Page 20 of Strange Familiar (Warriors of Magic #2)

~20~

C illian didn’t know exactly what he’d expected to find when he finally laid eyes on Alise again. Being who he was, he’d naturally spun a few fantasies of their reunion. He was no raging Silas and Alise was definitely no fragile, helpless Lyndella, but he’d still leaned heavily in the direction of storming in to find Alise weepingly grateful to see him, perhaps rushing into his embrace. He’d imagined holding her tightly, murmuring to her that she was safe now, that everything would be all right.

Alise seated at the opulent dining table, radiant with magic and elegantly gowned and jeweled, being fawned over by a group of male familiars, had never entered his imagination.

He made himself eat, mostly because it gave himself something to do to pass the time, which moved with excruciating slowness. Alise had been rattled by his sudden appearance, and not at all pleased by it. He’d anticipated surprise on her part, figuring her father wouldn’t have prepared her, but not the look of sheer horror on her face. She was drinking more wine than she was eating food, the idiot beside her refilling her glass far too often and liberally.

Lord Elal ate in glowering silence, the five familiars at the table carrying on pleasant conversation for all of them, determinedly filling the fraught silence like it was their job. Probably it was.

Surreptitiously, Cillian studied the five young men. Was it just him or did they all look rather unsettlingly like… well, himself? That could be vanity on his part, or maybe Alise had settled on a type, but all five were slender with dark hair and gentle demeanors. As familiars, their eye color varied, but otherwise they could be his brothers. None of them were bonded to her, his wizard senses told him that much. So why were they there?

He suspected he wouldn’t like the answer, but asked the question anyway, posing it as a general inquiry to the table, whether they were general familiars for House Elal or…?

“Oh no, Wizard Harahel,” one answered with shy enthusiasm.

No one had offered their names, which seemed perfectly in line with Lord Elal’s fulminating disdain for all of them, but was out of character for Alise. She, however, seemed to have retreated to some internal landscape, her face nearly blank, gaze turned inward as she mechanically ate and drank—still mostly drank. Cillian decided to mentally call them by the names of the five identical brothers in the children’s tale: Wim, Bim, Tim, Gim, and Zim. The one who’d answered him became Wim.

“None of us belong to House Elal,” another of the familiars chimed in—Bim—then slid his gaze slyly to Alise, “…yet.”

The one who’d been attentively refilling Alise’s glass, Tim, gave Cillian a sweet smile. “We’re all hoping that someday Wizard Alise will choose one of us to be her bonded familiar.”

“Ah, congratulations in advance then,” Cillian replied. “May I?” He held out a hand for the wine carafe, adding a small amount to his own glass and deliberately setting the carafe down again on his other side, well out of reach. Sipping, he hoped to swallow the bitterness of knowing Alise was auditioning familiars. That had been the logical explanation for the little scene, and Cillian had obviously known that Alise would eventually bond a familiar. She possessed far too much potential as a wizard to hamper herself by not having one.

Still, he hadn’t expected her to move that direction so soon. And not in this distasteful fashion. With what he had to acknowledge as jealousy, he contemplated that she might have been testing them out in bed, too.

The familiar holding an instrument, Gim, strummed a thoughtful chord, glancing at Alise for a reaction, though she noticed that no more than anything else since she’d retreated inside her head, then turned his attention to Cillian with speculation in his thoughtful gaze. “Do you have a bonded familiar, Wizard Harahel?”

Before he could answer, Alise made a snorting sound, proving she was paying attention after all. “Sainted High House Harahel doesn’t employ familiars, do they, Wizard Cillian?”

“No such thing as a library emergency,” he replied, enjoying that she at least flushed slightly at the reminder of their running joke. “Speaking of which,” he said, pushing his empty plate aside, “are you finished eating, Wizard Alise? If so, we can proceed to wherever you’d like to have this conversation.”

She met his gaze, the burn of betrayal in hers. Oh, she was not at all happy to see him. Fine then. No matter how this went, they’d at least have it out, once and for all. She stood, carrying her wine glass. “Yes, let’s get this over with.”

“Would you like one or more of us to attend you, Wizard Alise?” Zim, who’d been quiet so far, asked deferentially.

Cillian cocked his head at the promise she’d discarded by her plate.

“No, thank you. A private audience was requested and I shall abide by my written word.” She said the words with plenty of bite, speaking them entirely to Cillian. “Good night, Father.”

He took his attention from his plate long enough to give her a speaking glare, which he transferred to Cillian. “Be smart about this, Daughter,” he advised. “Remember what’s at stake.”

“As if I could forget,” she replied crisply, then led the way out of the dining salon. Cillian followed behind, eyes on her rigid spine and the soft hollow at the nape of her neck that her short haircut revealed. Despite everything, he wanted to kiss her there. Truthfully, he wanted to bend her over and kiss her there, while pulling up that sheer gown to reveal her perfect ass. He wanted to kiss her all over until her scent covered him, until he smelled her at odd moments on his body, unexpectedly, and in many different places.

