Page 31

Heavy boots kept pounding the hallway outside Baylen’s recovery room.

I ran to the door, hand on the knob, and hesitated. Yelling carried on the other side, so I glanced back over my shoulder as a breeze of wind from the open window pushed against my face.

“Fuck it,” I grumbled to myself. Outside in the hallway, I’d quickly become lost in Manor Marquin’s maze of corridors.

I decided to leave the way I’d come in. But blindly crawling my way down would be time-consuming and dangerous. I needed another avenue of escape.

Eyes scanning the room, I worked fast. I ran to the window, ripped the velvet curtains down, and roped them into a thick line. As I moved to the bed, I tossed Baylen’s bloody corpse one last glance before tying the curtain-rope into a tight knot around one of the pommels of a bedpost.

I tested the knot with three harsh tugs once I reached the window. Backing precariously out the window, my heart thundered in my chest as I began to repel down the side of the manor.

I moved slowly in the darkness, the moon basking me in silvery light. I was a sitting duck up here, looking entirely guilty of whatever else was playing out in the hallways of the mansion.

Once I reached the lip of the second floor where I’d come from, I was running out of rope. I managed to repel past the second story then I looked down, kicking my feet.

I said a silent prayer to the True and leapt the rest of the way, landing with a jarring pain in a garden of soil and high rushes.

Standing, brushing myself off, I got my bearings. The shouting was muffled inside the manor. It was starting to spill out into the night.

Judging by the positioning of the moon and the corner spires, I was on the southern side. I made to move further west—away from this hellhole—but my mind screamed at me: Rirth and Culiar!

I couldn’t leave my Holdmates behind, no matter what was happening inside. I careened southeast toward the only way I knew to enter, near the tents of the white-robed servants. At least from there, I knew my way to the jail room where fighters waited for their turn in the pit.

As I rounded the corner spire, I tucked against the wall and watched the tents. White robes fluttered all over—the servants were in disarray, unsure what to do with themselves.

Giving another silent Fuck it , hoping they wouldn’t be a hindrance, I sprinted out from behind the wall and barreled toward the huge double-doors of the eastern exit. It was eerie running past a gang of mutes. No one tried to stop me—

Until I made it past the doors.

Three acolytes had their backs to me in the wide hall. They heard my boots and two of them turned toward me as the third ran for the spiral stairs leading up onto the first level of the mansion and the ballroom.

Steel blades glinted in torchlight as the two mutes pulled daggers from under their robes.

I pumped my hands, palms out. “I mean you no harm!”

Either they didn’t hear me or they didn’t care.

They charged at me.

Gritting my teeth, I waited. Studying their haphazard charge, I knew these were not trained fighters.

I took the man on the right first, rolling past him onto my side and kicking out into his chest with both feet once he changed trajectories and tried to stab at me.

He sprawled onto his back. The second acolyte took his place, swinging wildly. I swept his feet out from under him with a swift roundhouse. He made no sound as he went down but had to drop his dagger to catch himself and avoid hitting his head on the rough walkway.

We were both on our hands and knees, glancing at each other and then at the nearby dagger.

He crawled for it—

I jumped to my feet and kicked him in the side of the head before he could wrap his hands around the hilt, knocking him out.

The first mute was starting to get up and I did the same to him—not killing the man but simply rendering him unconscious with a hard knock to the face.

With my breath laboring, I burst into the jail room.

“Rirth! Culiar!”

No answer.

I ran down the three aisles, looking into every cell.

They were all empty.

“Fuck me True!”

They were either dead from their bouts, someone had helped them escape, or Lukain had gathered them.

I left the room, keeping my legs churning, and ran outside. My mind whirled, wondering where I should go, what I should try to do.

The sounds of clashing steel made my decision for me. As I rounded the eastern side of the mansion—avoiding the white-robed servants and their tents by keeping to the wall of the manse—I snuck along and weaseled my way to the main western entrance.

My feet skidded to a stop as I came to the courtyard.

A full-on skirmish had broken out in the open space. It took my brain a moment to register everything happening.

Near the pissing statue of a gargoyle in the center of the courtyard, Rirth and Culiar stood with swords drawn, facing off against . . . other humans.

My brow furrowed and I recognized a few of the faces. Diplomats!

No sooner had the fight registered than Rirth skewered a man through the chest, impaling him, and then slid the body off his blade. Why are Grimsons fighting Dimmon’s men?

Rirth grabbed Culiar’s arm and tugged him away. They went running off out of my sight, around a corner and into the shadows.

I took off after them, trying to avoid the light of the multiple torch-poles that lit up the courtyard as I sprinted across it.

From the front doors, more humans stampeded out. One of them yelled, “Hoy, they killed Baylen! Fucking bloodsuckers!”

“We were s’pose to be guests!” cried another—

Two seconds before an arrow from up high caught him in the throat. The man slammed forward onto his knees, faceplanting in a gargle of blood.

“Trench!” yelled the first man. His eyes scanned the windows on the second level.

I followed their gaze and saw a shadowy figure lining up another shot from an open window. I couldn’t tell if it was a human, vampire, servant, or what.

My feet made one step to the left—

Glass fell on me in a crash of shattered fragments.

My hands instinctively rose to shield my head from the jagged rainfall. I yelled, startled, ducking and jumping into a bushy hedge to hide myself. Thorns bit at me, but it was much better than broken glass.

I whipped my head around just in time to spot a dark blot leaping through the air from the broken window on the second floor.

Lukain had his sword drawn, black cloak billowing as he landed easily on his feet.

I gasped, readying to stand and call out his name—

But two swift-moving blurs followed him from the window into the courtyard.

