she understood now. No matter her memories, Jissa hadn’t survived the massacre in her village. The Blood Sorcerer had a spell he called Slumber. Such an innocuous name for such an evil thing. He used it on those magical creatures who were pure of blood and yet rare. Rather than murdering them when he might already be swollen with power, he broke their necks but whispered a spell at the moment of death that kept them breathing and slumbering.
Liliana had been locked in a room with her father’s victims once, but it hadn’t horrified her as he’d intended. She’d been grateful, her magic telling her the beings no longer possessed their souls. They had escaped. But not Jissa. Whatever her father had done to her, it had trapped her in this borderland between life and death. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Confusion. “You aren’t the Blood Sorcerer. No, you’re not.”
Knives in Liliana’s chest, the lies of omission choking her up.
Jissa spoke again. “There are meats in the cold box. I can—”
“No. No meat on the table.” Her own blood would be the only blood she would ever spill. Her father had delighted in forcing her to watch as he took his time torturing and mutilating creature after magical creature. It was when she was six that he’d begun to whisper spells that forced her to do the same vile acts even as she screamed and screamed and screamed.
Four more years it had taken until she’d grown strong enough to block his spells with her own. That was when he’d started to hurt the servants who dared to speak with her, to offer her any small kindness—all except the cook. So she had learned to remain silent.
“Oh.” Jissa’s brow furrowed, her sharp little teeth biting into her lower lip. “Meat, he always eats the meat,” she whispered. “Even I, bad cook I, can’t make it taste that terrible.”
“Never fear, Jissa,” Liliana said, kneading the dough with determined hands, her mind on eyes of winter-green, so very beautiful, so very deadly. “He’ll never notice the lack.”
The dinner bell rang loud and sonorous. Seated alone at the head of a massive table of polished wood so dark it was near black, the Guardian of the Abyss raised his cup and took a sip of red wine. “Where is my meal, Bard?” he asked, though he wasn’t looking forward to the food that didn’t deserve the name.
If Jissa weren’t already dead, he was sure he would have executed her long ago for attempting to starve him. Of course today it was his new prisoner who would face his wrath. He wondered if she would look him in the eye when he sentenced her to another night in the dungeon.
“I will see, my lord.” The big man turned to open the door … to reveal the prisoner, Liliana, and Jissa standing there with huge trays in their arms.
“Thank you,” Liliana said with a smile that was much too wide. “We couldn’t open the door.” And then she was walking into the great hall with that halting stride of hers, her face brutally exposed given that she’d pulled her hair back.
Again, he found himself fascinated by his strange prisoner.
Placing her tray on the table and waiting for Jissa to do the same, she whipped off the covers from the dishes and moved to serve him. “This,” she said, placing a small round tart on his plate, “is not my best work, but you didn’t give me much time, my lord. Jissa tells me the dinner bell rings early today.”
He picked up the tidbit, wondering if all her food came in so small a portion. And if her words were meant to warn him that she’d lied about her ability to cook. If she had, he would have to send her back to the dungeon. Lines furrowed his forehead. He was intrigued enough by her that he wanted her around, but he couldn’t spare her—he was the Guardian of the Abyss. Mercy was a weakness he’d never had. Though perhaps he would ask Bard to give her a blanket.
“Well, my lord? Will you not eat it or are you afraid I will poison you?” A question as tart as the miniscule bite he held in hand.
He considered punishing her for her impertinence, decided she was likely feebleminded and didn’t know any better. “The Guardian of the Abyss cannot die.”
She tucked a stiff strand of hair behind her ear. “But only while you are within this castle.”
Amused by her, he decided to answer. “No. While I am in this realm.”
“I see.” Something whispered in the depths of her eyes, and he wondered if she was a very clever spy, come to assassinate him.
But who would dare raise a blade against the Lord of the Black Castle? And why would they send this creature so weak and small and strange? Ridiculous. With that, he ate the tart.
An explosion of flavors—sweet and fresh and spicy and—”What else have you made?” Swallowing the tiny tidbit, he waited with impatience as she served him two more of the same.
Then came the soup so clear and with round little green things in it that she told him were pieces of “spring onion.” He blinked, having the sudden, nagging feeling that he hated onion. But that was an inexplicable thought—he ate what Jissa made, but then Jissa’s food had no taste. “This is meant to feed me?”
“Try it, my lord.”
He didn’t bother with the spoon. Picking up the bowl, he drank.
And drank.
And drank.
There was a large square of something made of many layers in front of him when he finished the soup and set the bowl to the side. This time, he didn’t question, simply picked up the fork and took a bite.
Cheese and a thin pastry and peppers and cabbage, tomatoes and other things, spices he couldn’t name but that burst to life on his tongue with flickering heat. He cleared his plate with swift relish. “What is next?”
She spooned rice, soft and fluffy, onto his plate, before covering it with some kind of a stew, except that it was full of chunks of different vegetables that turned it into a storm of color. “Where is the meat?”
Putting down the bowl, his peculiar little prisoner folded her arms. “I won’t cook it. If you wish for meat, you may ask Jissa to do so.”
He was the Lord of the Black Castle and of the Abyss. He wasn’t used to being defied. But he was also not used to eating food that made him eager to see the next course. So he tried this vegetable stew over rice. It was a thick, flavorsome concoction that lay warm and satisfying in his belly. Finishing the food, he pushed away the plate. “You will cook for me.”
A slight nod—as if she had a choice in the matter. “I didn’t have time to prepare a proper dessert, my lord, but I hope this will do.”
She put slices of fruit in front of him, plump and fresh, alongside a small pot of something sweet and rich, with a scent that made his nostrils flare. “What is this?”
A faint smile. “Try it, my lord.”
He hadn’t been the recipient of any kind of a smile for so long that something creaked and crashed open inside of him as he looked into her face. “No, you will tell me,” he said in a harsh tone, suddenly no longer amused.
She didn’t flinch. “Honey with a bit of vanilla and some spices. It is sometimes called nectar.”
