Valerius's hips spasmed, his powerful body jack-knifing as a low, tortured groan was ripped from his throat. Isabella held on, her throat muscles working as she felt the hot, thick jet of his release flood the back of her mouth. She didn't flinch. She kept her eyes locked on his, watching the mixture of agony and ecstasy on his face as he came in a series of powerful, shuddering jolts. She swallowed every drop. The taste was potent, coppery and alive, and the rush of power that followed was staggering. It wasn't the nascent hum she'd felt from Thomas; this was a roaring inferno, a tidal wave of pure, masculine energy that surged through her veins. She felt her very cells vibrate with the intake, the raw essence of this powerful man fueling her own transformation.
When his last spasm faded, he slumped, his cock going soft in her mouth. She released him with a wet, slick sound and looked up, a single, thick string of saliva and semen connecting her lips to the head of his penis. A triumphant, cruel smile touched her lips as she licked them clean. Valerius's eyes, which had been wild with lust, were now placid, empty. The fire was gone, replaced by the same blank devotion she had seen in Thomas. The proud Captain was dead. Only the thrall remained.
She rose to her feet, her own body humming with a vibrant, restless energy. The remnants of her torn chemise felt like an irritation against her newly sensitized skin. She ripped the rest of it away, letting the scraps fall to the floor, and stood before him, completely naked in the candlelight.
"Get dressed, Captain," she commanded, her voice cold and clear. "You have work to do."
Without a word, he bent down, his movements fluid but devoid of his previous martial crispness. He pulled up his trousers, buttoned his fly, and retrieved his tunic from the floor. As he dressed, his gaze never left her form, but it was a look of ownership, not desire. He was a hound watching its master.
"You mentioned hunters," Isabella said, walking to her dressing table and pouring a glass of deep red wine. She didn't need it for sustenance, but the act felt appropriate. "Men who hunt the 'folklore' of the night. You dismissed them as stories."
"They are more than stories, Your Grace," he replied, his voice a flat monotone. The information, previously guarded by professional skepticism, now flowed freely under the influence of her enchantment. "They call themselves the Order of the Argent Blade. A fanatical sect. They've been quiet for a generation, but in recent weeks, their activity has increased. Inquisitors arriving from the capital, secret recruitment, whispers of sanctified weapons being stockpiled."
Isabella took a slow sip of wine, her mind racing. The Order of the Argent Blade. A name for her nightmares. "And you, as Captain of the Guard, what have you done about this illegal militia operating in my city?"
"We have watched them," Valerius stated without emotion. "Their stated purpose is to protect the populace from 'unholy threats.' As they have committed no secular crimes, interfering would cause a panic and risk conflict with the church, which unofficially sanctions them."
"Convenient," Isabella mused. This was the threat she had feared, but now it had a name and a structure. And she had the perfect tool to dismantle it. "Your priorities have changed, Valerius. Your primary duty is no longer to the city, or to your men. It is to me. You will use your position and your resources to find out everything about this Order. I want names. I want their base of operations. I want to know their strength, their leaders, and their methods. You will become their shadow. You will report everything to me, and only to me. You will, in effect, be hunting the hunters."
He finished buttoning his tunic, his movements perfectly precise. He looked every inch the Captain of the Guard again, but his soul was hers. A perfect spy, hidden in plain sight.
"It will be done, Your Grace," he said.
A flicker of something—a memory of his former self, a ghost of his sworn duty—seemed to cross his face for a split second before being ruthlessly suppressed by her power. It was a subtle warning. His will was strong; even in thralldom, his core tenets fought against their new programming. He would be a powerful tool, but potentially a volatile one.
"Good," she said, turning her back on him to look at her reflection in the dark window. A goddess in the making. "Now go. And Valerius," she added without turning, "do not fail me."
He bowed, a deep, true bow this time, and left the room, the door closing softly behind him. She was alone again, the scent of his sex and his power hanging heavy in the air. She had gained a powerful thrall and a vital new ability: an agent inside the city's power structure.
