Page 72 of Loreblood

But how could I explain we were riding into the pit of the underworld itself, a place darker than any subterranean tunnel, masked by gold, false civility, splendor, and the lie of freedom?

We would be leaving Manor Marquin with no more than seven Grimsons this evening. And the night was still young.

The first slavefighter, a young man of nineteen summers who had been in the Firehold longer than me but had never excelled enough to attend a shadowgala before tonight, had his blood spilled across the latticed grate overhead. It dripped down the open holes into our cells, and we all looked up before he was dragged away out of our vision.

Probably to be opened up like Kemini and feasted upon by the revelers.

“Stupid bastard,” Culiar muttered from the cage across from me. “Think he regrets being so eager to come here?”

Rirth’s voice bounced off the walls of another cage. “I don’t think he regrets anything at all, Cul. He’s dead.”

Culiar chuckled. The snarky young man had a grim sense of humor. “Too true, Rir.”

Rirth called out, “Looks like you’re up second this time, Seph.”

The white-robed, mute acolytes came to stand in front of my cell.

With a groan, I stood from my bench. “Lucky me,” I muttered as my cell door swung open.

Walking past Rirth’s cell, his arm shot out and he grabbed my wrist. When I paused, the short fighter shot me a wistful smile. “Give ‘em the business, Seph. Make the bastard wish he’d never been born.”

I smiled at him, patted his hand, and continued on with the three acolytes. They brought me up the spiral staircase onto the first level of the mansion.

I instantly noticed a stark difference this time around, squinting to take in the gold tapestries, the pale bodies, and the impeccable décor of the ballroom.

No one wore a mask. Whatever the Olhavians were celebrating this go-around was different than last time.

It was a chilling shift. Being able to see the faces of the noblebloods that wanted me dead and wished for my blood unnerved me.

The vampires had gaunt features and smooth complexions, adorned in fine gowns and tight suits, with soulless red eyes and grim smiles as they watched me step into the lowered pit in the center of the room.

My eyes found Lukain, who stood at a table off to the left. His visage showed concern in his knotted brow, gaze never leaving me. He stood next to two lanky bloodsuckers I didn’t recognize.

One of them lifted a chalice to drink from—

And I sucked in a sharp breath.

Four fingers. Missing his pinkie.

The man Lukain had met in the alley was a sketchy-looking vampire with beady eyes darting around. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the bastard looked nervous, even though he was surrounded by his kind.

Just what scheme have you gotten yourself mixed up in, Master Lukain?

Off to the right, at another table, Helget sat on a vampire’s lap. Seeing her startled me—her elegant blue dress had been lowered to bare her plump breasts, just like last time, though no one paid it any attention other than the man whose lap she straddled.

No, it was theotherpart that made my heart beat faster. Her eyes rolled back in ecstasy as the vampire slowly drank from her supple neck.

Truehearts save me. Good for you, Helg . . . I suppose.

The man I would be facing had his back to me, speaking with someone standing higher up at the edge of the pit. I could tell by the back of his hand he was not a grayskin or fullblood. His slightly leathery knuckles showed me this was a man who enjoyed the sun.

A human.

Small mercies, I supposed, not having to face a dhampir menace like Garroway again.

As the low murmurs of the crowd became louder, my gaze lifted past the combatant to the raised stage at the front of the ballroom.

There, sitting atop his elegant throne, sat Skartovius Ashfen, Lord of Manor Marquin. I could see the man’s face for the first time. It was startlingly handsome. A sheer, clean face devoid of expression, sharpened by dangerous angles and a jaw line cut from marble. His auburn hair hung full about his shoulders, a lion’s mane if I’d ever seen one. There was a tinge of gold in hisred eyes, matching the decorations of his ostentatious house and the red-and-gold robe he wore.