Page 76

She opens the book and I brace myself–I survived the Hunt after all, I know what the ceremonies of the Barons look like, but still, I’m not prepared.

The first page is a photograph: a bride standing in a circle of salt and bone, arms bound in crimson silk, her head bowed. No veil, no bouquet. Only the black crown balanced on her forehead like a curse. Beside her, the groom: bare-chested, with blood smeared down his arms in sacred patterns.

“The King took the liberty of sending invitations during your recovery,” she says as I stare, “but there are other things we need to talk about. Like flowers–dahlias, of course. Decorations. Your dress.”

Her fingers turn the pages slowly. Each one more surreal than the last, black altar cloths stitched with intricate designs, symbols in a language I don’t understand. My hand flits to my chest at the next photo, an image of the ceremonial dagger I know intimately, and the chalice that held the blood Damon and Hunter painted over my skin.

Then photos of brides in shadowy gowns with veils that sweep the floor like mist. Grooms in robes or leather, their faces obscured, some masked, some painted.

“Black Weddings were more common in the past–before the current King. Arrangements made between members of Forsyth’s society, securing a woman’s fate to a powerful man. But there have been no ceremonies like this in the last three decades. Yours will be the first,” she looks at me with bold admiration, “quite a feat for your uncle.”

I hear the question behind the words. Why me? Why was I chosen? This awkward, confused girl for a man as powerful as the King. Her guess would probably be better than mine.

“You're expected to choose the elements that speak to your bond,” she explains. “The Black Wedding is not just a celebration. It's an initiation. A blood rite. A claiming. What you wear, what you say, what you offer–it all speaks volumes.”

There’s a pressure building in my chest again. I swallow.

“Do they all… bleed?” I ask, eyes catching on a photo of a bride pressing a blade to her palm before offering it to her groom’s mouth. It’s no less animalistic than what we’ve been through already, but I know that what I give to this man must be more important than what I gave to the Barons.

“They all give something,” she says softly. “And they all take something in return.”

I stare at the photos, my stomach fluttering with fear, anticipation… maybe even a touch of awe, but deep in my chest I know the one thing that the King will require of me, the one thing that Damon and Hunter haven’t been allowed to take.

That purity the men in Forsyth hold so dear, that is what I will give the King on the night of our wedding. I just hope that it will be enough to finally win his approval, but even more, enough to make me his wife.

24

Timothy

I’ve inheritedmany things over the years. My mother’s eyes and my father’s allergy to pollen. The title of Baron in college, and later the role of King, when I murdered my cousin. But the most valuable thing I’ve inherited was land. My parents both died tragically, young, their lives extinguished in mere seconds when their vehicle was rammed off the road by an intoxicated driver. That single act changed my future. I inherited what my father thought was a burden. A useless tract of land right outside the Forsyth University campus.

A piece of land would become a building that rose into the Forsyth skyline, and ultimately, would become my true legacy. Brick and stone, anchoring the Maddox name to the city. I spared no expense, replicating the neo-Gothic architecture I’d seen in Europe. I hired the best, wanting the feel of high-arched windows and intricately carved stonework. There are two distinct towers with ornamental spires, turrets, and a steep, slate roof.

I didn’t just want a place to provide rest and retreat. I wanted the kind of place that knew how to keep secrets.

I stand behind the wide pane of my office window on the top floor, looking down at the street below. The city doesn’t sleep, it pulses, especially when the sun sets.

The door opens without a knock. Only one man walks into the King’s office like he owns the floor beneath his feet.

Another King. Simon.

My son’s best friend.

“You’re late.”

“And you’re paranoid.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” I ask. “Two girls taken from the south. One from the East. Another from yours, and of course, the Baroness. It’s not paranoia. It’s a pattern.”

Sy makes a noise low in his throat and settles into the leather chair across from my desk, those long legs that move with alarming quickness in the ring stretching out. “A pattern the police seem to think has stopped now that Ballsack has been arrested.”

He makes an imposing figure, with the tattoos and thick muscles. He’s not just strong, he’s smart.

Like his father.

I walk to the bar and pull out two glasses. I’m not one for drinking, but this topic is easier to swallow with a bit of fuel. “Or whoever is snatching those girls got spooked when Arianette escaped, and Knight got a hard-on for West End punk.” I pour a splash of whiskey into Sy’s glass and club soda into mine.

“A hard-on encouraged by a whore at the Velvet Hideaway,” he mutters.