The Mesegian Consortium
an excerpt

Chapter One

“Talk of the devil, and he will appear.”
—Irish Proverb

San Dri’a, Mesegios

“Milord, please… no more,” Gabriella breathed out in a frightened, hesitant whisper, warily beseeching her master. The narrowed, cold gleam in his dark eyes as he watched her squirm beneath his gaze sent a chill racing up her spine.

He smiled, a wicked smile lent only to Lucifer’s kin, as though he was a jackal toying with its prey, savoring the fear he inspired. Fighting tremors, Gabriella desperately tugged at the tattered remains of her chambermaid’s dress, pulling cloth over torn cloth in an attempt to hide the deep-purple marks and red, swollen welts inflicted upon her tender skin; covering too, her shameful state of undress. Her Lord had demanded it of her, and though she did as he bid, she feared her body could not withstand much more of his abuse.

“Step forward, Gabriella,” he commanded, his voice disturbingly calm despite the energy he had spent in beating her.

She moved forward on wobbly knees, her head still swimming from the opiates despite the sobering pain.

He motioned to where he wanted her to stand. “There… Ah, yes. Perfect.”

Moonlight streamed through the opened veranda doors revealing all of Gabriella to the beast. There was no darkened corner, no shadow, no hope for shelter in which to conceal the gut wrenching panic that ripped through her bones. Was he going to strike her again? The silence while he stalked around her was frightening, but she couldn’t show him her dread. He fed off of it—forcefully imbibing her soul from the depths of hell, sucking out every ounce of what she once held dear. It was as if each cry of pain filled him with renewed vigor, fueling his acts of cruelty upon her flesh.

Feeling the last shreds of her will quickly dissipating, as if sand falling through the glass of time, Gabriella De Rossi bit her lip to stifle yet another whimper, then carefully lifted her chin. She had to stay strong for her sister. Little Milena’s life depended upon it.

Silver-crested wood cracked like hot lightning across Gabriella’s shoulder blades, sending her reeling on hands and knees, struggling for breath while stars blazed in her eyes. From the corner of the room her sister’s garbled cry cut through the cloth binding her tongue. The sound of Milena’s uncontrollable sobs brought forth torrents of anguish from Gabriella’s eyes, the tears pooling between her fingers on the cold, hard floor.

“Get up!” her master snarled viscously through clenched teeth. “I gave you no leave to cower, you pathetic little whore! Get up! …Now!” He towered over her, his voice shards of ice piercing through to her spine. “Now, Gabriella, it is time. Ask it of me and your sister goes free.”

She hesitated, her voice strangled in a knot of tears. But he flicked his wrist, pointing an ominous finger towards the darkened corner of the room where her sister was chained. “Would you rather I hear the words from Milena’s sweet lips?”
Gabriella flung a hand up in the air, not yet finding the strength to rise. “Nay, Milord! Nay!” she rasped, horrified.

Desperation rang out sudden and frenzied, her eyes wide with panic. “She is only a babe!” Summoning what courage she could muster, Gabriella drew upon a shaky breath then shoved herself up from the floor, grimacing. “Please, Milord,” she said, quietly, drawing those ebon eyes back to her. “I… I beseech you.” Though she felt sickened by the words, they tumbled quickly over her lips in an effort to appease the beast, to keep him from harming her sister. “I beg ye to take me now, My Lord.”

Though Gabriella feared more pain, she had already forsaken hope of saving her virtue. It would soon be ripped from her; and in a manner so horrific, that only in death would she hope to find peace. Silently, she cursed the calamity about to befall her and the sorrow it would bring down on her family; but her decision was made—if her body would serve to spare her baby sister from suffering a similar fate, Gabriella could at least take some comfort in that.

Seconds passed in what seemed like eons of tortured silence, while she again stood obedient, not daring to utter a sound or move even the tiniest of muscles; horrified that such would again invoke his wrath.

No tears, no tears, no tears, she silently chanted. Don’t cry. Don’t move. Don’t speak.

She clung tightly to the front of her tattered dress, and though she trembled, her eyes watched and waited. When her master suddenly moved, stepping forward and raising a sinewy hand, there was no help for it. She recoiled instinctively, flinging her hands up in front of her face. The guttural roar and feral glint in his dark eyes filled her with a sudden, horrified regret, her eyes widened in shock.

“Forgive me, Milord!” She cried out in desperation, unable to control the panic in her voice. “I… I swear on my dear father’s grave! I meant ye no discourtesy.” Deigning compliance, she forced her arms down to her sides and begged for mercy. “I will falter no more, my Masterful Lord. Please… I am yours. I… I give ye my word.”

