Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Anyone looking upon the castle’s exterior would see only the foreboding lair of a villainous prince, with cloying mist clinging to its foundations and bats shrieking as they circle its spires.
But the extravagance of the masquerade inside—gods, it’s more than fit for a soon-to-be king.
Beneath the folds of her dress, Sindra’s footsteps are swallowed by the plush burgundy-and-gold carpet that lines the hallway leading into the ballroom.
Dark velvet tapestries drape from every wall, separated by great columns of gray stone.
Hundreds of candles float close to the ceiling, casting bubbles of warm yellow light on the awestruck upturned faces of those gathered below.
Sindra catches an echo of the violin song she heard when they first entered.
The music seems to draw her forward, beckoning her into the heart of the castle, even as Antoni and Mortimer disappear down separate hallways.
Sindra’s thoughts drift to their other friends and her fierce hope that Moss and Vera’s secret mission is going well.
Moss especially had spent every free moment leading up to this evening in meditation, striving to commune with Moros’s dying natural world in the hopes that, when the time is right, she can play her part.
The crowd thins as Sindra progresses, branching off into dim side rooms or lush feasting halls.
The tables are piled high with food of all kinds: tender chicken submerged in a dark gravy, herb-crusted roasted vegetables so perfectly ripe she’s certain they can’t be from Moros, entire crisp gray-eyed fish laid out on wide platters.
Skeletons stand frozen in every corner, holding trays cluttered with glasses of dark red wine.
Why? Sindra thinks. This isn’t food Vadrien can consume.
Why hoard it, when so many go hungry daily?
The citizens rush toward the tables, and her painted lips press into a furious line when she realizes the truth. After tonight, they’ll still remember their hatred for this monster who usurped the throne—but they’ll also remember it as the last time their bellies were full.
Like every display of expensive art and wealth in the castle, this is about power. Control.
The pointed tips of Sindra’s short tiefling fangs prick at her bottom lip as she grinds her teeth. Finally, she passes through the archway into the ballroom itself.
Music and laughter envelop her, and for just a moment, the sound is so hauntingly sweet that she forgets where she is and why she came.
The temptation to lose herself in it—to fall into step with the couples twirling in hypnotic patterns across the dance floor—tugs at her.
As a skeleton clatters past, Sindra plucks a wineglass from its tray, if for no other reason than to distract herself with holding it.
She won’t risk taking a drink, even as its heady aroma floods her nostrils.
The weight of Brightmorn at Sindra’s back is a comfort.
She had refused to enter the castle unarmed, and though Mortimer grumbled about it for days, he’d finally relented and used a rare spell scroll gifted to him by his master to render the blade invisible.
Knowing the sword’s cold metal is close at hand grounds her as she surveys the wide ballroom.
Stained-glass windows as red as Sindra’s own skin stretch from floor to ceiling, casting a weak moonlit glow in shades of muted scarlet.
Mosaic tiles in sparkling pale gray and charcoal circle the floor in dizzying patterns blurred by the dozens of pairs of feet that dance upon them.
Most of the townspeople who were unwillingly shepherded here have found other corners of the castle to hide in; those who gather in the ballroom clearly want to be seen and heard.
Merchants dressed in silk converse nervously on the outskirts of the dance floor, wondering how Vadrien managed to procure such a feast. Noble people peacock about in their finest gowns and suits, hoping that no one will notice where hardship has worn their clothing thin.
Behind their fraying feathered masks, their gazes roam the room hungrily, searching for their host, who has yet to make an appearance.
Never mind how they might resent his rule; like flies to a carcass, they are drawn to Moros’s only seat of power.
Sindra’s long nails tap impatiently at her glass as the music shifts, swelling into the beginnings of a waltz.
She’d always secretly loved dancing. The forms, the dexterous grace, the close attention to the movements of your partner—dancing is not so different from fighting, after all. It’s a matter of perspective.
Sindra is beginning to sway along with the cello when she hears his voice at her back.
“You are a vision.”
Her spine goes straight, but before she turns around, Sindra cannot help the indulgent smile that creeps onto her lips.
She is, isn’t she? Upon looking at her, it would be impossible to tell that the tailor managed to create a costume so divine out of only silver fabric and bits of glass.
