Throne of the Fallen

CAMILLA PULLED THE emerald brush from where she’d hidden it in her bodice, eager to use it for the first time, even if she wasn’t as thrilled to begin work on the Hexed Throne.

Trepidation inched its way down her spine, making the fine hair along her arms stand on end.

She already sensed the wrongness of what she was about to do, felt the first gusts of dark magic blowing in around the edges of the room, like spilled ink bleeding its way across a fresh page. If her father’s stories could be trusted, the Hexed Throne—from wherever it slumbered—was cracking an ancient eye.

Would it be curious or furious at being summoned?

Camilla would soon find out—after striking the devil’s bargain with Synton, there was no getting out of this part now.

Perhaps she was giving her talent too much credit, perhaps it would only be a simple painting.

And Synton is only a simple art collector with no dubious aspirations whatsoever.

She all but rolled her eyes at herself. Denial never did anyone any favors. Damned or not, this was the fate she’d chosen for herself, and it was time to get to work.

A quiet tapping drew her attention to the window.

She walked over and peered out across the manicured grounds, not seeing anyone. Another chill of foreboding caressed her spine. It was probably just a wayward branch. But after her encounter with Lord Garrey in the hedge maze, she wasn’t so sure.

Anyone could be out there.

She glanced up at the cloudless sky, the color an unblemished, crisp fall blue. There was no breeze today. No hint of any impending storm. She shook the odd sensation away and took quick stock of her supplies; oils, watercolors, pencils, charcoal, pastels…

Tap, tap, tap.

She jerked her attention back to the window. Had a shadow just passed? Chills raced over her. Surely it was just a bird flying too close.

Foolish. Her mind was playing tricks on her, that was all. After such a violent attack, that was not surprising.

Tap, tap, tap.

This time, the noise was louder, a definite knocking. When Camilla looked out the window now, her breath caught. Was that Lord Garrey?

Fear slammed into her. Not Lord Garrey.

A cloaked figure stood just on the other side of the glass, his face hidden from view in the garment’s depths. A scream caught in Camilla’s throat a half second before she recognized the figure as one that had lurked outside her gallery. He rapped gloved knuckles along the pane, jerking his head toward the latch.

“Synton?” she called out at last, backing away.

Somehow, the figure outside seemed amused. It made no movement to try to stop her, or to come in. Still, she retreated toward the door, keeping her attention on the man. He lifted a hand—probably to break the glass—and any calmness she’d been clutching at vanished.

“Synton!” she yelled. “Hurry!”

The figure tilted his head back, but all she could make out was one pale yellow wolflike eye that seemed to wink at her before he abruptly turned and darted away.

A beat later, Synton was there.

“What’s wrong?”

Camilla stared at the window, recognition dawning, if not understanding. That eye… it couldn’t be. She had to be mistaken. She dragged her attention to the lord, trying to find a reasonable excuse for her behavior. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth, not now.

“Apologies, my lord. Do you have the tea?”

He gave her an astonished look.

Camilla cleared her throat awkwardly. “Once I begin painting, I’ll need to be completely alone.”

Synton frowned at her and then looked over the rest of the room, suspicion clear in his face. But there were some things she couldn’t reveal, not after how hard she’d worked all these years, and the man at the window—however he’d gotten here—was one.

After a drawn-out moment, Synton finally left, still frowning, and came back a few minutes later with a tray. A silver tea service, some biscuits, and cubes of sugar.

“Will that be all, Miss Antonius?”

His tone was mocking, but she ignored it.

“For now. Thank you.”

Once he left, Camilla fixed herself a cup of tea to settle her nerves. She didn’t want to think about why the hunter had tracked her down, especially now, of all times. He might once have promised he’d be back, but no good could come from his visit right before she painted a hexed object. And how had he known she was at Synton’s, anyway?

The more she’d tried to keep her world together after her father’s death, the more threatened it had seemed to become. She’d made her choice, years ago. That should have been the end of it. But deep down she’d always worried that she’d only been granted a small reprieve from the inevitable. Her past was circling like a buzzard, waiting to dive down and drag her carcass off. The hunter was gone for now, she figured, and surely harmless. Until he tried to speak to her again, she might as well embark on the task at hand.

Camilla sipped her tea, a smooth Waverly Green blend, and looked around the space again, finally able to appreciate the details now that she was alone.

As if it were chiaroscuro made solid, the chamber was a study of bold, dramatic contrasts—on one side a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows let in bright sunlight, and on the other dark paneled walls cast nearly black shadows in the corners.

A long wooden table held stacks of sketchbooks, leather-bound and well-worn. Broken bits of charcoal, a few balled-up sheets of paper. And a crystal decanter half filled with deep amber liquid, with two matching crystal glasses.

A large limestone fireplace along the wall at the back of the studio held a gentle blaze that was giving off a warm, cozy glow. A leather settee and a handwoven rug were tucked in front, offering an artist a comfortable place to lie back and dream. Along the last wall, a few canvases were stretched and waiting on easels.

It was all perfect, exactly what she’d have chosen for herself. Synton was a man who missed nothing.

