40: THE BLOOM OF TREACHERY

**ELIJAH** 

The sun bled crimson along the edges of the horizon, a painter’s final, petulant stroke upon the day’s canvas. Evening descended with the heavy perfume of dying light and an air chilled just enough to prickle the skin. I stood upon the balcony of my chambers, the fine stone warmed faintly from the sun’s retreating touch, and I rested one gloved hand upon the balustrade, the other clutched tightly behind my back, fingers curled as though to strangle thought itself.

Across the wrought iron fence, that loathsome nest of discord—Erkel’s house—was alight with activity.

I watched with hawk-like focus as figures scurried like rats in heat, ferrying trunks, crates, and sacks of things too obscure to decipher. They carried books, bottles, strange contraptions and caged creatures that chittered and hissed in tongues not meant for mortal ears. How fitting, I thought, that such vile obscura should belong to a man whose very name causes the bile to stir in my throat.

Erkel.

That conniving, silver-tongued serpent had the gall to return—no, to nest, as if this were a game of hospitality and not the chessboard of war. My patience, ever a tightly strung thread, wore perilously thin. He had needled at the borders of my restraint since his arrival, dripping provocation like venom with every encounter.

And tonight was no exception.

From the other side of the fence, as if summoned by my disdain, the man himself emerged from the threshold of his corrupted manor. His eyes met mine across the short distance, gleaming with impish delight. And then—Gods preserve me—he smiled. A wicked thing, that smile. And to crown the moment, he raised his hand, extended a single insolent finger in salute. Vulgar. Insufferable.

My jaw clenched. I would have turned away, were I not a creature who knew the cost of revealing weakness. But just as my feet shifted, I saw a flicker of colour—lilac, soft and familiar—ghosting along the periphery of his cursed garden.

My breath caught.

There, slipping through the vines like a wraith in the gloaming, was her—Celeste. That witch. That maddening enigma. That prisoner I could neither tame nor expel from my thoughts.

She disappeared into my greenhouse, a structure veiled in ivy and stained glass, as much a cathedral of secrets as of horticulture. I narrowed my eyes, and through the vines, I saw her—the Elder. Old, shrewd, dangerous. And she embraced her. Not in passing affection, but with the lingering warmth of intimacy.

The sight curdled my blood.

No good could bloom from their union—not in secret, and especially not in this place.

I left the balcony at once, descending the stairs with the swift, silent fury of a storm cloud drawn to the ground. I crossed the gardens, the grass crunching beneath my boots like bones beneath tread, and I passed through the hedge gate without waiting for permission or greeting.

I flung open the greenhouse door.

There they stood—she, with a flush upon her cheek that I did not like, and the Elder, holding her hands with a familiarity that mocked all decorum. The air inside was damp with the scent of jasmine and something far darker. Old magic. Forgotten. Dangerous.

“You overstep,” I hissed, my voice low, sharp as frost. “Elder, if you find such pleasure in consorting with prisoners, I fear you forget your place in my court.”

The old woman turned to me slowly, eyes narrowed with the weight of centuries. But it was Celeste who responded, her voice laced with acid and defiance.

“I told you not to call me that.” Her eyes flashed—bright, molten, dangerous. “I am not your prisoner. I am not yours.”

“You are in my palace,” I replied, approaching her in measured strides. “You live because I permit it. And you consort with a man who—”

“Who treats me like a person,” she spat. “Unlike you, Elijah.”

The name burned on her tongue. A blade forged from syllables.

I reached for her wrist, fingers tightening like the jaws of a snare—but before I could pull her to heel, her hand flew up.

There was no incantation, no gesture, no grand performance.

Only raw force.

A wave of power struck me like a horse’s kick, slamming into my chest with such magnitude that I was thrown back bodily. I crashed to the greenhouse floor, shattering a table of glass vials and iron roots. I coughed, stunned by the blow, ears ringing and ribs protesting.

By all the gods.

She had grown stronger.

The air around her crackled with residual energy. Her breath came fast. Her hands trembled—but not from weakness. From exertion. From rage.

I lay there for a breathless moment, absorbing the insult, the injury, and most of all, the implications. Her powers were no longer dormant, no longer stifled. They surged through her like fire through dry grass.

Medina would need to be summoned. Quietly. Swiftly. If Celeste’s power continued to grow, unchecked and unruly, then this entire estate might burn.

I stood slowly, brushing debris from my coat, ignoring the copper taste of blood on my tongue.

“You will regret that,” I said, voice low, measured like a blade across whetstone. “Do it again, and you shall be mourning one of those miserable little friends you’ve collected in my palace. Perhaps Mona. Or the boy who guards the stables with such misplaced devotion.”

She froze.

Ah. There it was. That brief flicker behind her eyes. That little crumple in her brow. Guilt. It was faint—but enough. I had seen it before. She could play the harpy, the hellcat, the hunted witch, but she had a soft spot. A weakness. And I, ever the strategist, would use it.

I took a step toward her.

She backed away.

Another.

Her breath caught.

My hand lifted once more.

But then—agony.

A sharp twist of pain blossomed in my spine, so sudden and ferocious that I fell to one knee. My bones ached, my muscles convulsed, and the veins beneath my skin pulsed with black heat. My heart thudded like a war drum, and my vision swam.

Not now. Not here.

The curse—my curse—unleashed itself without courtesy or rhythm, a feral beast clawing at the cage of my body. I felt the first signs of change begin—my limbs stretching, bones splintering and reforging themselves in the grotesque ballet of transformation.

My fingers lengthened unnaturally, joints cracking as the claws broke through skin. The pain was beyond torment—it transcended it. My jaw unhinged with a sickening snap as fangs erupted, blood filling my mouth as my tongue split into two pointed tips.

I screamed.

Or perhaps I howled.

There was no word for the sound that tore from my throat—neither beast nor man, but the unholy wail of something born from ruin.

The skin at my back ruptured, dark wings pressing forward, half-formed and covered in sinew. The air filled with the scent of rot and power, sulfur and something more ancient still.

My vision blurred.

I caught the look on Celeste’s face—shock, horror, something almost like… pity?

No.

No, I would not accept pity from her.

I pressed a bloodied palm to the floor, gritting my teeth, refusing to let the shift consume me entirely. I had trained for years to delay it. But pain, cunning and cruel, knew where to pierce most effectively.

I could no longer speak. My throat was filled with the thick growl of the Other within me.

And yet, even as I transformed—half-creature, half-writhing mass of hate and horn—I saw her.

She had not run.

She had not fled.

Her eyes remained fixed on me—not with triumph, not with fear, but with a soul-deep unease. That, at least, was something I could cling to. Let her be unsettled. Let her understand what she dared provoke.

I collapsed to my side as the worst of the shift passed, chest rising and falling with ragged effort. Steam rose from my shoulders where the transformation burned most savagely. My clothing lay in tatters. My pride, more so.

The Elder had vanished—wisely.

And Celeste… she lingered.

She took a single step toward me, then halted. Her hand, raised, lowered again.

Whatever words she might have spoken dissolved on her lips.

In that silence, there was only the rasp of my breathing, the drip of shattered vials, and the knowledge that the line between captor and captive had shifted forever.

The moonlight filtered through the greenhouse glass, casting fractured halos over our bodies. I, the fallen lord. She, the storm gathering in plain sight.