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Vincent, the Nightborn King, the man who had never met a threat he could not defeat, seemed to bow beneath the words he struggled to choke out. “It was important for me to tell you that. That’s all.”
My lips parted, but I didn’t know what to say.
Sometimes people would call me Vincent’s pet, as if I was some passing distraction or source of amusement. And though I never questioned that he loved me, in his own way, sometimes I would still wonder. He had lived my lifetime ten times over. He was more than three hundred years old, and I had only been a part of that for less than twenty years.
The wave of warmth I felt at his words dimmed quickly to cold fear.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “What happened?”
Because that was the only reason why he would talk like this. If something awful was about to happen or had already.
But he just shook his head and swept me back into our dance steps. “Nothing. I’ve just become a sentimental old man. And I look forward to the day I don’t have to worry about outliving you.”
A streak of brightness over his shoulder caught my eye—a familiar form I would now know anywhere, even from across the room. Raihn was leaving through the doors that led to the patio, wearing a black silk jacket with a deep violet sash that hung down his back, his hair unbound in those messy red-black waves. I only glimpsed him before he was gone.
I brought my attention back to Vincent quickly, but not quickly enough. He’d noticed my distraction. He gave me a half-smile as the music faded, then swelled again.
“One more song,” he said, quietly, “and then I’ll let you go, my little serpent.”
My chest tightened with a swell of emotion I couldn’t place. Eerily similar, perhaps, to grief. The strange sensation that something existed here, in this dance, that I didn’t want to relinquish—a sense that once I let this moment slip away, it would be gone forever.
It was a silly thought. I didn’t know why it crossed my mind.
Still, I slid my hand back into his. This time, I took the first step. “One more song,” I agreed.
The night was hot. By the time I wandered to the patio, sweat slicked my skin, and the humidity outside did little to cool it. When our next dance ended, Vincent had stepped out of his role as my father and stepped back into the role of the Nightborn King, ruler of a wartime nation. He was commandeering and serious as he wandered off to Jesmine, speaking with her in a hushed, hurried voice—the kind that I knew better than to eavesdrop on.
Gardens surrounded the church, sprawling even though it was in the center of the i
Well, practicality aside, she certainly got them. Silver and blue flowers spread before me in blankets of color. It was so disgustingly beautiful it just seemed excessive, all of it immaculately shaped and pruned and weeded and watered. Marble tile paths circled the clusters of greenery in functionally impractical but artistically beautiful designs. From above, they would shape the sigil of the House of Night.
Figured. They’d create something for her that only she, and they, could appreciate.
Movement to the left caught my eye. A cluster of silver stood among the bushes at a neighboring path—all dressed in deep red. I recognized Angelika immediately. It was impossible not to. She wore a draped gown of deep red fabric—sleeveless, showing off her sculpted muscles—with her silver hair falling down her back in a braid. Beside her was Ivan. Both of them had their heads bowed in serious conversation with a third figure, whose back was to me.
That figure, as if sensing my stare, turned to look over his shoulder.
Recognition speared me.
The man I’d spoken to that night by the river. The man who had given me the cigarillos. He was Bloodborn. Standing next to the other House of Blood contestants, it seemed so wildly obvious, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before.
He lifted his hand dismissively to Angelika and Ivan in a way that made it clear that not only was he Bloodborn, he was also powerful—because Angelika, the type of person who seemed like she didn’t take orders from anyone, fell back to the rest of the party without another word.
“You did it yet again,” the man said as he approached me. Now that I knew to listen for it, I could hear the House of Blood accent—so faint, like he’d stomped it out over the course of decades, reducing it to just the hint of a melodic lilt beneath each word. “You won me quite a lot of money. But I’m afraid after that display, the odds against you won’t be quite as favorable to your few believers. Shame. Plenty of benefit in being underestimated.” He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I should have brought you more cigarillos. I’m afraid I’m all out.”
My eyes slid to him. I let them rest there for a long moment, taking him in now that I was seeing him in the light. He looked Bloodborn in every sense. His eyes, the pupils slightly slitted against the lantern light, held those telltale strings of crimson and gold. The red marks at his throat lingered just beneath the edge of his collar, which was high and stiff in burgundy fabric of the traditional House of Blood style, simple and tailored. Before I hadn’t been able to tell if his hair was blonde or silver, and now I realized that it was both—ashy blond-gray with shocks of near-white.
The corner of his mouth tightened.
“It’s a little insulting to be stared at that way. But then, I suppose that’s often your reality, isn’t it?”