My conscience went sideways. I felt cowardly for hiding but I didn’t know if he was fighting for me or against me at this point—I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t blindly run into a brawl if I didn’t understand the combatants or their motives.

He’s my master, I argued with myself. I have to try and save him!

Lukain dashed left and right, defending himself against one of the shadows, while the other watched.

That’s when I recognized the pale gauntness of his enemy, the unnatural grace with which he moved.

Shit, he’s fighting a fullblood!

Their swords clashed. I had never seen Lukain move so fast. It was totally unlike our sparring matches. Turned out he had been going easy on me after all, after all these years of training and studying.

I jumped up from my bush. My blade ripped out of its hip-sheath—

Then I stutter-paused when I recognized the vampire Lukain fought.

It was Lord Skartovius Ashfen. Standing even taller and more rigid than Lukain, he fought with a calmness and gracefulness that made my blood run cold.

Lord Ashfen’s saber was thin, perfectly balanced in his hand. He effortlessly fended off any attack from Lukain. He parried with his arm behind his back like a fencer. His auburn mane blew in the wind, framing his face, turning him into a pale statue of relaxed ferocity in the moonlight.

While Lukain grunted and snarled like an animal, dodging left and rolling right and trying to weaken Skartovius’ defenses, the lord simply parried and riposted every attack. There wasn’t a hint of worry or danger on his face.

My hand grew clammy on the hilt of my sword. Why is Lord Ashfen fighting Lukain, his guest?

It dawned on me this was perhaps not about me or Baylen’s death at all. It seemed there was something else going on here. Diplomats fighting Grimsons, vampires fighting half-vampires.

The chaotic fight took a new turn, further confusing me. The third vampire, who had been watching after following Skartovius out the window, eyed both of them and then charged at Lord Ashfen.

I reeled, recognizing his face when he stepped into the light—didn’t need to see the four fingers on his hand to know who it was.

I had thought this bloodsucker followed Skartovius as an ally or accomplice. Instead, he hacked and bared his fangs at the lord—

Before Skartovius whipped his blade around in a blurring slash.

A thin line appeared in the vampire’s neck and he stumbled back—

Then burst into flames and screamed a wet sound.

I cried out in shock as the courtyard flared orange. The vampire was completely immolated within seconds, and now Lukain and Skartovius had a fiery backdrop to fight against.

Vampires streamed all around them, coming from the front door.

I took a step forward. “Lukain!”

An arrow from the high window, the mysterious archer, took out one of the fullbloods trying to join the duel. Other vampires became locked in combat against each other. I had no idea who was enemy or ally.

None of them, I decided. I don’t trust any of them.

Lukain chanced a look over his shoulder at the sound of my warning cry.

It was the split second Skartovius needed to plunge his blade into Lukain’s chest.

I gasped, nearly dropping my sword in the grass from utter panic.

Lukain’s face twisted, eyes flaring when they locked onto me. Then his chest began to . . . smoke. Tendrils of wispy gray fumes coiled into the air from his body.

My master faced Skartovius to try and defend himself, stumbling back—

As an arrow whistled through the flames of the vampire inferno and plunged into his neck. The arrow impaled him and Lukain went rigid where he stood.

“No!” I wailed. I made a step toward the battle—

A hand grabbed my elbow like a vise grip, tugging me back. “It’s too late for him. Come on!”

I spun at the familiar voice in the shadows, raising my sword—

Red eyes and a shiny bald pate, slightly tapered ears jutting out. It was Garroway Kuffich, the grayskin and rival who had beaten me in the ring my first shadowgala.

The shock on my face must have been evident.

His hard face softened with concern. “Come, lass. Your master is dead. I can take you to safety.”

I gulped hard, tossing a look over my shoulder.

It was a picturesque moment before me, inking itself onto my brain for eternity: Lukain Pierken on his knees, wobbling in place, with Lord Skartovius Ashfen standing over him, towering like a gaunt behemoth, long hair flowing, sword pointed at Lukain’s neck.

Behind them, the raging fire of the burning vampire painted the vampire lord and my master in a red, glowing silhouette.

Garroway pulled on my arm again. “Don’t kill yourself over nothing.”

“W-What . . . is happening?”

“I’m assuming Master Lukain did something he was not supposed to. Angered the wrong vampire.”

My brow furrowed. What in the Faithless was that supposed to mean?

“People heard you call to him, Sephania. They’ll be running to scour these hedges soon. Come with me or die.”

When put that way, Garroway’s choice was no choice at all. It snapped me from my heady stupor. Lukain’s odd words from the past jolted me into action: “Protect your blood, little grimmer.”

Rirth and Culiar were gone and I had no chance of finding them without running into bloodsuckers who likely wanted me dead. Or Diplomats. Or maybe even my Grimson “friends” wanted me dead at this point, too.

There was nothing I could do here to save anyone.

All I knew was Garroway had not harmed me in the alley when I was a child. It would’ve been so easy for him to have drained me and satiated his thirst. He did not kill me when he had the chance during the shadowgala, either.

Swallowing my pride, my dignity, and my hope, I took one more pitying glance at Lukain’s body.

He was prostrate on the ground now, face down.

Dead. The half-vampire who had been my master for five long years, who had taught me everything I knew about fighting and defending myself.

Skartovius looked down at him, sword sheathed and arms crossed over his chest. I had missed the final stab to end my master, but the result was evident.

Skartovius regarded the grayskin with a tilt of his head.

Something here tonight had gone very, very wrong.

“He’s gone, lass.”

Garroway’s words were like a caress in my ear.

He was right.

I turned and followed him into the darkness, dashing away from Manor Marquin, not sure who I was placing my trust in. I had little choice in the matter, as usual.

Only one thing was certain: My time with the Grimsons had ended.