Hunters

II. Slavery

II. Slavery

"It's been quite odd."

"What has?" replied Lisette in a whisper. Her shimmering eyes entranced by a man across the room.

"Haven't you been listening?" snarled her companion. "Lisette!" she barked when all she received as an answer was a distant grin of infatuation for some ridiculous rake.

"Oh!" Lisette gasped when she was taken by the wrist to be drawn from distraction.

Through the flocks of colors and speech, Lecia Harper led her confidante from the poisonous melodies. Around them the opulent manor recessed into darker crevices and caves where—had she not visited before—Lecia would have been lost. The oblivion of forbidden, lonely travel seemed more welcoming than the packs of smiling, glittering wolves. Their enchantments were stealing away her dearest friend as well as they had torn from her a most beloved sister. She could not allow it.

At last a dim trail of light emerged from a crack. Listette brushed ahead in an intoxicated rush, to fall—ungracefully—to a fine, velvet chaise. The distant hum of music lingered in the small parlor, though the effects of the witchcraft only left Lecia to brood. The gilded, perfect spines of a thousand books loomed over them, more dazzling reminders of what the pack could offer.

"How did they get him to come?" Lisette sighed, sprawled like in some semi-classical portrait with mussed chocolate tresses.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. Had you been listening instead of gawking at him, you would know," gritted Lecia.

"Oh, please tell me now," her pathetically infatuated friend insisted, rolling her head to afford all her attention to the subject.

"I've half a mind not to—" she grumbled, only to be interrupted by an adamant "Please!".

If Lecia had not already made up her mind about men, the image of her vibrant childhood companion turned to a puddle of useless nothingness would have persuaded her. It seemed slavery to her, whether it was for love or not. For as long as she had control, she promised herself independence. Never willingly would she toss aside her choice and liberty. There was no price that could convince her to forget freedom.

"I suggest you listen closely; I will not be telling you again." She peered down her nose, wide, wondering eyes gazed up in anticipation. "He's related to Henry—somehow. The Earl of Forneford's cousin, Tobias, married Lady Beatrice Lorton. Her mother's sister had married Duke Oliver Cantington, who—as you know—was the current Duke of Cambria and Martisine's grandfather. A cousin's cousin's son, is really who he is," Lecia explained, rather disinterested.

Lisette remained fascinated. Very few young ladies had ever denied the splendor of Duke Vaughan Ethan Cantington of Cambria and Martisine. Likely those who had were never privy to a portrait of his face void of an unruly beard or a tumble of floppy locks atop his head. There had been a time, as Lisette and Lecia had learned, that he donned fine garments made just right. His eyes had sparkled like the diamond lights and his manners of etiquette had been unmatched. As just a boy, new to his title and infinite wealth, he had engraved himself on everyone and everything, and it was that memory of him that would never be struck from any single mind and left him to be forever tormented by his own shadow.

On that night, when Zora Harper became a future countess, he returned. After years of an abrupt and mystifying hibernation, his amorphous skin was shed, and—resurrected—was the boy who had awed an entire society. Taller, stronger, and infinitely more handsome than any recollection or imagination, a man emerged. A man without boyish charm to spare the naïve and ignorant and, instead, an allure that rendered all pathetic and defenseless.