He hadn’t expected this deep, sexual ache in her presence, this edged craving to have her against him, skin to skin, to slide into her warm and willing sheath, to lose himself in her. He’d always been more a person of the mind than the body, easily forgoing sex for periods of times so long as he had a project to focus on, and particularly after Szarina and that terrible legacy of the passion he’d once felt for her. But around Alise, with her magic twining all around him like sun-warmed roses blooming in hot sunshine, their vines entangling him and thorns piercing him to the quick… He could only think of having her naked and in his arms again, of being inside her and hearing her whimpers in his ear.

Not the most productive frame of mind for what promised to be a logistically difficult conversation.

Alise led them to a smallish salon, not her father’s office, but some room in what felt like a different wing. One of the fifteen discrete wings of House Elal, his memory—made eidetic by his library wizardry—informed him relentlessly. One of one-hundred and ninety-three separate rooms in the sprawling complex, at least according to the most recent history, and not including bathing rooms and outbuildings, or hidden spaces.

Alise prowled directly into the room and stopped pointedly in the center, holding her wine glass with false insouciance, tapping one toe in clear impatience and obviously disinclined to sit. So, Cillian took care of the niceties, closing the door, triggering the Iblis lock with a flick of magic, then imposing a privacy shield around the room.

She raised a sardonic brow. “I thought ‘private’ was a euphemism. Is this a conversation or…?”

“A private conversation,” he replied, going closer to her, but not so close as to drive her away. Still, he had no intention of standing across the room from her and shouting. “Do we have eavesdroppers?”

“You are in House Elal,” she answered, unrelentingly unhelpful.

He took that to be a confirmation of what he suspected, that spirit spies watched them regardless. “Then I formally request you ensure the privacy of the audience that your favor grants me.”

Her delicately winged brows forked down in irritation. “Must you?”

“Yes.” He kept it simple. He also knew banishing any spies lay well within her capabilities. Holding her gaze, he waited for her to comply. If her father listened in even now, he would know Alise had abided by the agreement his house was bound to honor. That wouldn’t make Lord Elal any less angry, but Cillian had come all this way, had put both of them in danger for this conversation. He wouldn’t pull any punches now.

Still glaring at him, Alise unfurled her magic, the pure tendrils of it snaking through the enclosed space as she calmly sipped her wine. No dramatic gestures for her or giving any appearance of effort. As Cillian had no spirit magic to speak of, he couldn’t sense exactly what she did, but he knew she’d cleared the room because she raised her brows expectantly. She had grown in skill and power, exponentially.

“Well?” she prompted with considerable impatience. “You wanted this conversation so badly you cashed in an invaluable favor for it—though why now after all this time, I have no idea—so you might as well start talking.”

“Can we sit?” he asked gesturing to the nearby chairs and settee.

“I’d rather stand, thank you,” she bit out.

“I’d rather sit.” He picked a spot on the settee where he could see her. Thought about where to start. As many times as he’d imagined this moment, none had included this formal awkwardness, his mind going completely blank.

“I suppose there’s no time limit on this audience,” Alise commented drily, “but if we’re to spend it in silence, I’ll want more wine.”

“You never used to drink so heavily,” he commented.

“I didn’t used to need to,” she retorted, then flushed, clearly annoyed with herself for admitting that much. “Elal is famed for our wines,” she added defensively. “It’s a perk of being in the house of my birth.”

“Has it been very bad, Alise?” he asked softly, his heart aching for her. She was doing her best to drive him away again. She might succeed this time, but he wouldn’t go easily.

“What do you care?” she snapped, draining the last of her wine and casting about for more. When she saw there wasn’t any, she gripped the stem, ticking the glass back and forth like a pendulum.

“I care,” he told her. “I’ve always cared. You know that.”

“Do I? You have a funny way of showing it. Not one word in all this time.”

“My grandmother prevented me from communicating. She wouldn’t allow me to contact you, or anyone outside House Harahel. When she finally relented, I sent a message to you here at House Elal to tell you I wanted to visit. And then that I planned to. I imagine you didn’t receive it.”

She didn’t acknowledge that with even a blink, instead pouncing on something else. “About that, your grandmother . How is it that you somehow neglected to mention that she’s the head of House Harahel?”

“It was wrong of me not to tell you that, it’s true. I thought I had time to explain. I apologize.”

“Apology no t accepted.” But some of the fire went out of her at his admission anyway.

“It never mattered to me, my grandmother’s rank.” he explained slowly, searching for the right words. “Harahel isn’t like other high houses. To my mind, she has always been simply my grandmother and I’m just another moderately talented librarian wizard. Her heading the house had no relevance most of the time.”

“Until an Elal scion has the temerity to arrive on her doorstep unannounced and uninvited, at which point she breathes fire as well as any high house head.”