She dropped her eyes to the floor. But before she had so much as drawn a half-breath, he came at her again; slamming the ornamental, silver grip of his walking stick into her abdomen with such force, she was certain it had cracked her ribs.

Gabriella doubled over with a loud grunt, choking down the bile that threatened to rise up in the back of her throat, as she stumbled backwards and once again fell to the cold, marble floor.

Her vision blurred and darkened at the edges until all she could see was the chess-piece shaped handle of her lord’s preferred instrument of torture. Her mind screamed out that she should flee, run as far and as fast as her battered legs would carry her, but knew, wretchedly, that such foolishness would surely cause her sister harm.

There was a deafening whoosh of air rushing through her ears, as she felt his fingers snake a handful of her hair, then yank, lifting her to her feet. Gabriella’s entire world became a vivid blur of tears and blood and gurgled screams as the stick clattered to the floor, and the beast’s fists pummeled into her as though a butcher tenderizing hooked meat.

Unable to withstand the force, her legs stumbled backwards as the rock-solid battering rams struck her over and over again until her body and mind numbed with pain. Her heel caught in the edge of the rug, sending the weight of her body reeling back, her arms flung out wildly, splaying open her dress as she dropped into a feathery-soft warmth. Though fleeting, Gabriella felt grateful for the quilted, comforting embrace of the bed.

Lucifer was on top of her then, snarling as though he meant to devour her whole. He plunged a thick, hard rod of fire between her legs, searing into her maidenhead and calling forth an anguished, yet muted cry of defeat from deep within Gabriella’s throat. He continued to ravish her broken body, and she prayed—prayed he would soon be sated, prayed for mercy… prayed for the comfort of death’s sweet release. Oblivion crept into the edge of her vision then, a swirling mass of darkness that dangled relief so close within her grasp, that she offered no resistance.

Gabriella lay there, when he finally rolled off of her with a satiated sigh, too dulled to move. Her eyes stared blankly forward; her breath shallow and weak. She felt the bed shift with his weight, then saw the blur of his hand as he dropped the key to Milena’s chains beside her; his voice above her indifferent and flat. “You may go now,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. He turned to walk toward the veranda, the girl already forgotten in his mind.

After a few moments, Gabriella found the conviction to stand, though her legs were weak and trembling. She grabbed a hold of the bedpost to steady her balance, then slid a swollen-eyed, rueful look to her sister. She attempted a smile, a strained effort that was meant to comfort. She had given the beast her sister’s ransom, had done all she could to secure Milena’s safety. Now it was up to her to absolve the shame that had been heaped upon her family.

In the brief silence that followed, there was an overwhelming rush of love and compassion passed between the two sisters—and then Milena nodded with solemn understanding, though she sorely wished to object. Sorrow ripped through her heart, her soul, pouring rivers of lament down her paled cheeks. When Gabriella tossed her the key, Milena fumbled with the lock, unable to see through the curtain of tears.

The cool, night air cut across the veranda, lifting Gabriella’s tangled mass of curls, prickling her exposed skin with a blanket of tiny bumps, but failing miserably in its attempt to revive her deadened soul. Numbly, she put one bare foot in front of the other, until there was cold stone under her hands as well as her feet.
Leaning against the castle’s cold, grey stone he watched her, disinterestedly, as she pushed herself up onto the balustrade, lifting one leg, and then the other, to stand of her own accord. She turned then, her mangled, bloody body a vivid splash of contrasting color against the backdrop of a moon soaked night. Her soft-brown eyes found him then and she smiled, triumphantly, claiming the final victory.

Her tormentor scoffed and returned his attention to the mountainous skyline, tearing away her last vestige of pride. With nothing left to her, she stepped back, falling into the welcoming arms of the angels. Gabriella’s last thought, before her body slammed into the jagged rocks below, was that of sheer bliss; never again would she be summoned by the devil.

That devil ran a well-groomed hand through inky black waves of thick, glossy hair, breathing a jaded sigh. The crisp wind billowed out the sleeves of his fine linen shirt, wafting over solid arms, like sails in the harbor. From behind him came a quiet, but clearly telling cough.

“What is it, Orso?” he asked, a lingering irritability coloring his tone.

“Milord …did she?”

“Yes. She did indeed.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “It is so difficult to find good help these days.”

“Indeed, Sir.” Orso replied, his allegiance ever present. He stepped up alongside his liege and peered over the balustrade into the gorge below. “Shall I release the jackals, Milord? They would make quick work of this mess,” Orso added, dryly.

