27. TWENTY-SEVEN #3
In the light of the torch she holds, I can still make out a pale, elegant face, strawberry blonde hair, and painted lips.
She wears a corseted gown with a layered hem–gathered at the side so as to not ruin it in the shallow water.
Everything about her is ordinary, if admirably polished—but the look of silent, wide-eyed horror building on Dante’s face makes my insides turn icy.
His reaction earns a slight, self-satisfied smile from the woman.
She cocks her head, studying me until her eyes land upon the emblem at my belt, and she gasps.
“And with one of those Corvus Order wretches, no less? Merde!” Her voice carries the hint of an accent—French, I think. “I assumed your runaway antics were nothing more than another tantrum, but clearly you’ve made it your life’s mission to lower yourself into the depths of shame.”
“Clémence,” Dante drawls, taking a subtle step to angle his body in front of mine. To the untrained eye, he is outwardly calm, but I can see how he is bristling. He gestures at the sullen tunnel around us and says with a pout, “Quite a long way from home. Are you lost?”
“Espèce de sale ingrat! I will not be baited into playing games with you, child.” She glances disdainfully at the stagnant water. “It’s bad enough you’ve forced us down here in this muck. Though I suppose it’s a perfectly suitable place to fraternize with her kind.”
“Nique ta mère,” Dante bites out at once. I can’t understand the French, but Clémence’s nostrils flare.
“Classy as ever,” she growls.
I breathe in sharply as another man comes into view in the torchlight beside Clémence. Dante makes a soft, wounded sound like he’s been punched.
The new man says nothing. He looks to be an inch or two shorter than Dante, with thick locks of dark hair swept back and a cropped beard.
His blue eyes are luminescent in the dark, but they don’t carry the same harsh anger of Clémence’s glare.
Sadness stains his features, but muscles ripple under his dark belted tunic—a fighter’s body.
Even with the guilty look he’s aiming at Dante, this man is not on our side.
Two vampires. Perhaps—
Wracked with vicious chills, I start to reach for my belt, but a sharp hiss from Clémence stops me.
Both vampires glare at me in warning, tensing to attack if I so much as touch the handle of my blade or stakes.
Instinct tells me to let them, but even though Dante is at my side, I grow more doubtful the longer I consider the pair before us.
They carry none of Thomas’ arrogant swagger or reckless aggression.
These monsters are far worse—cold, careful, and radiating a quiet confidence that harrows me to the bone.
Dante’s taut stance isn’t reassuring. Whether we strike now or later, this is going to be brutal and bloody. His voice is rife with disgust, but there is no masking the pain behind it when he addresses his brother. “Was this her idea or Father’s, dragging you here?”
The man drops his gaze to the damp ground.
“Nico came because it’s his duty,” Clémence says.
The name sends a shock of recognition through me. Nico. The last one of Alessandro’s family to try and run all those years ago. Famously unsuccessful, and clearly indoctrinated once more after his punishment.
“He has come to understand loyalty to one’s family,” Clémence goes on. “Something your thick skull can’t seem to comprehend. You ran, destroyed the order of things… But for fuck’s sake, at least Nico never killed one of our own! You murdered Thomas! Have you utterly lost your mind?”
“That pleasure was all mine,” I cut in. The weight of the vampires’ combined stares makes my knees grow weak—yet seeing their grief over that horrid man emboldens me far more.
“Do you want to know what a pathetic sound he made when I cleaved his head from his shoulders? A whimper—like a sickly, kicked pup.”
Clémence thrusts the torch into Nico’s hand and charges forward. “You bitch.”
Dante surges in front of me, his steel blade outstretched—and in tandem, I seize a stake in one hand, a blade in the other.
His loaned doublet is shirked to the ground—I cannot afford my movements restricted.
As I hold my weapons at the ready, my mind flies with strategies.
If Dante can keep Clémence occupied, I can make a rush at the other—I can’t bear the thought of Dante having to kill Nico, so I’ll do it for him.
But Clémence’s eyes are locked solely on me—at least until Dante viciously shoves her back.
“Touch her, and you’ll follow Thomas,” Dante growls.
Clémence’s forest-green eyes blaze. “You’re better off torn to pieces—”
“There will be no such talk of that,” a male voice calls out. At first, I have a wavering hope that it’s Nico. But no, this voice is far older—and Clémence obeys it. “This family has lost enough blood.”
The temperature seems to plummet as a silver-haired man walks out of the tunnel and into the torchlight with a refined step. He must have been poised in the shadows the entire time, and judging by the regretful look on his face, he’d been hoping not to intervene.
Alessandro.