Blood Lies (Blood Oath #5)

1. Briar

brIAR

T he hiss of the shower fills the bathroom like static, a steady rush that swallows the bustle of the castle beyond the door. Steam curls through the room, causing water drops to trail down the walls and my clothes to stick to my damp skin.

I haven’t stepped under the spray once in the hour I’ve been in here, instead using it as a cover so no one bothers me.

It’s not a bath I need, it’s distance from the future I don’t want shoved down my throat.

The lavender soap in the glass dish by the sink sweats in the heat of the room, its scent sharp enough to likely waft through the bottom of the door and make it appear as if I’m truly washing.

The silence and space gives me time to mull over the monumental decision before me: Go to the placement ceremony being hosted in the banquet hall of our castle this evening like the rest of my fellow graduates, or…My throat tightens at the thought of the alternative.

Can I really leave all of this behind?

The plan is ready…I just don’t want to have to use it. Not if I can make my mom and dads finally understand. I want their support and blessing, but I’m running out of time to get it.

A knock comes, quick and polite. “Princess? You’re going to be late.” The maid’s voice filters through the door, dulled by the stream of water hitting the porcelain surface behind me.

I pretend to not be able to hear Phyllis. She can’t get into trouble for not barging in here and pulling me out, so it’s better to feign ignorance and give her plausible deniability for why I’m still not ready.

Instead, I sit cross-legged on the cool marble tile, spine pressed against the side of the tub, my body aching from the hard surfaces below and behind me.

An open sketchbook balances on my thighs, the edges worn from use.

My pencil moves in slow, deliberate strokes as I let my thoughts drift and guide my hand.

The figure taking shape is one I see every day in the mirror, but here there’s a spark etched to her that I’ll never have.

Hope and excitement ooze from her, through the parted lips that take in the city, their buildings reflected in her wide eyes.

“For the world you want,” Aunt Alexandra told me as she pressed my first sketchbook and variety of mediums into my hands all those years ago. “ Not the one you may be told to want, my dear.”

I pause, the pencil that’s worn to hardly more than a nub pulling back from the paper slightly. My eyes glance to the cabinet beneath the sink.

My heart flutters.

A small, black satchel sits zipped and ready if I’m brave enough to become the girl in my sketchbook. I packed it two weeks ago, after my parents cheered in delight at my final exam scores and proceeded to argue over which placement would suit me best.

None of them included what I wanted. While they smiled and talked about how proud they are of me, I sat in silence, nodding absentmindedly to whatever they said.

All I wanted in that moment was for them to see the silent scream building within me, so hard that my chest physically ached.

My hand had lifted, pressing against it as I took deep, steadying breaths.

No arms had wrapped around me, asking what’s wrong.

No voices had broken through the haze of despair building within me, reassuring me that I could choose whatever future I wanted.

Sure, love radiated from all of their eyes as they regarded me. There was never a lack of that from them. In fact, their love and concern for me have always been wrapped around me so tightly I feel as if I’m constantly suffocating under the weight of it.

So, I packed up clothes, money, and a blank sketchbook with fresh graphite pencils. Now it sits there, waiting for me to drum up the courage to just… go .

A second knock startles me from the thought. “Princess, please. You’ll miss your–”

Phyllis cuts herself off before uttering the words placement ceremony , knowing it’s a sore point after our brief conversation this morning. Somehow she sees the weight I’m carrying on my shoulders more than my own parents.

She knows I feel like this evening is a dressed-up auction.

Representatives from every magical sector in Praeditus gather to extend offers to this year’s graduates.

Thanks to the extra training my parents piled on top of my schooling, I scored highest in every category–political law, combat strategy, and aptitude for inter-realm conflict.

Which makes me the most valuable commodity to claim, likely giving me my choice of a few placements. Yet I want none of them.

A third knock, louder this time. “Princess Briar, the Queen is asking for you.”

My parents float through my mind at the mention of my mom.

Papa with his clipped academy speeches about honor and discipline as the co-headmaster.

Father, king of Sanguis, placing me beside him at every Council meeting as if to accustom the city to the idea of me taking over after he and my mom choose to step down.

