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What hour? And what did she mean her power hadn’t been fulfilled?
Margetta was a physically beautiful woman, with exquisite, wide-set, violet eyes, arched brows, a straight nose and softly pointed fae chin. She had long, blond hair worn throughout the past month in large curls to her waist. Except for the hollow expression in her eyes and the occasional malevolent smile, she looked like a princess from some of earth’s fairy tales. She even wore long, velvet gowns around the fortress.
Regan knew the woman was monstrously ambitious but what troubled her more than anything was how calm she seemed. After all, she’d lost a huge battle in Swanicott Realm in which over two hundred Invictus pairs had either been killed or sent to Mastyr Ethan and Samantha for rehabilitation. Everything about Margetta’s demeanor did not speak of a woman pressed against a wall and fighting for her existence.
Instead, Regan sensed the Ancient Fae was poised to accomplish what she’d been working toward for hundreds of years, from the time Margetta had created the first deadly Invictus wraith-pair.
When Regan heard the lock in the grate, she levitated slowly down to the tower floor. Though she was a fae with considerable power and had flown up to the sill, she wasn’t strong enough to break through the iron lock on the heavy wood door.
She wore a soft linen gown, a garment Margetta had provided for her after telling her she’d burned Regan’s ‘disgusting’ leather jacket as well as her jeans.
When she’d heard the news, Regan had quieted her emotions. She’d had that jacket for a long time, at least three decades. She’d tried it on just for fun at an open air market. In a moment of pure serendipity, Ian had seen her in it, a chance meeting never again repeated. He’d told her he loved the look on her.
The moment he left the stall, she’d bought the jacket, one of the few spontaneous purchases she’d ever made.
Now it had no doubt been tossed onto one of the many bonfires burning throughout the camp.
She’d even shed tears, which seemed absurd given her situation. Except the loss of her coat had been very symbolic; she had no protection against Margetta and very little control.
The door opened and the lovely fae-slave, Sandra, walked in. Behind her, but remaining in the doorway, was a very fat slave-troll with a dark look in his eye. He held the key to the tower door in his hand.
As soon as Sandra was inside, the troll shut the door and Regan could hear the lock turning in the grate. He then peered through the small barred opening to keep an eye on them.
Sandra kept her head bent and made no eye contact. In her hands she carried a tray bearing her second meal.
Regan had many times begged Sandra to help her, to bring her a key by which she might escape the tower. She’d even been encouraging Sandra to come with her, though she doubted this would be possible given the presence of the guard who always accompanied her.
But as Regan caught sight of the rolled up towel clutched tight beneath Sandra’s arm, Regan’s heartrate soared. Sandra never brought extra linens with her at this hour.
“As you requested last time, Mistress,” Sandra said pointedly. “I brought a towel for you.”
Regan had made no such request. “Thank you. I’m grateful you remembered. And how are you, Sandra?”
“Very well, thank you, Mistress.” Her tone was breathy, as she slid her gaze to Regan and dipped her chin once.
She set the tray on the small table, then moved to the washstand. She tucked the towel next to a basin and companion water pitcher.
There could only be one explanation for the towel. Sweet Goddess, Sandra had brought the key.
In the month Regan had been imprisoned, she’d learned something of Sandra’s history. She’d been imprisoned for thirty years and had served as a personal maid to Margetta all that time. Sandra had a sad aura that instinctively felt like more to Regan than just a reflection of her enslaved state.
Though Sandra had spoken only a little of her previous life, Regan knew she’d lost a husband and young so
n when she’d been abducted. Regan was pretty sure they’d died in an Invictus attack. But she’d never pressed Sandra for details. Again, her sadness had told its own tale.
Sandra represented for Regan all she despised in Margetta’s regime. Worse, there wasn’t a thing Regan could do for the slave.
By month-long habit, Regan sat down on the stool in front of the table. Sandra moved each item off the tray in a measured sequence of bowl and plate first, then embroidered cloth napkin, large spoon, and a small ceramic cup of blackberry wine.
Regan held her hands together in a tight clasp, her gaze never straying from the lovely braid draped over her Sandra’s left shoulder. The young fae woman had beautiful red hair, a faintly pointed chin, dark eyes, and a smooth, delicate complexion.
Regan had to know, so she spoke mind-to-mind. You brought the key? It’s in the towel, right?
For one of the few times in the month of service, Sandra smiled. I did.
Because Sandra was blocking the troll’s view of Regan, she touched Sandra’s arm. Can you come with me? I’m a strong flyer.
Sandra shook her head. I might have my own way out. But if not, do all you can to take this monster down.
