Page 29

The tidal wave of emotions that hit me almost put me on my knees. Guilt, sadness, painful memories.

But a single thread shone brighter than the others, stoking the flames of my mind.

Rage. My old friend.

Standing before me, ready to kill me—and I him—was the person I had known longer than anyone on this earth.

I did not know what brought Bay to this gaudy manse in Olhav, or how he came to be standing in front of me. I had not seen him since we parted ways in the Diplomats after Jeffrith’s death, and had no idea where his life had led him.

Judging by the giddy, sickening expression on his scarred face, it had been a hard journey into adulthood. I reckoned the scars inside him were even worse than the ones I could see, for him to be happy about seeing me now, in this dire situation.

In the past, he had always been on the cusp of dreadfulness, skittering the line.

Father Cullard, of all people, had proclaimed Baylen was better off outside the House of the Broken than inside, because he could “no longer be helped.” He joined the same gang that had beaten him. He robbed people. He hurt people.

Yet, way back then, he also protected me. It blinded me—even when he stopped protecting me and allowed the grotesque bandit leader Dimmon Plank to have his way with me.

Now, the culmination of Baylen’s life trajectory was evident on his awful mien: He’s been made a monster complete.

Our wicked Father had been right.

Any pity I felt for him vanished when I considered all the off-roads he’d had, and how many times he continued down a dark path.

He’s had his chances. Now he’s here, and I won’t give him another one.

A memory rolled through me: the Diplomats hauling me to Dimmon Plank’s tent. Baylen Sallow standing to the side with a cold expression, watching me get dragged away in tears.

The coward. That was the day you lost my love, Bay.

It didn’t matter if he protected me from Jeffrith and earned a broken bottle and missing eye. Not when he shrank once the fire truly got hottest.

Another uncomfortable memory flashed: Baylen and I as children, staring up at the awesome Olhavian Peaks from a rooftop in Nuhav. Talking about how up there, in the heavens and spires, was where the future lay; all the grandiosity and comfort life had denied us down on the Floorboards.

“We’re here, Brother,” I murmured. “How grand and comfortable do we find ourselves?” I didn’t bother to explain what I was talking about—he would either recall the memory or he was too far gone and it didn’t matter.

Lord Ashfen gave the command to begin. The ballroom fell deathly silent as we stared each other down, separated by fifteen feet.

Baylen sneered. “I’m sure you’re wondering how I ended up here.”

My sword rasped out of its scabbard. I pulled my dagger out with my left hand. “No,” I said simply. “I don’t care, Baylen. I’d completely forgotten you existed, if I’m being honest.”

A vein near his temple throbbed, his jaw flexed.

The quickest way to bring a man to an uncontrollable tizzy was to tell him he didn’t matter. That he was unimportant. Damage his ego, and the job was done before it started.

Baylen whipped a longsword out from his sheath and held it two-handed, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Ungrateful cunt. All I ever wanted was to love you. Why did you deny me that?”

I dipped my chin. “You only cared about what you wanted, Baylen. Like so many others, you never took into consideration my thoughts, feelings, or desires.”

With a scoff, Baylen shook his head. “You could have taught me.”

“It was not my job to make you compassionate. It never has been.”

Rolling his neck on his shoulders, Baylen stood straighter. “Then tell me, Seph. What is it you desire?”

“Right now?” I tilted my head, lowering my voice menacingly. “Revenge against all who have wronged me. I desire your death, Baylen.”

As anticipated, my words spurred him into action. He charged at me haphazardly, yelling out a battle-cry that had the audience of vampires chuckling.

Baylen lifted his sword high, and I didn’t move. My eyes narrowed, quickly studying him as Lukain had taught me—his movements, his posture, his gait, his technique.

Oh no, I thought, reeling with a swift conclusion. He has learned so little. Baylen has no chance.

It was the awkwardness of his gait. The uncertainty of his positioning and footwork, not sure where to stand or how to come at me. Even the grip on his sword was all wrong.

Despite managing to get to this level in front of Lord Skartovius Ashfen and his bloodsucker court, Baylen was not a skilled fighter.

I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

What ordinary human living on the streets could possibly compare with someone who has spent every waking hour over the past five years training for combat? Eating, drilling, sparring, practicing, being molded into a weapon.

Lukain Pierken had given me the tools to exact my vengeance against everyone on my list.

Father Cullard, Dimmon Plank, Jeffrith, Baylen Sallow—

I swept to the left in a blur, Bay’s sword arcing past me and cutting through the air.

As I pushed off my back foot, my dagger came up and notched a slash against his forearm, spilling a quick spray of blood.

Father Cullard, Dimmon Plank, Jeffrith, Baylen Sallow—

He seethed, hissing, leaping back in bewilderment, narrowly avoiding my shortsword eviscerating his belly.

A few vampires snickered from the tables surrounding us. They could see what I saw—Baylen was the only one still blind to the truth.

His eyes widened as he noticed the expression on my face: cold, calculated control, whereas he was already sweating and giving himself over to rage at being slighted.

I had never so easily thrown someone off their game.

He pitched clumsily toward me, swinging his sword in broad strokes.

