Leaders shouldn’t pass the buck. “You fear me.”
He laughed. “You flatter yourself.”
“Then why are my hands still bound?”
In a flash he gripped my arm so hard it seemed he meant to break it. With a jerk he compromised my balance and put me on my knees. Aftershocks of pain rippled through my head. My vision blurred for a moment.
That’s worrisome.
The Rege bent and gripped the lower half of my face, lifting my head roughly. “You are bound, little witch, because,” his tone dropped to a gravelly lower register as he finished, “I like it that way.”
I tried unsuccessfully to jerk away again but I had no leverage. He continued laughing at me. On my third attempt, he got fed up and shoved me hard enough to throw me onto my side.
Keeping my head from cracking on the floor was a small victory. It cost me a strain in a neck muscle and a new wave of nausea. “I get it now,” I snapped, struggling to tell up from down. “You bind what you fear in order to control it. And your true weakness is your inability to admit it.”
With the toe of his boot, he rolled me onto my back and straddled me, glowering down at me for a long moment. I considered shoving my foot in his groin, but wasn’t certain my blurry aim would be true. He lowered himself to his knees and sat on my stomach. Aside from recognizing this as similar to the dominance tactics I read about in Ares’s puppy book, I could barely breathe and my arms felt as if they were being smashed. One of my wrists would break if he didn’t get up soon. C’mon stomach. Help me go all Linda Blair on him.
“I have heard you possess the skill to perform a spell that can render a wære the keeper of his man-mind, even when in wolf form. And that, if true, could make you valuable. But tempt me, and you will discover what happens when I decide someone is worthless.” His fingers slithered forward to seize my neck and give a little squeeze as if to hint at how easy it would be to kill me. Then his nails scratched over my collarbone and jerked the neck of my shirt, snapping threads in the seams at the back. He licked his lips lecherously.
I sneered.
He stood, shrugged out of his long coat, and took a step away. He placed it, his mitre, and shirt on the seat of his throne. The Rege may have been old enough to have lost all the color from his hair, but he had maintained his muscle tone. He was actually ripped.
With a wicked smile, he said to Gregor, “Leave us.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I rolled, kicked, twisted, and had my feet under me in a flash, backing away.
The Rege chuckled; it was punctuated by the dull sound of Gregor shutting the door.
“I will teach you to be docile, witch.”
I put my back to the steel of the insulated wall. Earlier I hadn’t wanted him to know how truly frightened I was, but now I needed him to think I was helpless, so my brave mask fell away and panic crept into my features.
He bought it gleefully.
When he advanced, I kicked up—stopping him with one heel planted firmly on his chest. The steel behind me bowed as he leaned into it. I thrust my foot against his breastbone even as my other foot kicked up. The steel made a warping sound as it gave under the pressure and rust rained down. The toe of my hiking boot caught him on his square chin and knocked his head back.
It was a struggle to get my feet back under me—my back scrubbed down the tarnished and corroded steel wall as I plummeted a few inches. I barely kept my ass off the floor.
My actions had surprised the Rege enough to force him back a few steps. He recovered instantly.
Fighting for balance, I spun away. The wall flapped open, broken through on one side, revealing studs and a block wall. I ran from him. It wasn’t as easy to do as it should have been; my vision blurred and refocused just in time for me to stop short in front of the throne and turn to keep him in sight.
He stayed on the far wall, watching me. Maybe his age had slowed him some, but he was physically in such good shape that it was doubtful. I had the feeling that the Rege would gladly allow me to tire myself out.
Reaching out mentally, sweeping metaphysical arms back and forth as if signaling to a landing airplane, I searched for nearby energies to stir. Not big energies like a ley line—though I was getting ever closer to crossing that destructive line. For now, I still wasn’t willing to risk every wære in the vicinity. I could target ley energy just on the Rege, but others nearby would sense it and come to his aid. I’d be forced to defend myself even more aggressively, and I didn’t want to do that. Calling just enough energy to make a point to him, and calling it from nearby to avoid alerting the others, was my best option.
But the steel and cement left me wanting.
The Rege pushed from the wall, slowly, cautiously closing in just as I found latent energy in the stones of his mitre: they weren’t emeralds at all, but green tourmalines. Knowing I could use this man’s status symbol to help me keep him at bay, I hid my smile and sank down on his throne, projecting defeat while my fingers stretched toward the mitre.
Green tourmalines are supposed to increase the wearer’s self-confidence and aid communication by creating openness and patience, as well as sincerity toward others. But not these tourmalines. These had been tainted by him. They had become overconfident and boastful. Oppressive. Even better. Drawing that energy around me, that ostentatious disdain prickled over my aura like a porcupine’s quills.
The Rege halted six feet from me, gauging me and surely deciding how to proceed.
“Touch me, and what happens to you is your own fault.”
His hostile frown remained as he said, “And the black widow witch spun her delicate web.” He laughed. “The risk is minimal; I secured my Regency by proving resistant to magic.” He inched forward, hand stroking downward on my aura.
I knew he would now stroke upward and feel the quills. I put every ounce of my will and belief into meeting his merciless eyes. “What you want to achieve will not be accomplished this way.”
A single barb, primed to convince him I was more dangerous than he had assumed, pricked his finger. His features slackened momentarily, then he blinked, shook his head, shifted his weight back.
I stood and willed every barb to rise defensively.
His scornful smile resumed its place on his face. “I assure you, I have accomplished many things this way.”
“You don’t even know who I am.” The edge of conviction in my voice was sharp. It stalled his steps again.
He held his position on the verge of my aura’s circumference. “It matters not.”
Though he was aiming for snide, I heard a note of doubt in his tone. It was the signal for me to laugh at him and try to reinforce the idea that the advantage here was mine, and he just hadn’t seen it yet.
“If you’re so proud of who you are, then, tell me.”
Borrowing lines from Johnny and others, I said, “I am a pure-blood witch, a caster of spells, an element master, and ringer of bells.” Feeling an empowering swell of energy swirling inside me like raging rapids—and hoping it wasn’t just some bad side-effect of brain trauma beyond a concussion—I advanced on the Rege. “I am the witch of old,” I said as my aural quills sank into him, “delivering justice and voicing truths untold. I’ve been called the moonchild of ruin … don’t make me ruin you.”
As I spoke, his eyes glazed over. His jaw slackened.
It was the same reaction I’d witnessed in the policeman at the Botanical Gardens when Menessos had mesmerized him. I wasn’t certain it was even possible that I had impressed my will upon him, but if it was … “You’re finished here. Leave. Now.”
The Rege walked away.
I held my breath, waiting for him to return and attack, to announce that he’d played me for a fool. When the door shut behind him, the reality of what I’d done hit home and left me stunned.