Chapter 1 #2
Five vampire lords ruled beneath the vampire monarch—the Lords of Midnight—of which Taladaius was one.
Regardless of sex, they had always been referred to as Lord, and apparently that wasn’t changing anytime soon.
I hadn’t met the other Lords yet, and truthfully, I had no desire to meet them, either.
From what I’d been told, they were savages, cutthroat and power hungry, and any of them would rip my head off for a shot at the crown.
They were bound by the Law of Ascension, though.
They had to acknowledge me first before they could try to steal my throne.
And if they acknowledged me, they had to obey me. At least for a time.
That meant there was a window. An opportunity. A chance to stop the war that had been raging for centuries. To put an end to the killing. Claiming the throne was the quickest way to stop the nightmare without a tide of blood staining the land from the mountains to the sea.
I wasn’t from here. I wasn’t born here. Yvelia was not my home, but I understood suffering, and I was no stranger to the senseless kind of death that nipped at the heels of the weak and the vulnerable.
If I could do something to help put an end to the bloodshed here, then I would.
I had to try, at least. And call it wishful thinking, but I still had hope for the members of the Blood Court. Hope that they could be redeemed.
“Can anyone else hear that?” Carrion’s voice was raspy from the throttling he’d just earned himself.
“Either my blood is still thumping in my ears, or the horde’s stampeding this way.
” Aside from a little redness around his neck, he seemed none the worse for wear.
He didn’t even flinch as Fisher strode past him toward the door, his boots thudding heavily against the carpet.
“They’re calling her out there,” he said, his voice distracted.
“Then that’s it. We need to go,” Taladaius said.
But Fisher came back and stood before me, ignoring my maker.
His huge frame filled my vision. Dark hair, strong jaw, and beautiful ink.
Not too long ago, I’d dreamed of him standing close to me like this.
My fool’s heart had craved him more than my lungs had craved air .
. . and now that he was mine and I was his, my need for him had only intensified.
He had saved Onyx for me. He had risked his life for me, and from the look on his face now, he wouldn’t blink if he had to do it again.
The tattoos marking his skin shifted as he swallowed, the muscles of his throat working.
“You don’t need to do this,” he whispered.
“There are other ways to accomplish our goals.”
She’s here. Here. Here . . .
I ignored the whisper that rushed in my ears, refusing to give it my attention. Not here, and not now. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the quicksilver since I’d woken in the palace after my transition. I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
I gave my focus to my mate instead, reaching up and cupping his cheek with my gloved hand.
What I wouldn’t have given to feel the roughness of his stubble against my palm.
Gods alive. That I even got to touch him like this.
That he was mine in the first place. “Those other ways involve blood, and death, and fire,” I answered softly, my response meant only for him.
The others could still hear, of course, but they politely pretended they didn’t.
Fisher leaned into my hand, closing his eyes for a moment. “I happen to think making these bastards bleed would be a good thing,” he whispered.
“I know. But what about the losses we’ll avoid this way? What about our friends? And the people of Cahlish? How can they return to their homes if Sanasroth is still seething away on the other side of the river?”
I had him there. Fisher loved his people.
He hated that they had left Cahlish when Malcolm had trapped him inside that godscursed maze.
If Fisher wanted his people to come home, then they needed a safe place to come back to.
Fisher blew out a tense breath, but he nodded.
“Fine. But the moment you don’t want to be here—”
“I’ll tell you, I promise.”
He dipped his head, breaking eye contact with me as he turned and went to the mirror, then collected my sword from the top of the dresser where I had placed it when getting changed.
Solace was an ancient blade—one of the few remaining god swords that had once been imbued with magic millennia ago.
It had belonged to Fisher’s father. The sword that had stilled the quicksilver for an age.
The sword I’d drawn from the quicksilver to protect myself, which had accidentally reopened the pathways between worlds.
It was bonded to me now. The god swords were loyal, territorial things. It would have taken Fisher’s hands off for touching it had he not used a scrap of silk to pick it up. He held it reverently as he brought it to me.
