Page 4

DAHLIA

“ I can’t believe it,” Enid says for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“I know,” I sigh, putting my sketchpads into the large trunk on top of my books and clothes. Apparently new ones will be made and sent to the camp for me, ones befitting a prince’s Consort, I imagine, but I still don’t like the idea of leaving home without anything of my own. I look around my room, the one that, despite having plenty of space in our new home, I still share with my sister as we always have. I’m leaving it forever today. I’ll never lie in the bed across from Enid and talk in whispers well into the night again. I won’t be there when she wakes from nightmares or when she can’t sleep because of storms rolling through. I won’t be here for her. Tears prick my eyes, but they aren’t tears of sorrow. They’re tears of absolute rage, surging hot and bitter in my chest. How had this happened? Why had this happened? It doesn’t make sense! And it isn’t fucking fair !

“I don’t know what he was thinking!” I snap, slamming the lid of the trunk down. “Why would he…He’s so…How could he…UGH!” I kick the trunk several times while I scream in frustration, and then finally sit heavily on top of it with a long exhale as the anger drains out of me as quickly as it had come. Enid is there then, wrapping her arms tightly around me, rocking us slowly back and forth.

“It will be ok, Lia,” Enid says quietly. “You’ll be treated like a queen, even within a war camp.” I pull away, scrubbing at my eyes before the tears can fall.

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Enid.” I search my sister’s eyes. They’re warm brown, like melted chocolate, just like our mother’s had been. I’d gotten our father’s coloring with my green eyes and red hair. My little firebrand , he’d always said with a doting smile. I’d driven our mother crazy with my antics—gods rest her soul—with my lack of “feminine sensibilities,” whatever the hells that means, but da and I have always been thick as thieves.

He hadn’t been surprised that I’d wanted to spend my days beside him at the forge, had never thought me strange or decided it was not something for girls. He taught me everything I wanted to know, let me try and fail and try again. He’d made me strong and fearless and headstrong, just like him, but I am who I am because of my father. I can’t imagine not seeing him every day, not working beside him in the shop, not seeing his eyes shine with pride when I show him some new design or when I best the boys at the tavern in dice.

My chest feels like it’s going to split open, my heart bleeding and broken.

“I know,” Enid says with a smile. “But we’ll be ok, too, you know.” She takes a deep breath. “I know you’ve always felt like you had to take care of me, Lia, and for a long time, you did, but you don’t have to anymore. Let me be the older sister and worry about you for a change. Da and I will both be alright, I promise.”

I let out a long, shaking breath and try to smile. “I know you will. At least we have a cook now and you don’t have to rely on da’s…concoctions.” I wrinkle my nose and Enid pretends to vomit, both of us laughing at the memories of our father’s awful attempts at cooking. Gods bless him, he loves it, but the results are often less than appetizing. In fact, they usually aren’t actually edible at all and Enid and I made games out of finding creative ways to hide the evidence so as not to hurt his feelings. One of the best things about becoming noble was that we inherited Lord Burren’s staff, including Mrs. Drury, the phenomenal cook. She politely, but firmly, told da that she would be taking over the cooking duties from now on when we first arrived and he’d attempted to make something with a chicken that turned out somehow burnt and raw at the same time.

Our laughter slowly fades and Enid sighs.

“It should be me,” she says softly.

“Hey, none of that.”

“It’s true. If I had pure blood, I would have been the one at the Choosing today, not you.” Enid is the oldest by barely a year, so technically she’s right: she should have been the first child put to the Choosing, but when she was young, she fell very, very ill. She was diagnosed with a disease of the blood that, thankfully, was able to be treated, but she would never be eligible to be a Consort because of it. Which is just fine with me. She may be older, but I have always been the one to take care of her. She was so frail for so many years, I always felt so protective, like it was my job to watch over her and make her stronger somehow, pushing my own strength into her by sheer force of will.

So, I’m happy she’ll never have to go through this, that I will be the first and only Clayburn to ever be a Consort, but gods will I miss her. I pull on the end of Enid’s braid until she meets my gaze and, after a few moments of silent communication between us, she gives me a small smile, accepting that there isn’t anything either of us can do. Da always says that the only way forward is forward. So, we’ll move forward and make the best of whatever is to come.

“I’m going to go find da,” I say, standing and brushing the tears from my eyes.

The goodbye with my father is quiet and reserved, and quite possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He’s a big man, his arms and chest bulky and muscled from years at the forge, with a thick beard and braids in his long, red hair, the way of the old Rykhurst warriors. You wouldn’t know by the look of him that he’s as sweet as a kitten, and as gentle as one with everything but the metal in his shop.