The nobleman cocked a sardonic brow, “What need have I of rock climbing jackals, Orso, when I have you?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Orso agreed, frowning. Gabriella’s body was lodged in the rocks halfway down the crag. He tried to imagine how he was going to get down there to retrieve the body. He muttered irritably, “A proper guest would have killed herself at the top of the cliff.”

A faint glimmer of humor lit behind dark eyes as the nobleman placed a firm hand on Orso’s shoulder. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t invite her back.”

“As you wish, My Lord,” Orso replied evenly, turning away from the balustrade. He waited, ready with a fresh linen shirt, while his liege stripped of his bloodied one. “By the by, Milord, you have a visitor,” Orso said, as his liege slid a thick pair of arms into the clean fabric and turned to face him while he tied the laces. “Lord Cafarelli claimed his matter was urgent and was rather insistent upon delivering this to you personally, but I persuaded him otherwise.” Orso pulled a sealed missive from the inside of his vest and handed it to his liege.

The nobleman immediately recognized the sun seal of the Knights of Apollo. He savored the imagery as he broke the waxen image in half, opening the letter. “Mmm… Good of you to come to me right away, Orso,” he said, pouring over the letter. “Pray tell, did the old goat arrive before—”

“He heard and saw nothing, Milord. He awaits your presence in the great hall.”

The nobleman lifted his gaze to look directly at Orso, his tone even. “Thank you, Orso. I will tend to my anxious guest.” He stooped to retrieve his cane and prodded at the tattered dress on the floor. “Please see to me after the rubbish has been cleared. It appears that I will be going out tonight.”

He began twirling the walking stick back and forth through his fingers as he headed for the door. Then almost as an afterthought, he turned his disinterested gaze back toward the young girl who glared at him with murder in her eyes. She had not stirred from the doorway where she had witnessed her sister’s suicide. “See to it that Milena is returned to her room, as well.”

Lord Columbano Cafarellli, Marquis of Canzone del Vento, ran a pair of thick hands through dark, unruly curls that were beginning to show the first hints of grey. He paced an intricately woven rug in front of the crackling hearth, cursing under his breath, his anxiety palpable. He needed a stiff drink, something to calm his nerves, after working himself into a state of frenzy. He was in too deep this time, all of his funds hedging on a favorable outcome, and there was no backing out. This summons made his gut churn uncomfortably. Bad news. It had to be bad news. At this rate, Columbano was certain his entire head would frost right along with the coming winter, a mere two and a half months away. …If he managed to keep his head.

“Tell me your pockets are filled with gold, Lord Cafarelli, and I just may let you live,” said a silky cool voice from the doorway behind him.

Columbano turned, his brow furrowed. “What?” he growled, anger flashing behind dark eyes.

“The rug, you oaf. That happens to be third dynasty Basquan silk slowly deteriorating beneath your fretting feet,” the master of the castle replied, brushing past Columbano. He lifted a crystal decanter and proceeded to pour the amber liquid into two snifters, one of which he handed to his anxious guest. “What calamity ails you this time, Columbano?”

Columbano frowned again, restraining a distinctive urge to wrap his fingers around the pompous bastard’s neck and squeeze. He wrapped them around the snifter of brandy instead, taking a healthy swig.

"Lombardi," he growled. “That fool is going to destroy everything! What is so damned important that he is risking exposure? We are only weeks away from having control over the Mesegian Throne, and that simpering little bureaucrat chooses now to panic?” Columbano tipped the glass to his lips again and drained the contents. It was quickly refilled for him though he had given no indication of wanting more.

“You could refuse to attend,” his friend said as he poured.

Columbano grimaced at the subtle reminder of just how deeply he was invested in this operation. There was no way he could ignore Lombardi’s summons. If there was a new development that might bring their treason to light, he had to know about it as soon as possible. “This is all too complicated; something is bound to go wrong! If only we could just take the blasted throne for ourselves! It would save a world of trouble!”

“You know that’s not possible," he said, portraying the voice of reason. "‘No person of an active magical bloodline may occupy the ruling office of any nation without incurring the punishment of the Monitors.’ Believe me, if there was a way around the Constantine Pact, I would have thought of it by now. Besides, even if the Pact wasn’t in the way, we’d still have to contend with the King’s advisors.”

Sighing, Columbano set down his glass, resigned to let the matter rest until he knew more. “I brought the carriage. Care to ride along?”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve a mind to have a bit of pleasure before business,” he said, a pair of dark eyes sparkling devilishly. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Columbano snorted. “I’m certain the lady will be thankful for that small favor,” he scoffed, as he straightened his waistcoat and turned to leave. “I’ll see myself out.”