“You can’t be serious. That will absolutely ruin her outfit,” Carrion said, aghast.
“He’s right.” Taladaius was standing by the door now, with his hand anxiously resting on the handle. “She can’t go out there with Solace strapped to her hip. She needs to appear regal. She can’t afford to look worried about her safety.”
The look Kingfisher gave the vampire and the smuggler strongly implied that he thought they were both stupid. “I don’t care how she looks. I care about her ability to defend herself.”
“Then give her something else. Something subtler. Something she can hide. And for all the gods’ sakes, hurry.”
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
The sound was growing louder, faster, more impatient.
Fisher hesitated but then sighed, setting Solace down on the chaise.
“All right. Fine.” With deft hands, he reached into a small pouch on his belt and drew out a length of fine silver chain.
He wrapped it around my waist, looping it at my hip so that its ends hung down almost to my knees.
“She doesn’t need a garrote,” Taladaius objected.
“It isn’t a garrote. It’s a belt,” Fisher replied amicably. In my head, he said, It’s a garrote.
I tried not to laugh.
He took one of his own daggers from the sheath at his waist, then dropped down to one knee in front of me. He looked up, his eyes locking with mine again, burning with a myriad of emotions as he slowly . . . carefully . . . parted the material of the dress along the slit to expose my bare thigh.
Taladaius threw his hands in the air. “There’s no time for this!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think we might be able to spare a minute,” Carrion said.
I saw Fisher’s annoyance spike, but he didn’t react.
His touch left a trail of burning fire as he ran his hand up my thigh.
With his other hand, he pressed his dagger against my flesh.
The magic simmering below the surface of my skin registered that, just like the chain he’d wrapped around my waist, the weapon was pure silver, but it didn’t burn me the way it would Taladaius or any other vampire.
We already discovered I was immune to the effects of both silver and iron.
Perhaps it was that I wasn’t entirely one thing—neither wholly vampire nor Fae.
Perhaps it was that I was an Alchemist on top of everything else, and I still had an affinity for metals.
Either way, I was grateful for the advantage.
Fisher had no holster or scabbard for the dagger, but he didn’t need one.
Wisps of black smoke materialized, skating over my skin.
They were cold and warm, and my skin broke out in goose bumps as I registered the prickle of his power.
He was stripped of most of his magic here—he couldn’t open a portal, and he certainly couldn’t use it to hurt the denizens of the Blood Court on their own ground—but he could do this.
In a second, an elaborate latticework of shadows and glittering black sand encircled my thigh, holding the dagger flush against my leg.
It was beautiful, like lace, delicate as a spiderweb speckled with morning dew.
His hands rested there, on my thigh, strong and calloused, and—
He sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head as he got to his feet. His pupils were blown wide open when he looked down at me. “If any of them even look sideways at you, you stick that straight in their chests.”
“I know how a dagger works, Fisher.” Most couples flirted by making eyes at each other or complimenting each other’s outfits. We did it by discussing how best to murder our enemies. A smile ached at the corners of my mouth, begging to be unleashed . . .
BOOM!
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!
Fisher offered me his hand. “Let’s go.”
“Wait. I—” Gods. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I hadn’t had a moment alone with him for nights.
He was in danger here. Thanks to the Blood Court’s archaic traditions, namely their Rite of Ascension, I was safe enough.
But Fisher hadn’t killed Malcolm. The Blood Court’s rule didn’t demand that he be allowed to rise to power unmolested.
He was a mortal enemy of the Blood Court.
Thousands of high blood vampires lived within the walls of Ammontraíeth, all of them Malcolm’s children, and every one of them hated my mate with an unmatched fury.
If he so much as looked sideways at the wrong person here, it would mean trouble.
I wanted to remind him of this now, but he already knew, of course, and we were out of time.
“Can you—look, can you just behave yourself out there?” I murmured under my breath.
He looked bemused, the faintest hint of a dimple forming in his right cheek. “I can,” he answered. “I can’t promise that I will.”
