Chapter 26
Mathias
Amber liquid swirled in the tumbler as I toyed with the idea of a second glass.
I’d earned this drink after six hours of council meetings where the members did nothing but bicker.
Pythia’s daily gazette crinkled in my grip, the scent of ink a nostalgic anchor to a life long discarded.
I had just taken a sip when the first scream tore through the silence.
My empathetic magic picked up on a storm cloud of powerful emotions approaching.
The whiskey burned a path down my throat as I bolted upright, feeling the panic of a crowd invade my headspace, shouting their emotions.
I swallowed the rest of the whiskey before standing.
The burn helped. Not much, but enough to push their noise to the edges of my skull so I could function.
A fist pounded on the door. “Lord Regent!” cried someone on the other side of the threshold. “Lord Regent, come quick!”
I looked into the empty tumbler. “Fantastic.”
A cluster of servants and guards escorted me to a candidate’s quarters.
They informed me of the disaster along the way.
My head ached with the pressure of what they were feeling—fear, mostly.
Those who served the nobility in the mansion always had a healthy dose of it built up for themselves, too used to being punished for events out of their control.
“Lock down the mansion and grounds. No one gets in or out until I say so. Candidates included,” I instructed them.
“I expect everyone in this wing to report for questioning. Instruct any candidates and their devotees within these walls to report to the great hall and remain there until further notice.”
“Right away, Lord Regent.” One male peeled off to enact my orders.
I slowed my step for a moment. “Send for Lord Clement. I have need of his talents.” Another servant ran to see to the task.
We entered into Genevieve Mercier’s rooms with the guards leading the way, weapons drawn. A single living soul turned and gasped at the flash of steel, her sudden terror flooding my chest. My heart thudded harder as I approached her.
“You found the body?” I didn't speak to soothe the maid, but to extract the data. Her terror was an inconvenient noise I had to tune out.
The vampiric maid curtsied. “Yes, Lord Regent. She’s over here,” she murmured, inclining her head down.
I drifted over to inspect the scene while also feeling for any sign of guilt or regret from the vampiress now wringing her hands nearby. I sincerely doubted she’d committed this murder. She wasn’t sweating in the proximity of my power nearly enough.
Sighing, I eyed Genevieve’s corpse for any sign of who could’ve done this.
Admittedly, she was not a favored candidate to win.
I could still see her fangs buried in the throat of her own devotee, draining the man to a husk just to secure her advancement in the first trial.
She had survived the slaughter of her other mates only to feast on the last scrap of loyalty left to her.
I didn’t hate her for the murder; I despised her lack of foresight. To kill your only support for a temporary gain was a fool’s gambit.
A plain stake was embedded through her heart. How could this happen? Our kind rarely sank to the low of using a vampire slayer’s weapon. Though possibly the work of a slayer, it was baffling how one could bypass the mansion’s defenses without getting caught.
Her body had been placed onto the bed, which was sullied with the spreading puddle of her dark blood. Her hair was fanned out and her face peaceful without the ravages of bloodlust. Someone had taken the time to straighten her legs and fold her arms over her stomach. But why?
Outside of her bedroom, the guards were still settling the commotion and herding witnesses into a line for questioning. The fear seeping into the bedroom coated my stomach in queasy nerves.
“This is how you found her?” I turned back to the maid.
She bowed her head. “Yes, Lord Regent. After I knocked and no one answered, I let myself into her quarters for their routine cleaning and found her body on the bed like this.”
This was troubling news. “Go join the line outside this room.” With a nod, she scurried off.
In the meantime, I toured Genevieve’s rooms and conferred with one of the more experienced guards.
We agreed; there was no sign of a struggle.
It was as if a ghost had walked through a wall and stuck the candidate with a slayer’s weapon.
We had to keep the matter of the stake quiet, lest that detail inspired panic.
The next person to enter did so without knocking.
I breathed a sigh of relief as Clement Rodgerson swept in, as even and self-assured in his emotions as ever.
He and I had once been Queen Nemea’s left and right hands, as useful to her as her kings.