The dress hugs tight to her chest and waist before flaring out loosely around her legs.
She’d made sure to keep her arms bare and requested a dangerously high slit up the side of her thigh; no matter the occasion, she always dressed prepared for a fight.
Glass is strung together across her waist in a shining belt and on either of her shoulders like shimmering pauldrons, an echo of the suit of armor she wishes she had on.
Bits of glass glitter in the mask that she wears across her eyes, two blade-sharp pieces spearing upward to mimic her horns.
Half of her ink-dark hair is pulled back in a nest of delicate braids, while the rest is left to sweep in a dark curtain down her back.
Sindra finally casts a glance over her shoulder, and the way the breath leaves her lungs feels like a betrayal of the highest order.
Vadrien wears a midnight-black suit tailored perfectly to his lithe form, with a heavy half cape draped over his right shoulder and secured by a shining silver chain strung across his chest. A ruby the size of an infant’s fist nestles within the white folds of the cravat at his neck, and small dark gems are embedded into the rings circling his fingers.
His snow-white hair is freshly trimmed and oiled, bound into a sleek tail behind his head.
He is, unfortunately, devastatingly handsome.
When she reminds herself of what he is and why she’s here, she says, “Even a pretty mask cannot hide what you are.”
Vadrien is not wearing a mask—he is the only one not wearing a mask—but all the same, his elegant attire is a disguise for the monster that lies underneath.
“How very kind of you, my dear,” he murmurs, “to accept my invitation.”
“Is it really an invitation when your guests have no choice but to attend?”
His shoulders rise and fall in a careless shrug. “You strike me as clever enough to disappear if you wanted to. My kingdom holds no power over you, and you could leave at any time. But you didn’t; you came anyway.”
His slitted eyes are dark with hunger, and she has no doubt that as soon as he secures his hold on Moros, he’ll look further; hunger for power is never satiated. But lightly, she says, “My curiosity got the best of me.” And it might kill me yet.
“Fascinating creature.”
Prince Vadrien strides toward her until he is within an arm’s reach, then extends his hand. As he tilts his head, his hair falls over his shoulder, stark against the dark fabric. “Dance with me?”
“I’d prefer to leave this party alive.”
His voice is a delighted purr in the back of his throat. “You really think I’d harm you here, in front of all these people?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “It would be the wise thing, to get me out of the picture. Of all of them, I’m the only one here who has a chance of stopping you, and I think you know that.”
Me, and the rest of my party, she thinks. Keep your eyes on me, bloodsucker. Give them time to do their jobs.
Vadrien’s dark red eyes suddenly widen, his eyebrow twitching upward, and Sindra freezes. Surely their minds are not so intertwined that he would catch the echo of her thoughts? But then he impatiently beckons her again, his hand outstretched. “Well?”
Her gaze drifts higher. He is, as ever, uncrowned, save for the tattoo that circles his temples. This close, she finally recognizes the runic language for what it is, and the realization sends a wave of cold fear through her veins.
The devil’s tongue.
She had tried to forget many of the lessons her parents had taught her before Aunt Bernie had whisked her away, yet her knowledge of the language had stuck. But even now it’s difficult to read the stylized ancient script. She’ll need to be closer—much closer—to pick it out.
Make use of every opportunity you have, she chides herself.
“Fine,” she bites out, slipping her hand into his icy grip. “Let’s dance.”
Prince Vadrien is as excellent a dancer as he is a fighter.
His preternatural grace, cold confidence, and inhuman strength make him a formidable partner, and Sindra has to work hard not to lose herself in the music.
Instead, she focuses on every position that makes her vulnerable: when his forearm wraps against her lower back, caging her in; when he presses their chests together so he can spin her off her feet; and when he dips her so low that the ends of her hair brush the floor.
In this moment, she’s hyperaware of how bare the red column of her neck is.
Vadrien draws closer to her collarbone, and Sindra strains to arch her back so she’s farther away from his pointed teeth. But he only exhales a laugh.
“There aren’t many who can keep up with me,” he murmurs.
“Do you say that to all the women you’ve failed to kill?”