She’d need to be extra careful around him now. The faster she completed the painting, the faster she’d be free from their arrangement.

She pulled an apron from the nearest chair and tied it around her waist.

Camilla returned to her easel, situated before the wall of windows, and sat, her attention focused solely on her own work now.

With steady hands she undid her locket and tucked it into a pocket she’d had sewn into her dress.

She kept the ridiculously oversized emerald-and-diamond ring on; then she canted her head and closed her eyes, pulling up an image from her father’s stories.

In all accounts, the Hexed Throne burned on one side only, completely unaffected on the other. Another stark contrast; another act of balance.

Camilla thought about her father’s voice, telling her the Hexed Throne had been created by the First Witch, a supernatural being descended directly from the sun goddess, according to legend.

Her daughter had fallen in love with a demon prince—one of their mortal enemies—and the First Witch was so furious, she hexed several objects in hope of destroying the demons. The story claimed that the Hexed Throne was meant to entice the prince, then overtake him.

Camilla let her memory expand, releasing its boundaries, moving beyond its emotions, until her talent felt alive in her veins, rushing out to her fingers, into the brush, ready to leap beyond.

Deep in her mind’s eye, the throne spoke to her, told her the colors it needed, the shape, the very manner in which it ought to be revealed.

Camilla waited until the whole image had presented itself before opening her eyes.

Now, when she looked at the canvas, she saw the entire composition as if it had already taken its rightful place. She understood that this wasn’t how it worked for everyone, but somehow, this was how it had always worked for her.

She began. The background needed to be solid black to start—like the throne was emerging from deep within an abyss, a spark of life where nothing should survive.

And perhaps a bit of mockery for the Creator.

The throne held its own power now. Was its own god in its eyes. The witch who’d hexed it, given it power and life, was nothing compared to its glory now.

Oh, yes, the rumors of its being sentient were true. Except it wasn’t mildly sentient, it was fully aware, had as many thoughts and emotions as any other being. The Hexed Throne knew what it was and liked playing games, considered itself quite the game master, in fact.

Camilla passed no judgment, felt no emotion other than determination to bring forth the piece the way it desired to be seen. She had become a vessel for it to inhabit as it saw fit.

When she used her talent, dove deep within that well of creative power, Camilla lost all sense of time. Seconds or months could pass, and she’d remain blissfully unaware, conscious only of her brush.

Her father used to say talent like hers was a long-ago gift, perhaps bestowed on her family by some powerful Fae, and that when Camilla delved into its power, she shifted into the time of Faerie or the shadow realms.

It was dangerous, Pierre would remind her, to meddle with unpredictable forces, to stand between realms.

The idea that she might not be able to control her gift annoyed Camilla, even coming from her father. The depths of her talent might be a gift, but she’d worked hard at her craft. To understand not just what called to her, but how to give it life, how to make it her own.

Something Pierre Antonius had once known too. Before he’d crumbled in the end.

Camilla set her brush down, rubbing at the knot that had formed in her chest.

Her heart ached when she thought of her father. Time was so precious, human or Fae. She’d give nearly anything to have one more moment with him.

The abandoned canvas sent out a subtle pulse of light, a shadow-like heartbeat.

The throne did not want Camilla’s attention to stray. It was displeased.

It was the master of her universe now. And she would obey.

In an almost trancelike state, she picked up the brush, dipped it into the paint, and continued. From the darkness the throne had emerged, and now from the throne came the flames, burning bright, bold, insistent—

What felt like a moment later, she’d been roughly lifted off her feet. A hand firmly held her legs, and another pinned her backside while all the blood rushed painfully to her head.

Disoriented and half under the throne’s spell, Camilla needed another long moment to realize she’d been unceremoniously tossed over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Just as suddenly as she’d been picked up, she was dropped to her feet, the sound of a door slamming finally snapping her into the here and now at the same moment her back hit a wall. The impact wasn’t strong enough to harm her, but it did jolt her into awareness.

Camilla blinked until her abductor’s furious face came into view.

“What the bloody hell were you doing, Miss Antonius?”

Synton’s normally cultured voice was nothing more than a snarl, his expression bordering on savage as his gaze raked over her.

Cold air kissed her flushed cheeks.

The temperature had suddenly dropped, as if each fireplace in the estate had gone out at once. If Synton hadn’t been standing so close, she’d have rubbed her arms to escape the chill.

“Painting.” She glared back at him. “Or have you somehow forgotten our bargain in the last hour, my lord?”

He gave her a strange look, eyes narrowing slightly.

He stared for an uncomfortably long beat, his expression remaining as ruthless and hard as ever as he slowly looked her over again.

After another intense sweep of his focus, his stance relaxed, and he stepped back.

Marginally.

A flicker of warmth returned to her skin.

“From now on, you’ll only work on the Hexed Throne with me inside the studio too.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m protecting my investment.”

“That’s not—”

“Negotiable,” he interrupted, flashing a dark grin as her scowl deepened. “Willingly paint with me in the room, or I’ll handcuff us together until it’s complete, Miss Antonius. And I do mean the whole time it will take. The choice is up to you, pet.”