As Adriana’s eyes began to fill with tears, Thomas raised a hand to brush a finger delicately across her cheek. “You are so strong,” he softly spoke, once again somehow understanding exactly how she felt without her having to explain. “Your kindness and your heart are so strong. Never forget that. Never forget that where there is love, there will always be a home.” He kissed her forehead as he rose and made his way to the staircase.
Adriana grabbed his hand before he could leave, a thousand questions and worries darting through her mind. She knew that Thomas wouldn’t budge, even if she pushed and prodded for more, he would not tell her whatever it was they were keeping secret. And so instead, she settled on the first question she’d had earlier.
“Who is the other man, the one great-grandmother spoke of? She told me you were one of the two best men she knew. You called him a moody bastard.”
Thomas doubled over, cackling at Adriana’s choice of words. “I suppose I should have been more careful with my cursing around you,” he said as he ruffled her hair. “She was talking about the leader of the Lamia Court, the founder of the Courts of Daemonium. Alexander Duran.”
Adriana lay restless in her bed that night. Her hand ached from the lines her governess made her write when she returned to her lesson with her head sheepishly angled down.
She longed for her great-grandparents to return so she could ask them more questions. How had their meeting fared? What was their reasoning for bringing it forward? Why had Striga seemed so reluctant to go?
She had met several Lupi, including Thomas’ friends and their relatives at her family’s ball a few years back. They had been an odd group, clearly the majority of them were not ones for formal dances, but had been lovely nonetheless. She’d even managed to gather the confidence to ask some of the younger Lupi to show her their wolf forms, something which her father had scolded her for after, calling her reckless.
She’d also met Striga’s sister, Divina, a while ago. She was a tiny woman with bright green eyes that shone against her black skin and curly grey hair that framed her petite face. She’d been most excited to meet the strange relative that never left her manor, but that excitement soon faltered into nerves afterDivina took one look at Adriana and began to mutter words she could not understand. Striga had heard, and though a look of panic quickly flashed over her face, she did not disclose what had been said.
But Adriana had never met a Lamia. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to, for they were the most feared Daemons in the stories told in children’s tales and in Striga’s history lessons. But she was a curious child with a curious mind.
It was that same curiosity that led her to the cellar later that night. As she had finally begun to fall asleep, she heard raised voices from outside. She could hear her great-grandmother shouting, along with two other male voices she did not recognise. But it was the screaming that alarmed her. A howling shriek that sounded like someone, or something, was in immense pain.
She watched out her window as three figures dragged a fourth towards the house, thrashing in their grip. She watched as one of the figures, her great-grandmother, stepped away to open the hatch to the cellar under the house. They brought the screaming creature beneath the building, shutting the hatch door and leaving the night quiet once more.
Adriana couldn’t hear the screams anymore, but it was as if she could feel them rattle the very walls of her room. Whoever it was—whateverit was—they were in huge amounts of pain, and they were very strong.
She slipped on her robe over her nightgown and carefully tiptoed down the spiral staircase to the servants quarters, where there was another door that led to the cellar. She pressed her ear against it to try to hear what they were saying but could not understand anything from muffled whispers of Striga and the two men being drowned out by the pained cries.
She heard them open the hatch door and watched through the windows as the three of them stepped into the night, walkingacross the gardens and beyond the trees. They had left the fourth person down there, she realised.
She knew she should have gone back to bed. If her great-grandmother had left something in the cellar then it was unlikely she wanted it to be found. But once again, curiosity got the better of Adriana, and she found herself unlatching the door and taking the first few steps down.
She heard a deep voice whimpering, not in the way that a babe whines for food, but in the way a predatory animal struggles to get out of a trap. Her foot slipped slightly, causing the stairs to creak, echoing across the cellar. The sounds stopped, and the room was silent.
“Who is there?” a deep voice rang out from the middle of the cellar. Adriana could feel the great power the voice held, his words sending a chill down her spine and settling in her mind. “I suggest you come out of the shadows, they do not appreciate being used as a hiding place.”
Adriana could feel the shadows around her moving, their touch cold and smooth against her. She should have been scared, but she found herself soothed by their caresses. “I am not afraid,” she said as strongly as she could.
“Then show yourself.”
She took a deep breath, balanced her emotions to feel connected to the air around her and the ground beneath her feet as Striga had once taught her, and took the final steps down the staircase. As she rounded the corner, she looked to the owner of the voice.
A man lay strapped down to the wooden table in the centre of the room, his face illuminated by the moonlight. His dark hair was a mess of curls, his clothes torn and bloodied, and his arms carried dark swirling patterns that looked just like the shadows dancing around him.
Then she noticed his hands. His fingernails had grown into talons that gripped the sides of the table. Chunks of wood were missing, presumably where he had clawed at it. She then studied his face. His eyes were void of any colour, only black was visible, as if his pupils had grown too large. His ears were pointed and poked out of his hair when he moved his head to get a better look at her.
She recognised him, the man in the shadows. Even in his Lamia form she recognised him from the portraits Thomas had shown her of the Courts. The most ruthless immortal creature, the strongest Daemon to exist, was strapped down to a table in her family’s cellar.
Alexander Duran.
Chapter three
The Man in the Shadows
Xander
Xander watched the small girl step out of the shadows and into the moonlight of the cellar, his eyes following her movements inquisitively, the way a predator watches its prey. She was so small, so fragile, so breakable.
It would be so easy to tear through her flesh with his teeth. A few steps closer on her part and the distance between them would vanish, he’d merely have to lean over to reach her. He could already feel the phantom sensation of the warm rush of blood on his tongue, the delicate sound of skin popping as his fangs pierced through.
But he liked a challenge. Perhaps he would spin a story to convince the naive little girl to break him free of the bonds so he could place his hands around her neck. He could crushher delicate windpipe ever so slowly. It would be beautiful, the way he would silence the vibrant life that shone in her strange greyish-blue eyes.
