Page 34

“Garroway!” I cried out in alarm, fumbling for my sword which rested within reach on the other side of my cot. “We have an intruder!”

My blade rasped from the scabbard and I scooted off the edge of the bed to stand, keeping the length of steel between me and the vampire in the doorway.

Skartovius Ashfen hadn’t moved. He studied me with amusement on his wretchedly handsome face. Blood from the evening festivities spattered his dark garb.

I breathed heavily, calling to Garroway again, hoping he hadn’t left me alone in this “safehouse” with the vampiric lord lurking.

A head popped down from the story above, near the stairs. Garroway’s bald head frowned at Skartovius. “Shit,” he hissed. “You’re early. I didn’t think you’d come until nightfall.”

A gasp wrenched free from my lips as my wide gaze swiveled from the nobleblood vampire to the half-vampire descending the stairs. “Traitor!”

I stepped away, back pressing against the wall to make sure my sword lingered on both my enemies.

Garroway sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t understand.” He glanced at Skartovius. “How did you brave the sun?”

“I, too, own a cloak and hood, cub.” He unhooked something from behind him and showed a pile of black fabric in his hand before dropping it to the ground. “Also, it’s a blessedly cloudy morning.”

Garroway induced more shock within me when he shuffled up to Skartovius, got within feet of the vampire, and started to . . . inspect his body. He brushed dirt and grime off the tall nobleblood, frowning and tsking as he fretted over the man.

By all that’s True, what is he doing?

“You look battle-worn and disgusting, Master.”

My hands trembled. “N-No.” It landed on me then—Garroway’s explanation the evening before, him being a bloodthrall like all other grayskins. “You’re his thrall,” I hissed.

It made no sense to me. None of this did. My heart pummeled against my ribs and I felt weak and foolish following this monster here, thinking he would lead me anywhere that wasn’t a trap.

“You said you were leading me away from danger,” I croaked, my voice dropping to a depressed tone, “only to lead me right to it.”

“It’s a different sort of danger, lass.” Garroway gave me a hint of a smile. It wouldn’t work this time. Not when he’d brazenly tricked me so his bastard master could finish me off and drain me dry. “ Those vampires were not your friends, whoever they were. These ones can be, if you’ll let us.”

Skartovius scoffed. He took a leisurely stance against the wall near the door, oddly keeping his distance from me. His gold-tinged crimson eyes remained fixed on my body, bringing a fresh bout of goosebumps trailing along my flesh.

The towering vampire was unnerving, his gaze heating my flesh with fear and something else I didn’t want to face.

“Friends?” he asked, unimpressed by his thrall’s choice of word. “Hardly. It is not friendship I seek.” He pushed off the wall, rolling into a tangent that spoke of his noble blood. “Why, the very thought of it evokes human infirmity and sensations of compassion, empathy, and—”

“Yes, yes, all the things that make the lesser half of my bloodline weak and frail, Master. So you’ve said.” Garroway rolled his eyes at Skartovius.

My eyes veered between them. From fighting Garroway and seeing Skartovius kill Lukain, I knew they were both lightning fast. My sword would do little to aid me unless I kept them perfectly within sight.

Something else startled me but didn’t ease my edge. Skartovius Ashfen was much more relaxed around his thrall than he was within his own court. He stood tall, yes, but not rigid over those he deemed beneath him. Not lashing out at his thrall’s interjection further confirmed it.

The nobleblood pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “Put the sword down, little temptress. I will not harm you.”

“I have a name,” I snapped in reply.

“A brat gets called what she deserves.”

Fear and frustration joined on my face, reddening my cheeks. “Y-You killed him!” I yelled, keeping a sweaty hold on my sword. “Lukain. One of your own .”

“Only because he tried to kill me first.” He took a step toward me. His boots were unnaturally quiet on the floor.

Every fiber of my being tensed, constricted. I had nowhere left to backpedal. I swallowed hard in preparation for my end. “Liar!” I snapped, trying to stall him. “I saw him flee out the window. He was running.”

Skartovius’ smooth and deep voice flowed through the room. “You did not see any of what happened before he burst through that window.”

It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t let him confuse me with his ethereal beauty and intense eyes.

There was an aura of danger surrounding Lord Ashfen.

“You killed one of your own . . .” I repeated, though the fight had left my words.

I was meek, sounding like a beggar. I didn’t want to die here, and with every step closer he took, I felt my impending doom flare in my bones.

Skartovius got within three paces of me and stopped. My legs shook and I danced on the balls of my feet—

And lashed out with my sword, knowing if he drew any closer, I was finished.

The nobleblood moved in a blur, faster than I could see.

One second he was within the arc of my blade, the next he was beside me, wrapping me up in something like an embrace from the side.

His spindly hand held my outstretched arm and pinned it to his side, immobilizing me as he bent my elbow at an unnatural angle.

The sword in my hand trembled and rattled. Wincing in pain, sweat dotting my brow, I was forced to release it before he could snap my arm. He could have done it easily, too, judging by the sheer lack of effort on his face.

Despite being a tall woman, I was forced to crane my neck to stare into his eyes.

I was startled by what I saw. His irises had darkened like a ravenous animal’s, boring into mine at close distance.

There was coldness in his gaze . . . yet an understanding I couldn’t place.

It almost looked like pity or rage or sadness.

His warm voice washed over my face as my sword clattered uselessly to the ground, and he showed no alarm at my violent outburst. “Lukain Mortis was a half-blood bastard born wretched and living in filth and squalor. I am a nobleblood from generations of royal descendants. We are not the same.”

He lightly pressed on my side and I skittered away once he unhanded me. My hands closed into fists as I backpedaled to another corner of the room, feeling every bit like a mouse being surrounded and played with.

