We made an agreement, he hisses.
Damn him. I slap the glass back with such force a drop splatters the white tablecloth. Picking up my fork, I stab it in the gravy covered chicken and stuff it into my mouth with a look that says, are you happy now? The corner of his lip twitches. Bastard. Why would I ever agree to listen to him?
His plate however remains uncharacteristically untouched in front of him. “You’re not even eating,” I mutter under my breath.
I’m not the one guzzling wine.
It’s only a few minutes later guests start making their way up the steps to our table. They do not greet me, only offering furtive glances as they wish their congratulations to Sitri. It’s evident by their cordial yet short greetings none of them know him firsthand at all. He answers in little more than grunts if he deigns to answer them at all. Some bring gifts and Sitri stuffs them under the table without bothering to open them.
I try asking him a few more questions only for this time to get ignored entirely now that people are sporadically coming to our table.
I reach for one of the gifts only because I’m bored out of my mind. A firm hand clamps around my wrist.
Don’t. There’s no telling what's in there. Could be something deadly.
Yanking my hand from his grip, I drop it back to my lap and sink lower into my chair. “You’re paranoid,” I huff.
After so many days cooped up in his chambers, I shouldn’t be so eager to get back but right now all I want is to be curled on the couch, not sitting here getting gawked at and ignored. At least Sitri speaks to me when we’re alone. Here in this place, I might as well be his enemy.
A man glides up the steps, and unlike the others that have greeted our table, I know he must be someone important with the fine material of the dark green tunic he’s wearing. He doesn’t look too far in age from us, blonde hair slick with some form of hair product and tousled to the side. Sitri straightens with a newfound vigilance as he approaches.
“Well, well, well,” he greets. “I never thought I’d make the trip out for a wedding of yours, Nightshade, but this--” he iterates gesturing between us with an air of gloating, “—is something I just couldn’t miss.”
Sitri slacks back in his chair, another show of apathy. “You wouldn’t have anything better to do, would you, Drurian?”
“Plenty I could be doing. None as entertaining as this.” His eyes linger on my face for an unbearably long moment before they slide lower and my face reddens. He finally turns back to Sitri. “I always thought you’d end up with a half-breed like your father, but this.” He drags a hand over his mouth, a perfunctory attempt to hide his grin. “This is even worse thanIexpected.”
“Fuck off, Drurian,” Sitri says, the intensity of his words fracturing through his apathetic display.
Drurian chuckles, ignoring Sitri’s request as he leans down and props an elbow on the table. “She’s not as ugly as I expected a nought would be.” He says it like he’s admitting a true defeat and lowers his voice. “Is it true they fuck like rabbits? They say that’s why there’s so damn many of them.”
An angry flush works over my face as I look away, but my ears prick, hoping he’ll reveal where it is the other noughts are located.
Sitri molds back to his chair, acting unfazed again as he picks at his nails. “I wouldn’t know. That does remind me though—“ He breaks his attention away from his fingernails to look up. “How’s your sister? I haven’t seen her in a while. Since last…Samhein, I think it was. She’s not here too, is she?” Sitri asks, peering around the room.
“I imagine not. It would probably be pretty upsetting for her.”
Anger flashes in Drurian’s eyes.
“Pass along an invite to the Rite, would you?”
I’m so caught up in their argument I don’t notice the person lingering before me until a hand with long ornamented nails reaches across the table. I jolt back.
A man draped in long, sheer, flowing robes stands before me, hands bedizened in a variety of bracelets and rings. A jeweled diadem drapes his forehead along with a diamond glinting right in between his perfectly manicured brows. “A nought, in the flesh,” he greets.
He holds out a single hand and I press myself further back into my seat. “May I?”
I look to Sitri, hoping he’ll intervene on my behalf. He’s still locked in heated debate, completely unaware of this strange newcomer to our table.
“You don’t even know what it is I ask of you, I presume. I only wish to do a palm reading.” His voice has a snake like quality to it. He holds out a demanding hand once more.
“A—alright,” I stammer, timidly offering my hand.
He takes my hand and turns it face up. Bending over the table to study it, he traces a nail across the lines of my palm. I startle as the magic pulses against my skin. It’s not painful yet sharp and shocking.
The daemon, which had been lulled to a sleeping state due to the copious amounts of wine I guzzled, reacts, shooting like lightning down my wrist. It pushes the magic from my hand, shatters my glass, a hundred tiny shards scattering across the table.
The man jumps back in surprise, dramatically clasping a hand to his chest. I yank my hand back, curling it into my abdomen. Within seconds Sitri is around me, forcing the robed man to retreat down the steps backward to escape him. “What are you doing, Soothsayer?”
