The Order of the Rose Episode Nine: Sympathetic Magic
The Order of the Rose: Episode Nine
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| Dinner With Valentina |
Sympathetic Magic
Darren’s dreaded dinner date was approaching fast.
He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He had attended hundreds of dinners with women of equal or higher pedigree than Valentina Romancewicz, but there was something fundamentally different about her. Something that hummed deep in his marrow.
“Shit,” Darren muttered, rifling through his wardrobe. “Where are they?”
His leather jewelry case lay open on the dresser. Empty velvet slots stared back at him. He tore through the nightstand drawers, then the armoire. Nothing.
Frustrated, he went looking for his sister.
“What’s crawled up your ass?” Darria asked with a smirk. “Besides dinner with Valentina, I mean.”
Darren offered his customary amusing, but droll scowl. “I can’t find Dad’s cufflinks. I was planning on wearing them tonight.”
“Which ones? He had dozens.”
“The gold ones engraved with his initials—set with the center diamond and our birthstones.”
Darren was originally meant to be named David Van Klumph II, but twins had arrived instead. David Senior had flatly refused to name the girl Davida—claiming it sounded like "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida," a song he despised—so Darren and Darria were born.
“Haven't seen them,” Darria said, frowning. “When did you wear them last?”
“Never. Ever since Dad died, they’ve stayed in that case. I know they were there.”
A sudden, icy prickle washed over Darria. It was the phantom shadow of a memory clawing toward the light, only to be swept under by an unnatural undertow. She shook it off, but a faint, persistent suspicion remained. Something was missing. Something connected to those cufflinks.
It refused to surface.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Darria said, smoothing her jacket. “Wear something else, and go have fun.”
“You were supposed to come with me.”
“And disappoint the children at the cancer clinic? Absolutely not.”
Across town, Valentina prepared for dinner. Her chauffeur had already been dispatched to collect Darren.
A momentary ripple resonated through her mind: Darria had grazed the edges of the hypnotic block guarding the estate's alarm code, but her block held firm. Darria’s excuse for not attending dinner was solid.
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| Cufflinks in a Bloodbath |
Closing her fist, she rolled the jewelry within the blood bath. When she opened her fingers, the cut had sealed, the fluid reabsorbed into her pale flesh. The gold gleamed pristinely, polished by her essence.
DVK. Darren Van Klumph. She smiled. “Perfect.”
She secured the cufflinks in the silk pouch, tied it to her sash, and descended to the atrium.
Darren arrived precisely on time. “Welcome, Darren,” Valentina purred. “No Darria? I had hoped she would join us.”
“She sends her regrets. A charity commitment she couldn't reschedule.”
“Pity. But we shall make the best of it alone.”
In the dining salon, three Bloody Mary's stood waiting on a silver bar cart—a quiet touch of stagecraft to sell the illusion that Darria had genuinely been expected.
The first course was briny oysters with tabasco, paired with effortless, surprisingly comfortable conversation. Valentina proved to be an attentive audience with a wickedly dry sense of humor.
When the rare filet mignon arrived, Valentina casually rested her hand on the silk pouch at her hip.
She squeezed it, closing her eyes for a fraction of a second as she projected an image of herself and Darren locked in a heated, breathless embrace. She deliberately refrained from issuing an outright mental command; under the lingering influence of the blood roses, he would have rolled over like a trained hound.
She didn’t want a puppet. She wanted him to crave her of his own volition. Sympathetic magic required only an intimate, personal relic to seed the thought and let mortal desire do the rest.
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| It's Not Working |
She tightened her grip, visualizing raw, uninhibited passion.
Across the table, Darren simply took another sip of wine. Nothing took root. No sudden flush in his cheeks, no dilated pupils, no shift in posture.
Valentina glanced at his wrists. “Handsome cufflinks,” she noted lightly. “Antique?”
“Hardly. Just an old pair I’ve had for years. Strangely enough, the ones I wanted to wear tonight have vanished from my dresser.”
“A sentimental pair?”
“My father’s. I’ve actually never worn them, but tonight felt important enough to bring them out.”
Valentina’s fingers went slack against the silk pouch. “Your father’s? Were you named for him?”
“David. I was supposed to be David Junior, but the twin thing threw a wrench in his vanity.”
Valentina drew a slow breath.
David Van Klumph.
The talisman was inert. Sympathetic magic required an object steeped in the subject's own aura, skin oils, and personal history. Darren had never worn them. He had never claimed them.
Her little trick had failed, and she refused to turn him into a mindless treat with a blunt-force command.
They finished dinner like civilized elites. Darren offered polite compliments on the meal, took her hand, and bowed to brush his lips against her cold knuckles.
Through the skin-to-skin contact, an flash tore through her mind. She caught an unmistakable glimpse into his subconscious: his desire, his fixation, his buried hunger.
Not for her.
For Azreal Kalvor.
Valentina let her hand slip free as the door closed behind him. Her smile hardened into stone.
That, she thought, will have to be dealt with.
Frank aka Foxxfyrre
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