled the leather strap holding the gag in place with practiced ease, pulling the wad of cloth from Percivus’s mouth and tossing it aside with a look of mild disgust. The Inquisitor worked his jaw for a moment, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and clear, lacking any trace of fear or desperation.

”I was wondering how long you would drag this out before allowing me to speak,” Percivus said calmly as his hazel eyes examined Owain from head to toe before doing the same to Jocelynn. ”You didn’t disappoint me, young Lord Owain. Not one bit. You play the game exactly as well as I expected you would,” he said as he returned his gaze to the young lord.

”Game?” Owain scoffed. ”This isn’t a game, Percivus,” he said, refusing to address the man as ’Inquisitor.’ ”This is your last chance to save your miserable life,” he said, holding up the pot of thin porridge with its dubious grey meat. ”So will you eat and save your life? Or will you die here in this cell, the same way you let Eleanor die?”

”No.”

The single word of refusal hung in the air, flat and final.

”No?” Owain asked, his predatory smile faltering slightly as he grew frustrated with the Inquisitor. ”You understand what I’m offering, don’t you? Eat, and live. It’s a generous bargain, considering what you’ve done. Surely a mighty Inquisitor can manage something so trivial in order to preserve your own life. Or does your pride get in the way of doing the most sensible thing?” Owain taunted.

”I understand perfectly, Lord Owain,” Percivus said, his tone that same clinical detachment he’d used when interrogating prisoners and heretics. ”But I wonder if you do? Whether you do or not, the answer is still ’no.’

”You’re playing at my own games,” the Inquisitor continued. ”Likely thinking that if you force me to participate in this mockery, I’ll somehow be broken by it. That I’ll suffer the same humiliation I inflicted on your little mistress, and justice will somehow be served. Or vengeance will be satisfied, since it seems like you’re at least honest with yourself about what you’re doing.”

”But we both know that whether I eat your porridge or refuse it makes no difference to my ultimate fate,” Percivus concluded, shaking his head at Owain as if the young lord were a disappointing pupil. ”This isn’t about my survival. This is about your need to feel powerful, to assert dominance over the man who hurt someone, or something rather, that you consider to be yours.”

”Then you choose death,” Owain said, his voice hardening as he glared at the Inquisitor, half tempted to smash the small iron pot of tongue porridge into the man’s face.

”I choose to negotiate,” Percivus corrected calmly. ”Because, unlike you, young Lord Lothian, I understand the larger game being played here. And I have faith. Not just in the Holy Lord of Light and the Church who serve Him, but in simple human nature. You won’t kill me, Lord Owain, for the same reason that your father called for my help and the Church makes use of my skills,” he said confidently.

Hanging from an iron ring in the ceiling, stripped to nothing but his loincloth and covered with half a dozen small wounds, Percivus somehow still managed to sound like a man who was completely in control of the situation. It was as if he were a priest of dungeons, a missionary of the dark places where mankind gave vent to some of their darkest impulses, and nothing in this place could harm him.

When he spoke, despite the chains that bound him, he sounded like a preacher at the pulpit, addressing a wayward member of his flock and correcting his path through the darkness.

”You’re not a wasteful man, Lord Owain,” Percivus said with the first hint of genuine emotion he’d displayed since Owain and Jocelynn entered the dungeon cell. ”And you’ll soon understand how much of a waste it would be to end my life...”