I can barely speak, but da seems to know the words I’m trying to say without having to hear them.

“I’ll miss ye too, little firebrand,” he says, voice thick and rough with emotion, his rumbling brogue making me feel safe and warm. “But ye’ll be taken care of, I’m sure of it.” He shucks me under the chin, forcing my eyes upward. “We knew this was a possibility. When I took the title, we knew…”

I let out a rough exhale. “I know. I just…well, I didn’t expect it to ever actually happen is all.”

“Aye,” he says, nodding, “I know it’s a shock, and I’ll miss ye with every fiber of my being, but all will be well. I have faith.” He eyes me until I relax slightly, nodding. If he’s sure of this, if he’s able to be strong and accept this, then I can too. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got something for ye.” He grins as my eyes light up with excitement and suspicion. I adore surprises, but Arwan Clayburn is known as a lover of jokes and tricks. He could come back with a heartfelt gift that will make me cry…or something ridiculous to make me laugh. The odds are evenly matched on the outcome.

While I wait, I stand before one of the high work tables lining the walls of the large room. My work table. When we’d inherited Lord Burren’s wealth and title, da had been able to build a much bigger and better shop, hiring one of his apprentices on as another smith, and taking on several new apprentices as well. It had always been his dream and the fact that it had become a reality was all I could ever want. He’d made a special work area within it, just for me and my projects.

I run my fingers over the polished table top, thinking on the hours upon hours I’ve spent here, the heat and the sounds of clanging and the smells so much a part of me that I don’t know how I’ll survive without them. I pick up a gauntlet I’ve been working on, turning it over in my hands as I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.

“He made my sword, you know.” I gasp and whirl, dropping the gauntlet. “Your father, I mean,” Alaric Montclare clarifies from the doorway. He’s changed from his formal dress, now clad in what looks like military gear: black leather pants and vest over a black tunic, a weapons belt slung around his hips and the hilt of a giant sword peeking out from behind his back. I grip the top of the work table behind me, my pulse thundering as he slowly makes his way into the large space. The blood we shared during the Choosing has connected us in some way, I think. His mere presence here has my heart racing and the blood in my veins singing, a longing to be near him rearing inside my chest… like a hound longs to be near its master , I think coldly. That’s what I am now. His pet. His property. The thought cools some of that longing, but there are still embers burning beneath the smothered flames.

He eyes me curiously as I try to regain my composure and bend to quickly scoop up the gauntlet.

“You need not fear me,” he says smoothly.

“I’m not afraid,” I say a little too quickly, my words belied by my thundering heart that I know he can hear. He arches one dark brow, but otherwise doesn’t comment. I lick my dry lips and swallow hard. “What are you—” I stop, remembering myself at the last moment, and instead bow my head. “Your highness,” I amend, “I was told I’d be brought to you after I collected my things. I…I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I am not like the other princes,” he says, ignoring the rest. “I care for no titles other than High General, and that is only for my men. You…” He takes a moment, almost as if he’s steadying himself, before he speaks again. “You may just call me Alaric.”

I have no idea what to do with that. I never imagined even being in the presence of one of the princes, let alone calling him by his given name. I wonder yet again if maybe I’m dreaming, that this is all in my head and I’ll wake up any minute.

He begins to stroll around the space, inspecting tools and running his long fingers along weapons and scrap pieces of metal. I watch him in silence, my pulse racing as I take the opportunity to openly study him. He’s utterly terrifying and incomprehensibly handsome at the same time. Tall, with a broad chest and shoulders, thick, black hair in a devil-may-care disarray that makes him even more attractive. It’s the kind of hair that you long to run your fingers through while you do all manner of sinful things—and looks like perhaps someone already has. It’s unsettlingly how gorgeous this man is.

His features are hard and sharp, as if he’s a sculpture brought to life. He looks to have stopped aging around thirty-five or so, but I know he’s much older than that, three hundred at least, maybe more. Despite him looking regal and breathtaking in his finery at the Choosing, I have to admit that the dark fighting leathers suit him much better. There’s a rugged wildness about him that makes my breath shallow and my blood heat. Something about him calls to me in a way I can’t describe. It has to be the blood we shared, doesn’t it? Or is it just his preternatural allure, the vampire prince in him working its wiles on my mind and body?

“Alaric,” I say, testing out the name. His eyes seem to darken slightly at that, the gold flashing a deep amber for a moment. “I thought I was to be delivered back to the palace. Why…” I trail off as he runs his fingers gently, almost reverently, along the blade of a sword hanging from a hook on the wall, and realization dawns. “Oh. Of course, you want to meet my father. He’s just inside, I can go fetch him for you.”

