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“Oh yes,” Lilith confirmed. “Years before Princess Amalia was born. It was quite the scandal—a White Priestess, pregnant with a potential heir to the throne? The realm was in shambles over it.”

“What happened?” Fey asked.

Lilith shrugged. “She wasn’t Goddess blessed, was she? Her Awakening came and went, and she couldn’t wield all four elements. And by then the Queen had a girl of her own, so… I guess everyone just forgot about her.”

“That’s so sad,” Willow said.

“That’s life, little sister,” Lilith said, then her eyes focused on a new target. “Oh! Wait until you hear about them,” she crooned, as another couple approached the dais, and Fey could feel her sisters practically buzzing with excitement.

Dameon returned shortly after, without Cassandra. But he made no move to recall them from the Queen’s side, so whatever help the Queen’s sister had requested wasn’t important enough to require their expertise.

The evening sped by—hours passing quickly under the spell of Lilith’s gossip. Even the Queen seemed to relax as the night went on, and Dameon eventually left his post at the base of the dais to come sit next to her, lounging on the Princess’s throne. It was the first time Fey had ever seen them behave like this in public.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” Lilith said, suddenly, her voice louder than before, loud enough to be overheard.

Fey followed her gaze to the entrance, and her mouth dropped open.

“Is that?” started Joy, and next to her, Willow started to laugh almost hysterically.

“Yes,” snarled Fey, rage twisting her words. “Yes, it is.”

“Introducing the Vampire Patriarch, Cassian Salvatore deSanguine,” The herald announced. “And his eldest son, Alastair Salvatore, of the Eternal City.”

The Vampire King was younger looking than he had any right to be at his age, though old enough that his once black hair had gone silver. He stood tall, his back straight in the way of royals, and at his side, dressed in the colors of the vampire royalty, was Alastair. Her Alastair.

“I told you we should have killed him,” said Willow, between laughs.

Chapter 35

It had taken every ounce of her restraint for Fey to remain at her post on the Queen’s dais as the final guests of the evening were announced and the party reached its apex. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her side, and her fingers itched to draw her blades, if only to find some level of comfort in the feel of them in her hands.

At some point over the last hour or so, the shock of Alastair’s parentage had gone from infuriating to hilarious to her sisters. And now, instead of a constant stream of gossip, Fey had to endure their endless teasing.

“A prince,” cooed Lilith, and a barely stifled giggle escaped from behind Willow’s mask.

“Shut the fuck up,” Fey hissed back at them.

“Of course, Princess,” Joy whispered back, and this time the giggles were audible enough that the Queen shot them an irritated glance over her shoulder. They managed to get themselves under control, but a few moments later, the Queen gestured Dameon closer, and they held a whispered conversation amongst themselves before she dismissed him with a wave. Dameon stood.

“Uh oh,” Joy whispered. “Busted.”

“Our Queen informs me that you are relieved for the night,” Dameon announced when he approached the four of them. “You are free to return to your chambers or stay and enjoy the festivities. Just remember that you are an extension of the Queen herself and are not to speak or interact with any of the guests.”

They bowed their heads in acknowledgment, keeping their gaze lowered to the ground until he left.

The command wasn’t unexpected, though it was unnecessary. Of course they were not to socialize with the other guests, not to reveal anything about themselves that could put that anonymity in jeopardy.

Under other circumstances, Fey might have stayed. This was the part she enjoyed about these parties. As the hour drew late, and the guests lost themselves in drink, she could pick up juicy tidbits of gossip just by being in the right place at the right time. She knew how to lose herself in the shadows of the ballroom, and it was easy to eavesdrop when liquor made the guests louder, and bolder, than usual.

But tonight? Tonight, she wanted to hurt something, and she had no intention of staying to listen to any trivial aristocratic gossip. No. She’d head straight to their training room, and she’d likely stay there until her knuckles were bloody and she could barely walk.

There is an art to hurrying without appearing to rush, and Fey was a master of it. She maneuvered her way through the crowds of guests, appearing to be entirely unrushed and at ease, a deadly shadow floating amongst them, but all the while she was clenching her jaw tight enough she feared she might break a tooth, moving as quickly as she could.

She had managed to escape the main ballroom and was almost to the hallway outside of one of the smaller, less crowded, entertaining rooms when a voice from the shadows stopped her.

“Why hello, Witchling.”

Her head snapped up at the greeting, and there he was: Alastair Salvatore, Prince of the Vampires.