Page 2

DAHLIA

“ D ahlia Clayburn,” the low, velvety smooth voice of Alaric Montclare rings out in the silence of the grand ballroom.

My head snaps up, my eyes wide in shock and confusion. If I wasn’t kneeling before the dais with the rest of the Potentials, I probably would have fallen over. A soft, collective gasp of surprise ripples through the line of Potentials, all of them just as confused as I am. There is no possible way he’s chosen… me . It has to be some sort of mistake, or a cruel joke, or perhaps I’m dreaming. Yes, all of this is just one big, terrible nightmare. It has to be.

But as my gaze collides with the cool, golden stare of the prince and High General, I know deep in my bones that it’s no mistake, no dream. I swallow hard as the thought settles inside my mind.

This is real.

And I’ve just become Alaric Montclare’s Consort.

Well fuck.

Annalise Whitehollow stiffens beside me, muttering a low curse beneath her breath that I’m honestly surprised a daughter of a noble even knows. Though her head is still bowed, she cuts her eyes towards me, glaring daggers. On my other side, Wilhelm Vandrose turns to openly gape at me, looking almost accusatory. They’re acting as if I’d meant for this to happen! As if I could possibly want to be a Consort like the rest of these damned fool Potentials, when, in fact, I want nothing to do with the entire affair.

No, no, no . This can’t be right. Maybe Alaric misunderstood what he was meant to do here. It’s his first Choosing, after all. Perhaps he thought he was selecting the most lacking of the nobles, one to be sacrificed on some alter to one of the gods—though I’m far from a proper virgin sacrifice. I almost laugh at the thought, my head suddenly feeling light, my blood pumping through my veins too quickly, my thoughts scattered and frantic and becoming a bit hysterical.

I shouldn’t even really be here. This has to be a fucking mistake.

“Rise, Dahlia Clayburn,” the Magister, a burly vampire with long, white hair and a matching beard that hangs to his chest, says in his booming voice. He’s a turned vampire, not born, and looks to have been in his forties when he’d been changed. A bit later than most, but there had to have been a reason, I suppose. Vampires don’t turn just any human. Or attempt to turn them anyway. It doesn’t always work and there is great risk in the transformation process—since the catalyst is death.

I stay on my knees, frozen for a long moment before sense and self-preservation win out over shock and denial. You don’t disobey the vampires. The humans and vampires have been living in relative harmony for nearly six hundred years now, but they’re still vampires and I need to do what’s expected of me.

Slowly, I rise, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck and my heart thundering loudly in my ears. Can they hear the wild beating? Of course they can .

“You have been honored above all others this day,” the Magister decrees to the gathered crowd, a mix of vampires and human nobles. “Ascend the dais.”

I don’t make the decision to move, but somehow I’m gliding forward, up the stone steps of the platform, careful not to trip on the skirt of my gown. I’m not used to wearing them, truth be told, especially nothing this fine or formal. It would be my luck to fall in front of the gods and everyone after being chosen as a Consort, the highest honor that could be bestowed upon a human, more coveted and revered than even the Dukes. I idly wonder if it would negate my selection. Would they make Alaric choose someone else, someone who could walk up a set of stairs without falling over? Consorts are supposed to be regal, after all, refined and polished and the epitome of elegance. I am exactly none of those things, and don’t particularly care to be.

Before I can seriously consider falling on purpose, just to see if it will somehow end this nightmare before it truly begins, the rest of the princes and princesses stand from their gilded thrones. Sixteen pairs of golden eyes fix on me as I slowly make my way across stage—for that’s what it truly is, isn’t it? A stage for this ridiculous play?—towards Alaric Montclare. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to avert my eyes, but even if I am, I don’t think I could possibly manage it. Alaric is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, could ever possibly even conjure in my most delicious and secret dreams. All of the Montclares are beautiful, of course, but Alaric is more so than any other. But even more than beauty, there is something else that calls to me, something deep inside my soul flaring inside my chest for a moment as I look upon him. I shake myself, forcing the strange thoughts away as I continue to stare at him.

He is beautiful, yes—and absolutely terrifying . Icy fear skitters down my spine, an instinctual fear rooted deeply in the core of my being, passed down from ancestors long-dead. Even so, I press on. I remind myself to breathe as I continue towards him, my legs trembling slightly. He towers over me, the top of my head reaching just above the bottom of his chest, a chest that’s broad and brawny and seems to be straining the fabric of his dress tunic. The sigil of his Coven, a great snarling wolf’s head, is emblazoned on the front in golden thread. We had to learn all of the royals’ sigils in school, of course, and Alaric’s had always admittedly been one of my favorites. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles scarred faintly, years of training and battle evident on his skin and setting him apart from the rest of his nearly-perfect siblings.