As we walked past him and out of the chamber, Taladaius advised, “You should leave Nimerelle here. They’ll see you carrying a weapon as an act of aggression.”
“Good.” My mate’s expression went dark with the promise of violence. “It is.”
“Holy shit.” Carrion whistled softly through his teeth. “The place looks like a prison from the outside. Who would have known they were hiding something this ostentatious?”
It was called the Hall of Tears.
Carved faces, grotesque and grimacing, observed us from the obsidian pillars that held up the vaulted cathedral ceilings.
Torches burned in sconces, the eerily still evenlight—so different from regular fire—casting a strange white-green glow up the walls.
Gold brocade curtains hung from huge windows at the far end of the hall, with scenes of debauchery and all manner of sin stitched into the heavy velvet fabric.
There were more vampires than I could count, gathered in rows on the left and right flanks of the hall.
Not feeders. These were males and females, dressed in beautiful gowns and smock shirts.
A lean intelligence shone from their eyes as they turned their hungry gazes on me.
At the head of the room, a stately throne made of black stone sat in the center of a raised dais.
Before it was an expansive platform of polished obsidian decorated with a pale-stone mosaic depicting a five-pointed star.
A Lord of Midnight already waited at the tip of four of the points, each dressed in finery, facing inward.
The remaining point stood empty . . . until Taladaius traversed the long aisle and took his place among his brethren.
My maker had produced a lacquered staff from somewhere. He joined in with the others, smashing its tip down onto the ground at his feet, adding to the cacophonous BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! that thundered through the hall. The sound grew louder and louder, hammering in my ears.
And then, without warning, it stopped.
The five figures turned to face me, the expressions of the four strangers turning to granite when they saw I wasn’t alone at the foot of the wide staircase that led down to them.
Two of the Lords were males.
Two were female.
One was something else entirely.
There was Taladaius, of course. Next to him stood a rangy-looking dark-haired male with a hooked nose and eyes as black as coal.
An even taller, long-limbed creature stood across from him—a pale, strange thing that clearly was not a member of the Fae.
It was dressed in a pristine white robe.
Its eyes were solid black orbs, its skin translucent.
An unnaturally wide slit served for its mouth, bristling with tiny, jagged teeth.
Black veins formed a network of spiderwebs across the backs of its too-large, webbed hands.
The females were less disconcerting. The first wore a gown of vivid green.
Her hair was bright like hammered gold and wound into braids that fell in ropes down her back.
My brother would have fallen in love with her on sight.
She was just the type of pretty, fine-boned trouble who would have caught his eye.
He wouldn’t have stood a chance, though.
A hatred burned in her depthless blue eyes that made me want to reach for the dagger that Kingfisher had just strapped to my thigh.
I shivered as I turned my gaze upon the last female, glad to have broken eye contact.
The final Lord of Midnight was a small thing.
A thick mat of gray hair fell into her face, obscuring her features, but I could see from her bare forearms, frail wrists, and gnarled hands that she was old.
“What madness is this?” the blond vampire asked.
The second she spoke, the chatter in the hall ceased.
The Lord hadn’t raised her voice, but her words rang from the walls and rebounded amid the rafters.
She lifted her staff and thrust it at me so that I could make out the gleaming golden head of the hissing snake that topped it.
“This is not the creature who felled my father,” she said.
“Mighty Malcolm, who reigned over an entire continent and reduced another to ash? Malcolm, who toppled kings, bedded queens, and cheated death so that we might all follow in his footsteps? Laid low by this? I think not.”
Fisher’s warmth was a reassuring hand on my back.
On my left, Carrion hovered in my peripheral vision.
I looked at neither of them as I tilted my chin back and held my head high, beginning the long descent down the stairs toward the vampires of Sanasroth.
“Your father was felled by his own hubris. He was too arrogant. He believed himself invincible, and I had the pleasure of showing him otherwise. A god sword will make worm food out of any of us, no matter who wields it. But, regardless,” I called in a clear voice.
“I am no child. My name is Saeris Fane, and I am your queen.”