“I apologize for that, too, Alise,” he said, pouring his earnest regret into the words. “I didn’t know she’d done that until just recently. It never occurred to me that she’d treat you so badly, that she’d force you to leave. I was as shocked to discover the truth as anyone.”

Alise gave him an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Then, what? You thought I just dropped you off and left? That you were on the brink of death from carrying that archive and that I’d nearly killed myself getting you to Harahel, in the midst of nowhere, and then went tra la, tra lay, I guess I’ll just go.” She widened her eyes as she took in his expression, then threw back her head in a bitter laugh. “Oh, you did think that. How galling.”

“I didn’t know—” he began, but she cut off his words.

“No, you didn’t know, but you assumed. I see now. You leapt to the conclusion that I’d just leave you, even after all we’d been through. That my word meant nothing to me, that our relationship meant nothing. You thought I was just another Szarina, that I’d gallivanted off without a note or a backward look now that you’d served your purpose.” She swigged from the empty wine glass, clearly forgetting she’d emptied it. Glared at the dregs. “Well, fuck you, Cillian. Fuck you for that!” She nearly screamed it, then hurled the glass at the stone fireplace.

She’d surprised them both and they stared together at the point of impact, as if expecting something more. Cillian slid her a careful glance. “I suppose it was your turn,” he commented, remembering how he’d thrown a plate at the wall in a similar fit of rage.

A high flush gracing her cheekbones, she folded her arms, wizard-black eyes snapping, the scent of her wine-red magic deepening to a scorching redolence. “It was more surprising coming from you,” she said like an accusation, “Lord Mild-Mannered Librarian.”

“We seem to bring out intense passions in one another,” he admitted. “I’d never done anything like that before.”

“This is a first for me,” she admitted on a sigh, her gaze resting on the fireplace in a bleak stare. “Cillian…” She let out another long breath. “ Why are you here?”

“May I approach the bench?” he asked carefully, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Fine, I’ll sit.” But she chose the other end of the settee, curling up like a cat with her back against the arm rest, drawing her knees up and resting her chin on them, eyes large and black in her drawn face. With the gorgeously embroidered and sparkling gown pooled around her and that wistful expression, she looked like a little girl playing dress-up—an impression only enhanced by the red stain on the bodice from her spill—and an analogy he’d never speak aloud as she’d no doubt hate it. But he wanted to pull her onto his lap and comfort her, knowing he couldn’t yet, not with that anger burning in her still. Instead he pulled up a knee and turned sideways to face her.

“I am here to rescue you,” he told her, well aware of how absurd and grandiose that sounded. But it was true and he felt saying anything else would be a prevarication.

Her lips parted and she shook her head slightly, breathing a laugh. “Always the white knight.”

“Guilty.” He searched for something more to say, to mitigate that. “But in complete sincerity. I know you’re not here of your own free will, Alise.”

“But I am.”

“I heard what happened at Bria’s naming, and I’m more sorry than I can say that I wasn’t there with you. I know you agreed to come here to protect her.”

“Of my own free will,” she insisted. “No, Cillian. You can’t argue that with me. I made an agreement with my father with my eyes wide open and dozens of witnesses. I’m not a prisoner here.” She hesitated over that, for some reason, making him wonder, but she plowed on. “I’m learning from him. I’m his heir as you always said I should be.”

“I said you should be Lady Elal if you wanted to be,” he felt compelled to clarify, “not that you should become your father’s creature.”

Her mouth fell open and she straightened. “My father’s creature—is that what you think I am?”

“Are you saying you’re not?” he fired back, the decadent scene in the dining salon roaring back into his mind with full force. Never mind that Lord Elal had clearly engineered that little scenario, wanting Cillian to see Alise in that setting. She’d still been fully immersed in it.

“You have no idea what I’m trying to do here,” she gritted out. “No idea what this is like for me.”

“That’s why I asked,” he pointed out, as reasonably as he could manage, which admittedly wasn’t very. “Almost the first thing I asked you was how you’re handling this.”

“No, you assumed ,” she emphasized the word, sneering, “that it’s been bad.”

“A reasonable assumption, you have to admit,” he retorted.

“Why, because Harahel hates Elal?”

“Alise.”

She shoved her fingers into her blue-black hair, clenching and pulling, baring her teeth in a grimace. “Oh, why did you come here?”

“I—”

“How did you even know where I was if you’ve been so isolated and incommunicado?” She demanded, interrupting him again and springing up to pace. Spinning, she pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Nic told you, didn’t she?”

“No,” he answered. “Actually—”

“Because she has no business interfering in my life! You can tell her to stop sending me couriers. Live her life. Raise Bria. Be happy. That’s what she needs to do. That’s the whole point of this…This…” She cast about the room as if the word would offer itself.

“Sacrifice?” he suggested. “Martyrdom?”

“You’re not funny,” she replied sourly.

“I was dead serious. How would you describe this?”

“A savvy career move,” she shot back, looking triumphant.

He couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.