“Just wondering how I missed the fact that you’re Bloodborn.”
“Ah. You’re right. We shared such a lovely moment, and yet I never properly introduced myself to you.” He extended his hand. “Septimus, of the House of Blood.”
I didn’t take it. Instead, I stepped back to compensate for the way he had leaned closer, which he seemed to find amusing. He withdrew his hand—unshaken—and slipped it into his pocket. “I see. You don’t take an empty hand. Smart. Did your father teach you that?”
The hair prickled at the back of my neck.
I didn’t like this man. I didn’t like the way he spoke, I didn’t like the stupid little smirk on his face, and I especially did not fucking like that he seemed to think he was playing with me.
“There you are.”
I chose not to think about exactly how relieved I was to hear Raihn’s voice. Nor did I want to think about the fact that Raihn stopped very close to me—so close our shoulders touched—and my only impulse was to move closer.
I glanced at him and had to remind myself to look away.
He looked magnificent. His clothing was different than the style most of the other Nightborn men, Rishan or Hiaj, wore here. His jacket was cut close to his body, tailored as if it had been made for him. The lapel fastened straight up-and-down, rather than asymmetrically like most Nightborn fashion did now, the buttons bright silver moons. Dark silver embroidery lined his collar and the cuffs of his sleeves, and a sweeping cape of violet draped across his chest and hung over one shoulder.
It was… a lot. The Moon Palace had apparently seen fit to spoil him. Yet despite all the finery, his face and hair were as rough and unkempt as ever.
Septimus smiled. “Raihn. I was just congratulating your partner on her victory. You two were remarkable.”
I had to hide my surprise. Septimus addressed him by his first name. As if they knew each other.
I could practically feel the air curdle. Raihn’s expression went hard, every muscle rearranging into what I knew by now was utter distaste.
“Thanks,” he said, in a tone that didn’t bother to hide it.
“Now, this is an interesting thought…” Septimus’s eyes flicked between the two of us. “Now that I can’t place my bets on the two of you together, I wonder who I should put my silver on next time? Someone uneducated might think it would be easy for you to kill her, Raihn, but I think Nessanyn has a good chance of—oh, I’m sorry.” Another one of those smiles. “It’s Oraya, isn’t it? I’ve always been bad with names.”
Nessanyn?
I narrowed my eyes, my hands drifting to my blades, which I’d secured on my thighs. A goad, obviously, even if I didn’t understand what it meant. And the strike hit its target, because Raihn’s entire form went rigid, the shift in energy so abrupt I felt it without even looking at him.
“You should be paying more attention to your own dogs.” He turned away, his hand on my back—my very, very bare back—as he grumbled, “Let’s go.”
“Have a lovely night,” Septimus called after us.
We walked down the garden paths without looking back. Raihn was still visibly tense.
“Sorry,” he said. “I should have rescued you from him sooner.”
“You know him?”
“Unfortunately. He’s been sidling up to every contestant to see what he can wring out of them. Surprised you made it this far without getting the brunt of it, too.”
“Who is he?”
“One of the princes of the House of Blood. Every Bloodborn contestant is in the Kejari at his behest.”
“Why is he here?”
I had wondered why the Bloodborn bothered to enter the Kejari at all. Even Nyaxia herself was hostile to Bloodborn vampires. Two thousand years ago, the House of Blood was her favored kingdom, but when they turned against her in a squabble over the gifts she’d chosen to give them, she cursed them instead. Now, she offered the House of Blood no love whatsoever. A Bloodborn vampire had won a Kejari only one time—more than a mille
I wasn’t sure if I imagined the beat of hesitation before Raihn answered. “The House of Blood wants power more than anything. Even small alliances go a long way.”
That made sense. All Houses were welcome in the Kejari. It was probably the only time that Bloodborn royalty was ever able to freely interact with other vampire kingdoms.
“He sees a lot of opportunity with the House of Night being at war with itself, the fucking vulture,” he muttered, as if to himself.
We walked a few more paces in silence as I mulled this over.
I became aware of Raihn’s stare—even without looking at him, I could feel it, starting at my feet and trailing up, lingering on every expanse of bare skin.
I stopped walking. Then turned to face him. We stood close enough that I had to tilt my chin up a bit to make eye contact with him. I noticed this for the first time in weeks. When had I stopped thinking about the size discrepancy between us? When had it stopped being a threat and started being… oddly comforting?
“You look nice,” he said, in a tone of voice that made nice sound like a million other promises, each of which shivered over my flesh.
I asked, “Who’s Nessanyn?”