I crane my head upward as I approach. His hair is black as night and falls in unruly curls to his collar, and his face is unreadable, though his square jaw is clenched tightly beneath his thick scruff, his lips pressed into a hard line. I get the distinct feeling that he has no desire to have a Consort and this entire thing is an utter annoyance to him. I’m not sure that bodes well for me. As his Consort, I’m bound to remain with him. For most Consorts, that means residing in one of the luxurious Montclare castles spread throughout Braxhelm, in their own dedicated wing, with their own maids and butlers and chefs and everything else one could possibly imagine or want, only seeing their prince on social occasions or should he care to take the blood from her veins into his cup himself—which I’ve heard is quite rare. Usually a servant just fetches the blood and that’s that.

The Consorts and their princes live largely separate lives. The title, even this ceremony, really, are all just for show, a stupid fucking tradition that began hundreds of years ago as a way to celebrate the thriving Blood Peace.

But Alaric Montclare isn’t like the other princes. He’s High General of the vampiric army, and he doesn’t just lead them from afar, making decisions from the safety of a castle and letting his men do the work. No, he fights beside them, bathes his own famed blade in Revenant blood as often as possible, riding in at the front of almost every battle if rumors are to be believed, and he lives in the permanent war camp in the Northlands. There will be no separate wing in a castle for me. Perhaps a separate tent? Do they even sleep in tents? Or maybe just in bedrolls on the ground? How big is a war camp anyway? Can we really escape each other totally?

I know my thoughts are spiraling but one keeps ringing in my ears: war camp . I’m going to be living in a fucking war camp , surrounded by thousands of vampire warriors. What in the seven hells is that going to be like? Dark and dreary, filled with blood and screams and rage? I shudder. Is that really to be my life from now on? I know that his men will be under strict orders not to harm me, of course, but…well, the vampires in the army are very different from the ones who live and work side by side with the humans in the cities and villages, and leagues away from the ones of the noble Covens—those vampires who are part of the bloodline of each prince or princess, and all who are selected to serve them. The vampires in the army are warriors, living for bloodshed and battle—how will a human girl fair among them?

I shake myself again, trying to focus on what’s happening now instead of dreading the future. I stop before Alaric, the two of us facing each other before the rest of the Potentials. They all still kneel just before the dais, and I can practically feel the resentment drifting from them. The nobles sit in neat rows behind the Potentials, and the rest of the vampires look on from the gallery above. Hundreds of eyes watching down like angels from the heavens, a mix of members of all nineteen Covens, though the majority of Alaric’s Coven is, in fact, his army, and are not present here.

The princes and princesses stand in a line on the dais, and I dare a glance at them. They’re all so… imposing . I’ve been around vampires before, of course, but never the royals, and now I understand why everyone always says they’re different than the other vampires. A raw, unearthly power emanates from them, a quiet, but lethal ferocity and authority, something preternatural that my human mind can’t completely understand but instinctually knows to fear.

They all vary in coloring and looks (their father had many, many companions, so they almost all have different mothers)—some have skin as pale as ivory, others dark as onyx; some blonde, some brunette, some with hair as red as fire like my own; some with delicate, aristocratic features, others more rough-hewn—but all share two similarities: they all have the unmistakable golden Montclare eyes, and they’re all devastatingly attractive. All born vampires are beautiful, and even turned vampires have a certain allure about them, something that draws people in. I suppose that’s a bit of the point, isn’t it? Vampires at their core are predators, and their looks draw in prey, the way some of the most poisonous flowers are the most beautiful to look at. They beckon with that beauty, but the price for coming near is a dire one.

Or, it could be. Though the vampires and humans have been living in peace for over five hundred years, it wasn’t always the way of it. There was a time when the vampires were the beasts to be feared alongside the Revenants, attacking humans, feeding and killing with a brutality that nearly destroyed the entire continent.

Until Etienne Montclare.

The patriarch of the Montclare Clan, older than any vampire I’ve ever heard tale of, Etienne was the one who changed the history of our entire world. The Montclares hadn’t always lived in Braxhelm. Other far less civilized vampires resided here first and spread their terror through the lands. The Montclares migrated here after the Great Flood destroyed many other continents in this world, arriving in the midst of a raging war between vampires and the Revenants. The stories say that the Montclares quickly took control of the vampire contingent, either defeating the others or making them vow loyalty to the Montclare line. Even so, the humans were already verging on extinction, caught in the crossfire between the two sides for far too long, and so the vampires were losing their food source. It was a bleak future all around until Etienne put a stop to it, seeing a better way for survival for the vampires and the humans alike, and a path forward to ending the Revenants.

Etienne proposed a deal: the vampires would protect the humans and vow that no vampire would hunt or kill a human without provocation again, so long as the humans agreed to provide blood slaves to the Montclares and offerings of the strongest among them to be turned and join the vampiric army. No more fighting, no more bloodshed, no more living in fear.

Peace.

