Page 64 of The Vampire Court

Her brows crease.

I slide my hands down her arms, feeling the dagger strapped to her left forearm, and look back over my shoulder at the lesser vampire. Clara leans to the side, her gaze following mine.

She jerks back out of my grasp and gapes, wide-eyed. “What are you doing here?”

The venom in her voice is unexpected. There’s no fear, only anger.

“I have come to talk with you, dear. It has been long enough.”

Clara knows this vampire. But when—or how—would she have met her and developed such strong feelings toward her? The look on her face is far deeper than simple annoyance. There is something personal between them.

“We have nothing to talk about. You were alive all these years and never once bothered to see how Kitty and I were doing.”

Her sister?

I close the distance between Clara, taking her hand. I look into the lesser vampire’s face.Really look. She shares the same shade of brown hair, the same rich, brown eyes with flecks of amber. This woman’s features are sharper, harsher, but they could be sisters. Everything clicks into place, and I understand. This woman is Clara’s mother, claimed years ago.

I pull Clara to the side and guide her chin to face me. The fact that her mother is alive has to come as a shock. The only emotion I can sense coming from her is anger.

“Would you like me to remove her? I can post a guard at the door.”

She sucks in a breath and holds it for a long moment, eyeing the woman. Releasing her breath, she shakes her head, not taking her narrowed gaze off the vampire. “No, I can handle this.”

I release her. I must go now. Defying Elizabeth further at this point will make things worse. Reluctantly, I move away, trusting Clara to know if she can handle the situation on her own, and knowing she is armed.

They stand face to face. Clara fists her hands on her hips, her knuckles white from the strain, and levels a glare at the woman who seems unfazed by her hostility.

Cherno glides down from their spot in the rafters and lands on my shoulder.

As I close the door behind me, the vampire’s voice drifts out. “I wanted a better life than your father could ever hope to provide, so I agreed to the claiming—not that I had any choice. How can you blame me? Look at you now—marked by a vampire.”

I wince. That conversation will not go well if that’s how she plans to approach Clara.

She wasn’t surprised to see her mother alive. I frown, realizing only now how much I’ve missed in the time we’ve been separated. In everything that’s happened since arriving at Nightwich, we’ve had little time to talk. She has gone through so much, and I know very little about any of it. Her mother is proof enough of that.

That is something that will need to be remedied later.

“I have nothing to say to a woman who abandons her family as if they mean nothing.” There’s a hitch in Clara’s voice.

The door closes with a soft click, shutting out the rest of their conversation.

I rush through the halls, having delayed longer than Elizabeth will deem acceptable. A sinking sensation fills my veins as I approach the open, ornate door.

A servant busies himself with straightening up and wiping imaginary spots from the glasses on the long table against the wall.

Stepping one foot inside then the other, I enter. The human turns and dips his head, keeping his gaze locked on the floor. He motions for me to sit on the sofa. Cherno inches closer to my collar as I take my place.

“Her majesty will be out momentarily,” the servant says.

Then, he scurries to grab a goblet and brings it to me. Empty. I’m about to speak up when he lifts his hand over the rim.

With a flick of his hand, he slices his wrist, cutting deep. Blood pours into the cup, but my eyes linger on the mesh of pale scars that cover his forearm. There are many. It’s clear that he’s been in Elizabeth’s service for a long time. This human is the one she chooses to serve her important guests.

Every inch of him moves and works as if his mind was compelled out of him, but there’s an awareness to his eyes that says he is still his own man, that he chooses to serve the queen.

When the glass is half full, the man draws back and fills another. Once that, too, is half-filled, he wraps his wrist in quick, efficient moves. Then, he bows, turns on his heel, and walks out of the door.

Minutes pass, and I sip the blood even though I don’t need to feed. I took more blood than necessary from Clara last night. Refusing to drink would be an insult, and I don’t wish to push my luck again so soon.