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Troi and Celandine avoided the front gates and the guards’ questions. He eased back his veils, leaving in place only the spell that would protect her identity. They melted into the guests already idling in the gardens as if they had been there all along.

He fought the urge to loosen his collar. The emotions of the attendees were running high and would only flow more freely as the alcohol did. He was choking on mortal passions and woes. Not least the volatile feelings churning in Celandine as she returned to her stolen home.

She ached with betrayal, although her tone was cool and haughty. “Well, all my former friends are in attendance, dancing on Rixor’s strings and drinking his wine as if I’d never been here. I hope they all poison each other.”

“I’m sorry, Celandine.”

She looked at him, her brow furrowing. “Are you sure you’re all right? Was your drink before we left not enough?”

“I don’t need blood,” he assured her. “It’s simply that…well, I haven’t been among this many people in a hundred years.”

She hid a laugh behind her hand.

“How glad I am that you’re amused, Your Highness,” he grumbled. “I’d like to see your reaction if everyone’s despair and longing and anger felt like a constant ocean you were drowning in.”

“If forced to endure this Blood Union you’ve told me of, I fear I’d have committed murder long before tonight.”

“Where will Rixor and Kaion be?”

“Kaion will not attend something so worldly as a ball. We’ll have to wait until the banquet to get at him. Rixor will be mingling with the guests, and then he’ll join the dancing. He likes to make a grand entrance, the bastard.”

“Let us make our grand entrance first, then.”

Troi listened for a break in the music. In the quiet between two songs, he escorted Celandine through the broad open doors into the candlelit magnificence of the great hall.

The first murmurs from the edge of the crowd reached his ears, sweeping closer and closer until the gossip became a whispered wildfire around them.

“Everyone longs to know who the princess in purple is,” he said.

“Aren’t they curious about the prince in black and gold?” she asked.

“Oh, they think I’m all right. But you are captivating.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“I know you like the truth,” he told her.

He paused to give their false names to the herald, who announced them to the room. “His Highness Magnus VIII, Prince of Clementia, and his wife, Princess Aurelia.”

Curiosity surged in the auras around them. Men and women took their positions for the next dance, sharing wild speculations. As Troi lined up with Celandine, heads turned.

The minstrels in the gallery struck up the Widow’s Weave, and Troi had to admit he was glad for Celandine’s dancing lessons. When they began to move together, every eye in the room was on them.

He wove through the steps she had taught him, watching for each cue her body and aura gave him. The heat of her palm through her glove, the way she leaned into his touch when he put his hand to her waist. The fizz of anxiety inside her.

“Is the Princess of Vengeance nervous?” he asked softly as the dance brought them close.

She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”

“You cannot fool a Hesperine, my dear.”

She glared daggers at him. “If you must know, I am feeling aware of the fact that I haven’t been among this many people in years, either.”

“It’s a shame.” He spun with her. “You deserve to be seen and admired. By the end of this night, everyone in this crowded room will fall at your feet.”

She snorted. “My days of inspiring swoons are quite over.”

“On the contrary, you have only grown more captivating.”

By the time the first dance was through, every curious and conniving noble in the room was ready to pry about the Prince of Clementia’s fortune and claim Princess Aurelia’s hand for a dance.

Troi gave evasive answers that fed their imaginations, and Celandine kept her arm twined around his with mysterious smiles.

He pressed his hand to the small of her back whenever a young lord’s eyes wandered too far.

She put her mouth close to his ear and held up her fan, letting the onlookers wonder what confidence she whispered to him. “You aren’t so terrible at playing the part of doting husband, slugabed.”

“If you truly want to dance with any of them, I will not hold you back, of course,” Troi murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

He had no right to the jealousy gnawing inside him.

Celandine missed this life, and he would not ruin her enjoyment of this night.

Even if he would rather break the other men’s hands than allow them a chance to touch her.

“I am far more entertained watching you stare daggers at them,” she said with a sly smile.

Her answer soothed something deep inside him.

