“I need you to use your gifted hands to help me find Morshiel. My clone has a major part he must act in this play before I can truly vanquish and rule him.”
Aubrey stood while Morshiel reclined on a velvet couch, the luxurious fabric striking Aubrey as bizarre within the dank, fetid underground tunnel.
“He has spoken to Isi,” Aubrey said.
“Why didn’t you finish the bloody American once and for all in the tunnels?” Morshiel asked irritably.
“I tried to kill him, but as you know, the circumstances were harrowing with Blaise closing in on us. Now I’m glad my attempt was unsuccessful. I was able to read more of Isi’s thoughts while he was wounded and draw my own conclusions on what must be done to vanquish Blaise. It served me—it served us—for Isi to live and impart this information to Blaise. I believe Blaise will seek you out very soon.”
“And I am to let him find me?” Morshiel asked, sitting forward on the couch, his gaze narrowed.
“Yes, by all means,” Aubrey murmured, smiling. “I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. Why use my magic to get you into Sanctuary, when the way would open to us eventually. The spirits tell me the end is coming, and Blaise senses it, just as you do. The master of Sanctuary must be the one to invite you within its walls. Only he can do so.”
“He can. But will he?” Morshiel asked sneeringly.
“He shall. And you must cooperate with the ritual that will take place. If you do, you will be the one left standing. Blaise will be dead. And you will rule Sanctuary.”
Morshiel sniffed and took a sip from his goblet. What did he have to lose? If Aubrey, the Immortal Genius lied, Morshiel would not be the loser. Blaise could not kill him with his weapon, for Morshiel was truly immortal. He could not resist the opportunity to step within the bounds of Sanctuary.
He would let Blaise live—for the time being—if he did seek him out in the tunnels. Why not let him? Risk added spice to the bland, boring experience others called life. He would chance much, much more to obtain the women.
Isabel Lanscourt.
He found it hilarious to consider that Aubrey actually believed he’d ever give him Isabel Lanscourt. How could he possibly consider himself so intelligent? He clearly had no comprehension of what the woman meant to creatures like himself and Blaise. Sometimes he lost himself for hours on end, recalling what it was to be flooded by her sublime energy.
The Scourge, and the Literati, and even the Immortal Genius thought they understood Morshiel, but they were all fools. Only he knew that the entire landscape of his life had altered ever since he’d laid eyes on Isabel. He would do anything to possess her…to touch her. His entire existence had been a prelude to the moment he could lay his hand on her, sink his teeth and cock into her vitessence-rich flesh.
His grip tightened on the brass goblet until he felt his fingertips dent the metal.
Yes, anything.
“Very well,” Morshiel murmured in a bored manner. “If Blaise comes to me, I will not take off his head. I need a distraction, and if anything, what you suggest sounds like a bit of fun,” he said before he drained the blood and tossed the goblet away like a piece of lint found on his jacket.
Chapter Sixteen
Isabel faltered in her line, pausing to stare out at the nearly empty theatre. She peered into the dark shadows clinging to the rear seats. Margaret Turrow, who sat in the front row, twisted around, as if to see where Isabel looked so intently.
She knew what had caused the surge of awareness. Blaise. His presence at the theatre confused her.
Last night, Isabel had located the general vicinity of Morshiel on the map, just as Blaise had asked. She’d been wary about giving Blaise the information, disturbed by his intensity on the matter, but she’d had no choice. As before, his mind had been melded with hers as they traveled the regions of the underground.
Afterward, Blaise had distractedly promised to attend her performance for opening night. She’d begged him to attend the dress rehearsal, but he’d resisted her coaxing, saying there was something crucial that must take place on the night of the rehearsal.
He’d changed his mind, though. She clearly sensed him standing back there, even if she could not see him. A sudden imperative feeling overcame her.
“Isabel? Where are you going? It’s dress rehearsal!” Titurino, who had been admirably playing the “Clown”, boomed out from behind her. She ran toward stage right. Rachel, the talented costume designer Blaise had hired for the production from the surface world, stood backstage, a stunned expression on her face. Isabel plopped the elaborate headdress she wore into Rachel’s outstretched hands as she rushed past her. She ignored all the shouted questions and amazed faces, hurrying down a flight of stairs and bursting through a swinging door onto the audience floor.
“Isabel? What’s wrong?” she heard Margaret call from somewhere to the left of her, but Isabel kept moving toward the back of the theatre at a brisk pace. Once she reached the overhang of the balcony, she paused and peered into the shadows.
“Blaise? I know you’re here,” she called in a tremulous voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He’s gone,” someone said from behind her.
She spun around, her white pleated dress twirling around her hips and thighs, her fist gripped tightly around the prop she carried.
“Aubrey? But he was here. I sensed him perfectly. But now—” she broke off, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She stretched out with her senses and felt nothing. “You’re right. He did leave. But he was here.”
“Yes,” Aubrey replied calmly. “I, too, sensed his telepathic message to you.”