The power from Valerius was a heady wine. It sang in her veins, a promise of the godhood she could achieve. But two thralls, however useful, were a mere drop in the ocean. She needed a flood. Her gaze drifted from her reflection to the sprawling city below, no longer seeing it as a hunting ground of individual targets, but as a system of interlocking directorates, a network of power she could hijack. It was time to stop hunting rabbits and start snaring wolves in droves.
The next day, the ducal household was a quiet storm of activity. Under the guise of a Duchess emerging from her deepest mourning to re-engage with the city's commerce, invitations were sent. The list was small, exclusive, and surgically precise. Master Wilhelm, the corpulent head of the Weaver's Guild, whose looms spun the wealth of the city. Lord Sisyphus, a lean, hawkish man who controlled the grain imports and could starve the city on a whim. And Master Elias Thorne, a merchant of exotic goods and antiquities, a man whose trade routes were veins of information stretching to the far corners of the world. Three pillars of the city's economy. Three minds she would hollow out and make her own.
For the event, she chose a gown not of mourning black, but of deep crimson silk that shimmered like fresh blood under the gaslights. It was daringly cut, with a neckline that plunged just far enough to hint at the shadows between her breasts. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate coiffure, with a few stray tendrils left to curl against the pale column of her neck. She was not a grieving widow tonight. She was a spider, and this was her web.
She received them in the grand gallery, a long hall flanked by portraits of her late husband's ancestors. The air was thick with the scent of hothouse lilies and beeswax. As her guests arrived, she greeted each with a practiced, sorrowful grace, her enchantment a subtle perfume in the air, not a hammer blow.
Master Wilhelm, sweating in his fine woolens, bowed low and offered florid condolences. Lord Sisyphus, ever the pragmatist, spoke of market stability and his commitment to the duchy's continued prosperity. But it was Elias Thorne who intrigued her. He was younger than the others, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He was dressed in foreign-cut silks, and he did not offer empty platitudes.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice a smooth baritone. He presented a flat, lacquered box. "A trifle. In my travels, I've learned that objects with history can sometimes comfort a soul grappling with its own. I hope this brings you a measure of peace."
Later, when the small talk had waned and the wine flowed freely, Isabella found a moment alone to open the box. Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a page of vellum, yellowed with extreme age. It was covered in an elegant, spidery script in a language she didn't recognize, but the ink had a strange, brownish-red hue. The page was dominated by a single, masterful illustration: a heart, anatomically correct, but woven from the roots of a pale, leafless tree. And nestled within the chambers of the heart were tiny, sleeping bats. It was morbid and strangely beautiful. She felt an inexplicable pull toward it, a resonance deep in her bloodless-but-humming flesh. It felt... familiar.
She tucked the page away, her mind already working. Thorne was more than a merchant; he was a collector of secrets. He would be an invaluable thrall.
The time was right. She moved to the center of the room, clapping her hands lightly for attention. "My Lords, Masters," she said, her voice carrying a new weight, a resonance that cut through their wine-induced chatter. "I thank you for coming tonight. Your loyalty to my late husband was a rock upon which he built much. I would ask... for a toast. To the future. To a new era of prosperity for our great city."
As she lifted her glass, she unleashed her power. Not a trickle, but a wave. It washed over the three men, a silent, psychic command of irresistible force. She didn't ask for their loyalty; she demanded their souls. "To me," she whispered, and as they raised their glasses in unison, she saw the light of their own will extinguish in their eyes, replaced by the placid, glassy reflection of her own.
It was almost too easy. The power from Valerius had amplified her enchantment tenfold. She could now command not just the weak-willed, but the titans of industry, bending their ambition to her own. The room was silent for a moment as the three men stood, glasses half-raised, their minds now a blank slate upon which she could write her desires. The city was hers.