Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“There aren’t any others,” he says, lips close to her neck. “Only you.” His hand shifts then, gliding up her spine as he pulls her back to standing. She feels his knuckles pause as they come into contact with Brightmorn’s sheath, invisible though it is.
This is it, she thinks. It’s over. I hope I gave them enough time.
But Vadrien just smiles. “You’re armed.”
“So are you.” The fangs count, in her book. She can see them now, poking out of his smug grin.
The music shifts into a waltz again, and couples take to the dance floor.
She can feel all of their gazes on her, can read their thoughts by the way they purse their lips or tighten their eyes: fascination, fear, jealousy—and a hint of relief that they are not in her place.
She and Vadrien sway in silence, the eye in a storm of swirling dresses and flapping coats as the dancers spin in a wide berth around them.
Vadrien’s gaze grows distant, drifting upward. When it returns to Sindra, he looks almost wistful. “I’d like to show you something.”
Sindra swallows, and the captain’s words echo in her head. Your entire purpose here is to distract him. Do whatever you must.
But she can’t be certain that she will survive a moment alone with the prince. She needs her party at her back if they’re going to fight—and she doesn’t know how deep the bite’s connection truly goes.
She’s not sure if she can trust herself to test its limits.
Luckily, the decision is made for her when a chorus of gasps and screams echoes down the hallway behind them.
Vadrien turns his head sharply toward the chaos. A pale servant rushes to the vampire’s side and stutters, “M’lord. The undead, they’re—they’re attacking one another. We can’t get them to stop.”
Sindra’s ears prick up at the familiar sound of metal on metal coming from the castle’s depths: combat. Immediately following it, Sindra hears a maniacal eagle-screech of laughter.
Please, she thinks. Stay safe.
“M’lord, please. They’re swarming the—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Vadrien snaps. His red eyes burn with suspicion when he fixes them on Sindra. “I’ll be back for you,” he threatens.
Sindra sinks into a deep mocking curtsy. “I’ll be waiting,” she lies.
The prince disappears down the hallway faster than she can blink, and a gruff older voice speaks over her shoulder.
“My lady. May I have the next dance?”
Sindra turns and fixes Antoni with a shining smile. “Of course, Captain.”
Sindra and Antoni sprint through the hallway opposite the one Vadrien disappeared down; they can’t afford to waste even a moment. They’d kept up the appearance of waltzing only until the dance carried them toward the ballroom’s nearest exit.
“The others?” Sindra asks between panting breaths.
“Successful so far,” Antoni reports. “The map Zevor supplied was correct. Vera navigated Moss through the castle’s tunnel system, and you saw as well as I did how successful Mortimer’s distraction was.
” He huffs a breathless laugh. Turning Vadrien’s undead against him using strong necromantic magic is serving as more than just a distraction—it also keeps the hallways clear as Sindra and Antoni rush through.
“Now, if all goes according to plan, we’ll find Moss just around this—”
A loud, demanding meow interrupts Antoni’s words.
Standing in front of a set of heavy double doors is a sleek black cat with sparkling green eyes. Around its neck, a ring of keys clinks merrily. It again yowls its triumph, and Sindra rewards Moss with a playful ear scratch as she retrieves the keys.
“Very well done, my friend,” she says, her voice thick with relief. “Now, go check on Vera, will you?” She prays she’s waiting in the tunnels as promised.
The cat lets out a chittering sound that resembles a laugh and disappears around the corner.
Antoni glances down to the map in his hand, then up to the doors. “This should be it.”
It’s tradition, they learned from the bard, to keep the crown in the armory.
It honors Moros’s history, as the crown is the last remaining piece of Queen Abella’s armor—the armor she used to defend the realm and drive out the devils.
When Sindra unlocks the door and pushes it open, she’s momentarily stunned by the impressive collection of suits of armor, weapons, and beautifully wrought shields.
But the captain has eyes only for the sparkling gold crown sitting atop a dark pillow on the room’s central pedestal.
He regards it with slate-gray eyes shining with unshed tears, his creased face slack with awe. Sindra watches as he extends a shaking hand to reverently touch the diamond set in the crown’s center.
A moment passes, and Antoni’s brows knit in confusion.
“Wait. No.”
His fingers tighten around the crown, its spokes digging into the meat of his palm; with his other hand, he clings to the sun-shaped amulet hanging from his neck.
“What is it?” Sindra asks uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t Abella’s crown.” His voice shakes with barely concealed anger. “It’s a replica. A fake.”
“How do you know?”
Antoni’s stormy eyes flash to hers. “I know what the presence of my god feels like—and there is nothing of him in this.” He grips the crown again, as if to assure himself of the truth—then flings it against the stone wall.
The illusion shatters like glass, and when the crown falls back to the floor, it’s little more than a dull brass circlet.
In the back of her head, the gears of cold logic begin to click into place.
They’ve known from the beginning that Vadrien could never have worn the crown; he was not of Abella’s bloodline, never mind that, according to Antoni, Garren would have smote any cursed undead creature who attempted to don a holy relic.
It doesn’t make any sense. “Why have a fake at all?” she asks aloud.
It takes Antoni a long time to answer. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands shaking at his sides.
“There were rumors.” His voice is hoarse.
“Rumors that King Ursan was not blessed by Garren—that he was too cruel, too selfish to don the crown, despite having Abella’s blood running in his veins.
But they had said the same thing about his mother, too. Surely…surely they wouldn’t—”
Sindra gives voice to the words he can’t find. “Do you think the Callasters created the replica? So that they could keep the throne?”
Horror washes over her in a wave. If that’s true, then the true crown may be lost for good. At the very least, they wouldn’t know where to look—not in time to stop Vadrien’s coronation.
A dark laugh echoes from the hallway, followed by the sound of slow, measured footsteps pacing into the room. Vadrien regards them with a sharp-toothed smile as he locks the door behind him.
“I thought I might find you here.”
When Sindra turns to meet Antoni’s gaze, she watches the last light of hope gutter out of his eyes.