With his truth-seeking magic, he would soon have leads on the mysterious killer.
I inclined my head. “Lord Clement.”
He focused on me, his distinctive golden eyes flashing. “Lord Regent.”
He smiled pleasantly, eager as always to use his magic. Unlike the rest of the council, he’d shown no shred of ill will toward me since the Flask selected me for the regent position. Considering how his daughter was competing for the throne, he couldn’t hold the seat due to a conflict of interest.
There was no one I trusted more, so I left him in charge of the questioning while I went to report to the Flask of Dominion.
I eased past the sea of faces lined up against the wall while focusing on myself and what I truly felt.
It was the only way to avoid the bombardment of uncertainty that threatened to destabilize my headspace.
If the murderer turned out to be a candidate, she would strike again and again until she was the only one who remained. And the Flask, in the capriciousness of Eona herself, would probably smite her for it and force us to start all over again.
The tension along my back increased. It was my responsibility, as Lord Regent, to make sure that didn’t happen. We would have a new queen as soon as possible.
Ignoring those who tried to catch my attention, I marched straight to the throne room, where the Flask was perched on a velvet cushion atop the high seat.
“You have news.” The voice slithered into my mind without resistance, silky and feminine, a drifting caress of serpent scales with the sweet, addictive ache of venom. I shivered from the pleasure-pain of her sifting through my mind and being, looking for anything new.
“One of the candidates was found murdered in her bed. Genevieve Mercier.”
“Another weakling meets her end.” The red drop of blood within the crystal container continued to drift languidly.
Unbothered. “You serve me well, my little puppet. So eager to please, so effortless to lead. You navigate these trials with a heart of stone. So much blood spilled, yet you never falter. You gratify me.”
I bowed to it. “Thank you, mistress.”
Others were overwhelmed by the presence within the Flask. With experience, I no longer flinched when her power poured into me and spoke. I’d spent many hours in discussion with her, seeking relief for questions she never answered.
What was she, really, but an echo of a goddess? The kernel of will and desire left behind for us by a being so vast that a mere drop of her blood had the power to rule us.
I wondered what it would be like to be a devotee to that kind of power. My mouth watered, craving a taste of it for myself. I’d been close once. Nemea had promised me a place in her Devotion. She’d seen what I could do, called me indispensable, stroked my cheek, and told me I’d earned it.
Only, when one of her kings died, she imposed her will on an outsider, Zane, instead. It still set my teeth on edge that she had forced an unwilling man into the spot she’d promised me.
With Nemea’s death, I’d seen her for what she was—a monster twisted by an endless life and too much proximity to power. She used to perch the Flask of Dominion in her lap, stroking its side like a pet, murmuring to the force that swirled within it.
Inevitably, my mind turned to Ilyana Krudelbach, and I drifted back to the ball held several days ago.
Her magic had flared in a way that didn’t match my report.
The dossier had been clear: water-aligned, a minor power.
Unremarkable. Yet as she’d shoved my power back, I’d found no trace of the sea in her.
Hers was a jagged, thieving strength. It’d felt familiar.
The late queen possessed a knack for stripping the magic from others to fuel her own ends. Ilyana didn't steal; she numbed and repelled, but it was rare and unusual.
There was also a resemblance in the way she carried herself.
The same poise. The same refusal to blink when a threat stood inches from her face.
And the cool, shrewd edge behind her red gaze.
Always calculating something. She occupied the room with the acuity of one who knew exactly how many bodies she could bury beneath the floorboards.
It was unsettling how quickly she caught the reference to the dead queen without me uttering her name. That flash of recognition in her eyes wasn't a comfort. It’d been a warning.
I pictured her on the throne in Nemea’s place. Would she listen to the Flask and cradle it close? A sharp spark of desire tangled with the need to dismantle her secrets. I didn't just want to understand the lie she was telling. I wanted to be the one to decide what to do with the truth she hid.
“Two spaces remain in her Devotion,” the Flask remarked, reminding me of where I stood.