They escaped the nosy guests as soon as the music began again.

Troi claimed her hand for every dance, setting all the tongues wagging about how indecently attached they were for a married couple.

He knew he should pay attention, but the gossip faded from his awareness as he grew more and more caught up in the pleasure of dancing with Celandine.

Her anxiety faded as the night wore on. She laughed and smiled, as if coming awake after her own long, arduous sleep. He could feel her spreading her wings and rising into her element.

“If I had been born in another time,” he said, “and known you when you ruled this court, I would have danced with you like this all night.”

“A Taurus and a Pavo could never dance like this.”

“We would have.”

She met his gaze. “Yes. We would have.”

A fanfare interrupted the dancing. They drew to a halt with the rest of the crowd, and Celandine stiffened.

The herald called out, “Rixor IV, Prince of Aligera and Galeo, welcomes you to his house on the blessed occasion of the seventh night of the Summer Solstice festival.”

Their enemy swaggered in, his boots ringing on the tile floor, with his shoulder cape slung behind him and his sword at his belt.

Troi could see the family resemblance to the Rixor he had known in this man’s high brow and deep-set, arrogant eyes.

But more than that, their similarities were blatant in his aura.

The new Rixor’s sense of entitlement coiled around everything his gaze touched, as if he already owned the world and had only to reach out and take another piece of it when it suited him.

Troi knew the type. Whatever depths he had himself descended to, he had never been this far gone. Had he?

Celandine was a nova of anger and hurt and bitterness. They stood there, their years of pain flowing between them, bound together by their unlikely pact.

Rixor made his way through the guests, collecting praise and fear as he went. Troi fortified the veil spells around Celandine as Rixor approached them.

Troi looked into the eyes of Rixor I’s living legacy. For years, Troi and his soldiers had bled to keep Galeo out of the clutches of this family. Now his enemy had ruled it for generations. Troi’s men had died for nothing.

Troi and Rixor bowed to each other, and Celandine dipped a light curtsy, as if they were equals. But Rixor was not even half the man Troi’s soldiers had been.

“Prince Magnus.” Rixor greeted him with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “What an occasion for you to be among us in Corona for the first time. How are you enjoying the city?” He didn’t spare a glance for Celandine, as if she were Troi’s arm decoration and not a person.

Troi had never been adept at putting on a smile for his enemies, but he had learned more than dancing from Celandine. “My wife and I welcome the opportunity to renew past connections.”

Finally, Rixor bowed over her hand with a supercilious smile. “You must stay for the feast afterward and regale us with tales from the countryside.”

“We would be delighted,” Celandine replied with flawless grace.

Rixor moved on, never knowing he had just invited death to his table.

Troi drew even more veil spells over his fangs. “Are you all right?”

“I will not be all right until he is dead.”

In that, he and Celandine were wholly of one mind.

“Let’s dance again,” he said, “as if you own this place.”

She seized his hand and let him lead her onto the floor again. They conquered the party from one end of the great hall to the other, stealing their host’s thunder.

“Does he hate us yet?” Celandine asked.

“I can feel him burning with spite.”

Rixor danced past them with a countess barely old enough to marry. But his gaze was not on the prey in his arms. He was watching Celandine, not with recognition but calculation.

“He’s looking at you as if he’s sizing up a threat,” Troi said.

Celandine’s smile was icy. “Then we’ve made our impression.”

The dances blurred together. Their shared anger and suppressed passion pounded in Troi’s blood as he fed more power to his veil spells.

A prickling sensation in his throat was his first warning. By the next dance, his mouth felt full of sand. He had thought himself prepared for this much magic use, but it was taking a toll on him far too quickly. Curse the years that had drained his strength.

He shoved down his stirring panic. He had misjudged in battle before. What mattered was how he adapted.

He pulled Celandine closer, daring to drain more of his strength to conceal their conversation. “I’m afraid we are facing an unexpected challenge.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “What’s wrong?”

“I need your blood. Now.”