And Dad, the realm’s most sought-after guard, promising me that “real work” in the field is filled with adventure.

Then there’s my mom, the Queen of Sanguis, Alina Van Helsing. The first Van Helsing vampire, who united slayers and vampires and would give me the moon…so long as it fits the sky she’s built for me to live safely under.

My brow furrows at their ideas for my future. I focus back on the drawing, darkening the shadows around the clouds behind me until the paper begins to rip under the pressure I apply.

The steam, once warm and soothing, now feels heavier, clinging in my lungs as my breath turns shallow and rapid.

I toss the sketchbook and pencil to the side and try to fish out the magical ring from the pocket of my jeans with trembling hands.

As soon as the cool metal hits the warmth of my palm, I squeeze it tightly and lift it to my chest. My eyes flutter closed as I try to take deep breaths, focusing on my path out of all of this.

My witchy Aunt’s parting gift at my graduation dinner two weeks ago. “ To create portals for emergencies only ,” Deva said with a knowing look.

If I use it, I can be in New York before the placement ceremony even starts.

All it takes is slipping out of this room, down two staircases, through to the north wing courtyard where I have enough room and privacy to conjure it without interference.

With my luck, my parents would sense the energy the second I opened it in my room.

I have to take all precautions if I’m truly going to do this.

My hand tightens on my ring at the thought. All of the rules. The expectations. It’s suffocating.

A knock on the door jolts me from the sanctity of my mind.

“Briar?” Mom’s voice calls out, smooth as always.

She doesn’t raise it or let her annoyance bleed through. That’s how she always gets people to do what she wants. She’s perfected the art of giving off the kind of warmth you want to lean into, no matter the situation.

I quickly slip the ring back into my pocket and situate my sketchbook back into my lap before grabbing my pencil.

The latch clicks just as I knew it would, because privacy for me is optional to my mother depending on the situation. Steam spills out into the hallway as she eases the door open and steps inside. She closes it quietly, scanning the bathroom before letting her blue eyes settle on me.

“You’re going to be late, Briar patch,” she says softly.

Not an accusation, but a fact.

Usually the nickname softens me, but today it reminds me of the childlike image she holds of me in her mind. Annoyance flashes through me and the words fall out before I can think better of it.

“I’d rather walk in last and hope all of the open positions have already been filled by the people who actually want them.”

I force a tight smile to my lips, one that’s edged with a bitterness I’m tired of hiding. For so long I’ve let their love attempt to mold me into this picture-perfect daughter. The one who lives to make them proud, even if it means overlooking my own wants.

She ignores my snarky comment and moves closer, her black skirt whispering over the tile before she lowers herself beside me with perfect composure. The faint scent of her cherry blossom perfume threads through the lavender. “May I see?”

Somehow her calm energy only aggravates me further and I let out a heavy sigh. I turn the sketchbook toward her and her lips curve faintly. “Alexandra will love this. You’ll have to show her tonight.”

My eyes widen in excitement. “She’s coming? I thought she was busy with an assignment from Queen Ama in Hell.”

A spark of hope ignites in my chest. Maybe she can help me convince my parents that my plan isn’t a silly dream.

A chuckle falls from my mom’s lips, but it lacks warmth. Her head shakes as she mutters, “I wish you were that excited to see me, ever.”

“She’s the only one who understands why I’d rather be here than downstairs,” I murmur absent-mindedly as my eyes fall to my sketchbook.

Afterall, Alexandra created my uncles from writing them to life in her own journals. If only I could escape to my artwork in place of my reality.

“What is it you think I don’t understand?” my mom asks, an edge of incredulity in her defensive tone. “You know I was once your age as well and trying to find my place in the world.”

The steam curls tighter, wafting heavily between us. My grip on the pencil shifts, knuckles whitening. The reminder of her past only incites my anger further, knowing she was allowed to choose her future.

“That I don’t belong here in Sanguis and this carefully curated world you all have worked so hard to build between the slayers and vampires,” I fire back, my gaze locking with hers.

“You know I want to go to Ordinarius. There’s a real art school there that is going to start an exchange student program for the magical, and I’ve read everything about it.

It’s the first college to do it and I’ve seen the work their students do. ”