Etienne Montclare offered peace, after so many years of unrest and death. The human king of Braxhelm at the time agreed. He knew that the humans would eventually fall completely, whether to the vampires or the Revenants, and the sacrifice of some was outweighed by the survival of the many.

And so, the Blood Peace came to be.

To much surprise, it worked . The Montclares, their army bolstered by the newly turned humans, began to overtake the Revenants, to drive them farther and farther north. The humans provided blood slaves to sustain the vampires and, as promised, all attacks stopped. It was a tenuous truce at first, of course, but it grew in strength and soon they were true allies, the blood slaves being looked at as glorious martyrs and treated with great dignity. It was an honor to be chosen to serve and sacrifice, many humans volunteering for the duty to bring glory to their family names. The two species grew to respect and care for each other, great friendships and even romances evolving over time.

It was even a team of human and vampire alchemists, working together, who discovered how to replicate human blood, all but removing the need for the blood slaves at all—but the human nobles and Etienne Montclare had other ideas.

That is when the Choosing came to be. Instead of blood slaves giving blood to the entire Clan, a single Consort would be given only to each prince (why the princesses didn’t get to be a part of the fun, I don’t know, but this is the way it has always been). A Consort would be chosen from among only the noble human families, as a continued symbol of the alliance between the vampires and the humans of Braxhelm. The Consort’s blood was only given directly to their prince, and it was expected that the prince would only have his Consort’s blood, no replications and no others. When a Consort died, another Choosing ceremony was held for that prince to find a replacement.

It's a stupid, ridiculous custom that only makes the rich even richer since the Consort’s family is given a hefty dowry in exchange for their service, and I’ve always hated the entire notion of it. I never dreamed I’d ever be a part of it, let alone a chosen Consort, it’s so asinine and?—

“Your wrist,” Alaric hisses in a low, gruff whisper, startling me from my thoughts. I glance up and from the expectant look on the Magister’s face, I realize that he’s asked for my hand already, probably more than once.

“Fuck,” I mutter quietly and the Magister’s eyes widen in surprise. I bite my lip, forgetting myself as usual. Noble girls don’t curse. Or drink. Or dance on the bar tops in taverns. Or do anything fun, from what I can tell, honestly. I think I see Alaric’s lips twitch ever so slightly, as if amused, but his stoic look is back in place again so quickly, that I decide I must have imagined it. I take a deep breath and raise my hand, and almost quicker than I can track, the Magister slices my wrist with a beautiful dagger, the blade inlaid with golden script in a language that I can’t read, and the hilt bejeweled with rubies, their color only a few shades darker than the blood welling from the cut on my skin. I gasp, more from surprise than pain really, and the Magister tilts my hand so that the blood drips into a small crystal goblet. He hands it to an attendant and Alaric proffers his own wrist.

My stomach churns as the Magister repeats the process, slicing Alaric’s wrist and capturing the blood in an identical goblet, though Alaric shows no reaction whatsoever. I’d nearly forgotten this part of the ceremony. Admittedly, I hadn’t paid all that much attention to the particulars when I’d been forced to learn the etiquette and what was to be expected of me during the Choosing. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d actually be selected. There was no need to know what happened after the Consort was chosen—it would never be me.

But now, as the Magister hands me the goblet of Alaric’s blood, and him the goblet of mine, I remember: we are to exchange blood, this one time, to bind us together. The thought of drinking blood makes bile rise in my throat, but I force it away. It won’t do well to toss my breakfast all over the Magister’s fine robes—though it may be fairly comical, I have to admit.

“And now, with the exchanging of blood, the prince and his chosen Consort shall be bound, now until one shall perish.”

I hesitate. I stare at the glass, the liquid within so dark it’s nearly black. Just do it. Just get it over with. I inhale deeply and then bring the goblet to my lips. I toss the contents back, like I might a bit of whisky, and squeeze my eyes shut, expecting it to be horrid. It’s salty and metallic, but something else stirs beneath that, something that slams into me like a fist to the chest. Power. Strength. Endless knowledge and life eternal. I gasp quietly as it surges through my veins like fire, but it isn’t a fire that consumes and destroys. It’s a fire that tempers and forges something new, something better and stronger and dangerous. I feel almost drunk with the flare of power, nearly toppling. It ebbs finally, but I can feel the shadows of the fire still thrumming through my veins, like the smoldering coals left after the flames have died out.

When I pry my eyes open once more, Alaric is pulling his gaze away from me and handing his now-empty goblet back to the Magister. His body looks as if it’s been carved from stone, every muscle tight and rigid, his jaw clenched so hard I think it might shatter at any moment, but his eyes seem to be burning , the irises churning like liquid gold.

“Alaric Montclare, you have Chosen. Dahlia Clayburn, you have been Chosen. You are bound.”

With that, every vampire in the gallery above bows their heads, a sign of acceptance of me as one of their own, as a member of the Montclare Clan, as a Lady of the Coven of the Wolf.

As Alaric’s Consort.

Fuck .