Page 28 of Loreblood

My eyes bulged at the sight of him—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair spilling down past his shoulders, and fine features on a handsome face.

Yet it wasn’t his features that made me startle. It was the ashen texture to his skin, the slight point to his canine teeth as he gave us a fanged frown. His voice was dark, brooding, with a hint of exhilaration.

“Welcome to the Firehold, little grimmers. My name is Lukain Pierken, and I now own you.”

Part

Two

Madame Kleora lifts her quill from the parchment. She’s amassed a stack of at least ten pages, all scrawled in neatly drawn writing from top to bottom.

Her eyes rise to meet mine, the stark redness of her gaze unnerving yet not making me wilt.

I stopped wilting long ago.

“Why have you stopped, Lady Lock?” she asks. Her head tilts just so, questioning.

My eyes flicker over to the empty wine glass at my side of the table, to my right. The chains on my wrist jangle. “I’m feeling parched. I figure we might have time for a summation while you refill my goblet.”

Her beautiful, alabaster face crinkles with a demure smile. “You think I am your serving-wench, child?”

“I think you are at the beck and call of your master, chronicler. You have been given orders not to kill me.”

Her eyes flicker with danger. “Yes, but that does not mean I can’t have a littlefunwith you before Overseer Verant arrives.”

I clench my jaw, fighting back a wave of anxiety. I don’t want to push her too far, though it’s difficult not to. I have to fight against the terror inching its way up my spine every waking moment I’m in this dreary prison chamber ten stories in the sky.

So far, I’ve put on a good face.

“And here I thought you bloodsuckers were all humorless wretches.”

Oops. Didn’t mean to let that one out.

Rather than growing aggravated at my impertinence, Kleora simply smiles. “Why is it called the Firehold?”

Ah. Back to business already?

“Because it tests you by putting your feet to the fire,” I answer. “I can tell you more . . .” My finger taps the crystal glass with apingas I trail off.

The thrall taps the feathers of her quill on the parchment, studying my face with a disconcerting gaze. “Quite a dramatic life you’ve lived up to this point.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Madame Kleora.”

“You’ve seen . . . how many summers?”

I shrug. “Twenty, perhaps? Maybe more, maybe less.”

“And three-quarters of that time has been spent caged, jailed, or otherwise locked away? Rather impressive, I say, that you’ve made it this far.”

“I’m nothing if not tenacious.” I keep my voice bored and emotionless.

“I can attest to that,” she says with a small laugh.

Lifting my arms as high as they’ll go, I look down at the chains keeping me bound to the floor. “Yet I’ve found myself again in my usual circumstance. Jailed and caged. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Poetic.” She leans back in her seat, folding her arms under her high breasts. “It’s where all humans belong. If you expect me to feel human compassion for your plight, you’re sorely mistaken.”

I can’t help my nostrils from flaring. She says it with such disinterest, matching my bored posture and tone seamlessly. After all I’ve told her, there isn’t a spark of any caring—even pity—in her voice.