I effortlessly dashed right, bobbing around him. Keeping my swords down, toying with my former brother, only angering him more.

“Fight me, you bitch!” Baylen screamed. His eyes were alight with wrath.

The vampires watching us were raising their voices, pleased at what they were seeing. It was to be expected from monsters who also toyed with their prey.

I’m not like them, I told myself.

With that mantra coursing through my mind, I lifted my blades to parry Baylen’s next attack, rather than dodge them.

Our swords clashed and he grunted as sparks flew. His eyes flared again at my strength, able to push him back with a simple twist of my wrist and reliable angling.

Baylen was tall as I was but he did not possess the martial acumen I did. I needn’t use force to defeat him—he was doing a fine job of that on his own.

My boot came up and caught him in the stomach.

With a grunt of expunged air, Baylen stumbled back.

I went on the attack, carving my sword and dagger through the air in precise strikes. With every lucky parry he managed, backpedaling, I cut into his forearms and body twice over.

When he finally managed to shuffle back from my onslaught, his chest rose and fell in great heaves. His shoulders were high and tight, blood trickled past his lips. A dozen shallow cuts marred his body, spilling red onto the slats and into the cells below.

Many seated vampires were now standing, practically licking their chops as the coppery scent of their favorite beverage filled the air like honeyed perfume to their bloodthirsty senses.

“W-Who the fuck are you?” he breathed.

I took a step toward him and he quailed, flinching.

“Someone you’ve never known, Baylen Sallow. You were defeated the moment you stepped into this ring.”

He lifted his sword, trying to redouble his efforts . . . but he was bone-tired now. Our quick bout had sapped his energy. He couldn’t summon the requisite rage to dispatch me.

I raised my sword and dagger, sure-handed. “You told me to fight you, Bay.” I tossed him a small smile. “Well, here I am. Come at me.”

“Fucking bitch !” He screamed and charged again, despite everything.

Two quick cuts knocked his blade aside and split open his chest. It was another shallow cut—a stinging one he wouldn’t soon recover from.

His longsword fell to the ground with a clank.

“Is that all, Brother?” I asked innocently.

Baylen charged at me barehanded, unwilling to give up.

My dagger bit into his thigh and he howled, pitching toward me as momentum carried him.

I swung my body around his back, closed my bicep and forearm around his throat, and tightened my hold until he was gasping and groaning for breath.

Baylen swung us in circles. His feet quickly tired. His face turned red then purple. I let my shortsword drop so I could stiffen the hold. The edge of my dagger pressed against his neck, just above my arm.

He collapsed to his knees with me grappled behind him. His hands fell, spittle and blood drooling from his lips. “D-Do it,” he croaked in a voice only I could hear.

I was two seconds away from finishing him.

Then my eyes lifted to the audience. The vampires were on their feet as one, smiling grimly, encircling us. They saw their next victim in front of them—supplicant, on bent knee, with a dagger to his throat, ready for his blood to spill across the slats.

I looked down, my eyes tracing over the scars that stretched from Bay’s temple to his cheek. Scars that had been won making a half-measured attempt at protecting me one last time, before it all went to shit.

There was beauty to those scars, because I had known the boy before they’d appeared. Before manhood had stolen him from me.

My gaze tracked to the table where Master Lukain sat. He finished a hushed conversation with his four-fingered accomplice, who dipped away from the congregation once all eyes were on me.

Then Lukain gave me a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

For some reason, it angered me, Lukain telling me to finish off this young man he’d never known. To put an end to it and earn my freedom.

Where is there freedom in a place like this?

I stared into the hungry eyes of the vampiric audience. The leeches, so eager it shone in their eyes.

Not like this, I thought. Not in public where he’ll be dragged to a table and used as a main course for hungry beasts.

“Look around, Bay,” I whispered in his ear. “This is the grandeur and comfort we wished for all those years ago.”

He choked an answer—

As the pommel of my dagger connected with the back of his skull.

Baylen collapsed forward in an unconscious heap.

The sound of angry murmurs sifted through the crowd. I stood tall, facing Lord Skartovius Ashfen and his throne. He was the only one not standing, the only one paying attention to me more than the inert body at my feet.

“This match is over,” I announced to him.

“I am victorious, Lord Ashfen.” My hand swept out to the side, gesturing at a table where the previous Grimson was splayed out like Kemini had been, chest open, goblets filled.

“There is no need to supply this man to your court when you already have a full supper at your fingertips.”

Skartovius stood slowly. His voice was calm and low yet booming enough for all in the ballroom to hear. “You do not dictate my court’s dinner menu. Your pity and empathy is your weakness, Sephania Lock.”

I opened my mouth to argue—

His lifted finger cut me off, so sudden I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. This was the power of an elder vampire, a being that could control the blood in my very body, it seemed.

“Bring the wounded fighter to the rooms,” he told one of his minions, before facing me with his sinfully attractive visage twisting with the first sign of wicked emotion.

“Bring the lady to a room of her own. You will not leave this manor until you stand before me in victory or defeat. This is not victory.”

He growled the last sentence, disgusted.

His threat was clear: Whether it was Baylen or me, only one of us would be leaving Manor Marquin alive.