Skartovius’ words repeated in my head and I found myself stupidly lowering my fists. “Lukain Mortis ? That was not his name.”

“As I’m sure he told you.”

More confusion, more secrets, more alarm. I couldn’t escape it in this damned place. For the first time in my life I missed Nuhav. Before yesterday and today, I hadn’t thought that possible.

“The only ‘Mortis’ I ever heard was in reference to a woman—a Mistress Mortis . Lukain was anything but a woman.”

A slight curl twitched at the corner of his full lips. “I’m sure you would know.”

Shame and embarrassment made my cheeks darken again. “Silence, you villainous monster.”

“You have many creative names for your liberators.”

I nudged my chin at Garroway over his shoulder, the thrall paying close attention to our heightened conversation. He had not acted when I attacked Lord Ashfen, in defense against me or for me, and I knew I could not trust him. How could I have been so foolish to think I could ever trust him?

“Liberator, savior, rescuer,” I said, baring my teeth in a snarl. “You have many names for yourselves. Yet all I see are two creatures of the night, damned to lives of incessant bloodthirst and horrible deeds.”

“You wound me,” Skartovius drawled.

Was that sarcasm? “Tell me, what makes the danger before me any different than the dangerous barbarians at Manor Marquin?”

Skartovius dipped his chin and swept his auburn mane over his shoulders. He clearly grew bored of me, and my heart started to quicken again.

Any second, he will strike.

“I am not required, nor inclined, to answer your questions,” he said.

“Fine,” I spat. “Then quit stalling. Why do you call my master Lukain Mortis? That is not his name.”

His angular head quirked to the side. “Oh, now you wish to know more? Where is your fear—your indignation—little temptress?”

“Why do you call me that?!” I yelled, frustrated beyond belief. He was surely toying with me.

“Because you tempted me at the initial masquerade gala, and you have bedeviled my mind since that day. I was pleased to see you at my turn-day gala last eve.”

“Your . . . turn-day gala.” I breathed shallowly as he stroked his smooth chin, examining me with a serious expression. His day of birth, I assumed. A celebration for the day he was turned into a vampire, however many years ago.

He stepped closer. This time, against my better judgment, I did not back up. “Let me ask you, Sephania. Was it not surprising to find yourself in my court once again last evening? So soon after your first failed bout against my thrall?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Unsure where he was leading, I stayed quiet.

“It is because I requested your presence to your former master,” he explained.

“More lies.”

He turned aside, showing me his back for the first time. Garroway picked his discarded hood off the ground and handed it to him.

Skartovius inclined his chin to the shorter thrall. “I believe it saved your life,” Skartovius continued, facing me. “Had you not been within Manor Marquin this evening—perhaps locked away in your depressing Firehold—I wager you’d be dead right now, or hauled in by worse hands than mine.”

My nostrils flared with new anger. I was finally getting somewhere, even if I didn’t understand it. “Why do you care whose hands I’m in? I’ve run from one enemy into the arms of another. You vampires are all the same. Wicked demons. I’ve seen what you do.”

“Yes, it is true.” He paced in front of me, pursing his lips.

“We are wicked demons. We feast on the blood of mortals. We enjoy death and violence. We grow giddy at the struggles of our inferiors, and at times ruthless against any perceived wrong.” He stopped moving, looking at me firmly.

“. . . And yet, you have not been turned. You have not been drained. You have not been violated or harmed in any way during your ten-hour slumber. Do you not question why ?”

When he paused to let me answer, my lips moved but no words came out. I was befuddled, confused by all the points he made—none of which I could argue against. I tried to speak again—

The front door opened, letting in a line of grey . . . and a much more staggering figure within that space.

He was tall, even taller than Skartovius. His stature reminded me of Kemini, my ill-fated Holdmate. If Skartovius was a head taller than me, this newcomer was a head again taller than him.

I gawked at the massive vampire, a black beard stretching to his chest, with a mop of dark hair atop his head.

It was not his height alone that made me gape, or the way he had to duck to fit under the frame of the door.

It was his sheer bulkiness, making him look like a muscled tree more than a living or undead being.

My blood ran cold as the small space of the safehouse became intensely crowded and stuffy, this newcomer stealing all the air. He frowned at me, silent, his eyes a shade of crimson darker than either of the others.

Speaking of wicked demons, I’m staring at one now.

“Ah, finally you honor us with your presence,” Lord Ashfen drawled, again sounding sarcastic and annoyed.

The massive man wore black gloves on his hands. I noticed spots of soot or ash across his garb, like he had just gotten out of a fire unscathed yet dirtied.

The vampire ignored Skartovius and took a step toward me, making me shrink in his gaze. Then he . . . sniffed the air. “She is the one?” His voice was a hammer of rasp and bottomless depths.

I gained my wits and my confidence, gritting my teeth. “I do not recognize you from Lord Ashfen’s court last night, brute.”

“Perhaps I waited in the shadows,” he countered.

My eyes went from his boots up—and up—to his face. “I would have noticed you.”

He grunted and shrugged. “I don’t see it, Skar.”

Skartovius sighed. “Of course you don’t see it, fool. It’s inside her.”

“Allegedly,” the newcomer quipped, walking away from me.

Lord Ashfen showed no fear at the man’s stature, tone, or brashness, but that same fear ripped the words from my lungs: “W-What’s inside me?!”

Skartovius met my scared gaze. “The thing that would have led to your torment yesternight if not for us, little temptress. The thing keeping you alive, and which will haunt you for as long as you live.” The nobleblood’s smile was sharp, vicious, tinged with madness.

“You are uniquely in possession of this thing . . . which we call the Loreblood.”