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Alaric asks, gesturing to my hands.

“It’s nothing,” I say hastily, moving to put the gauntlet down, but suddenly he’s here, right in front of me, only a few inches separating us. I gasp in surprise, eyes flying wide. Dear gods he’s fast . Vampires are all fast, of course, faster and stronger than humans, but Alaric is like lightning. He hadn’t made a single sound, just seeming to materialize before me in an instant. I have a feeling seeing a prince using his full abilities would be something to behold—and to fear. No wonder he managed to drive the Revenant army almost totally out of Braxhelm. No wonder his very name strikes fear in the hearts of any who hear it. No wonder I’m trembling ever so slightly at his nearness.

He plucks the gauntlet from my fingers, turning it over in his hands. As if to himself he murmurs, “beautiful workmanship. It’s light as a feather, and yet—” He flicks his hand, his nail suddenly claw-like and sharp as a razor, and rakes it down the side of the gauntlet. “—nearly impenetrable. Remarkable.” His brow furrows. “What’s that there?”

It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to find my voice, unnerved as I am with him being so close and with his blood singing in my veins, but I somehow manage to say, “it’s a mechanism to release a set of hidden blades. If you press just there,” I point to the small release, nearly unnoticeable “you can see.”

He does, his eyes alighting and his lips almost quirking into a smile, I think.

“Clever.” He studies the gauntlet closer. “The blades are completely undetectable. And I assume when worn, the mechanism could be released with a certain movement of the wrist.” I blink, pleasantly surprised by his deduction.

“Yes, exactly.” He nods and hands it back. I take it, careful not to touch his fingers as I do, very aware of his body and how close he is to me. I inch backwards as I put the gauntlet back on the table.

“I don’t suppose your father would be willing to part with them? And perhaps build several more sets?”

I should say of course, anything for the High General and a Prince . But instead, when I open my fool mouth, what comes out is, “It’s mine, actually.”

Alaric’s brows rise in surprise and he tilts his head slightly, in question. I inwardly kick myself, cursing so colorfully my mum is definitely aghast in her grave. Being so close to him, alone with him, is…unnerving. I’m not thinking clearly. But he stares at me, waiting for an answer, so I sigh and go on.

“My design. My work. I’ve been learning from my father since I was old enough to know not to jump headlong into the forge,” I say with a small shrug. Why am I telling him all this? I blame being so close to him, the strange connection between us, my blood practically screaming at me to move closer to him, to do…other things I dare not give thought to. What is wrong with me? Before I can stop myself, I add, “Discrete weaponry is a bit of a hobby, you could say.”

I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of unassuming weapons, things that may not appear to be a threat but suddenly are. Perhaps it goes back to Enid and her illness. She was often teased and taunted by the other children when we were young and I always wished that she could feel as strong as I knew in my heart she could be, to have those boys who pulled her hair or pushed her in the mud believe her to be as weak and delicate as they imagined—and then have them regret it.

I’ve designed corsets and vests outfitted with hidden sheaths for daggers, hair pins that doubled as throwing stars, walking canes with spring-loaded swords hidden within them, parasols with razor sharp edges hidden beneath lace and silk. Of course, I have no idea how to actually use any of those weapons, so they aren’t exactly helpful for me, personally, but still, I love the art of them, the way my mind seems to relax as I sketch my designs. And da has even sold a few things to some of his patrons, so it’s not as if all my tinkering is for nothing.

Alaric studies me for a long moment, as one might study a particularly interesting looking insect. His face remains as unreadable as the surface of a lake, no clues at all as to what may be churning beneath. He opens his mouth to speak, but da walks in. Before I can even let out my breath, Alaric is suddenly a few feet farther away, moving again like lightning.

Da’s face is stoic, the set of his shoulders tense. He has a small box in his hands and he sits it gently on the table behind him. He bows to Alaric, eyeing him sternly when he rises. What does a man say to a vampire prince who was taking his daughter off to a war camp to drink her blood? Thank you? Best of luck? Fuck you? Alaric surprises me by speaking first.

“Duke Clayburn. I wish we had met under…different circumstances, but I wish to extend my thanks.” Da’s thick brows arch upward in clear surprise.

“Thanks?” he repeats, confused.

“I’m not sure if you remember, but you forged my blade?—”

“Night’s Fury,” he finishes, eying the hilt over Alaric’s right shoulder. “Aye, I remember every sword I’ve ever forged, your highness.” He extends his hand and Alaric unsheathes the blade from his back in a quick, practiced motion that’s smooth and graceful…and oddly attractive. I realize I’m biting my lip before quickly shaking myself. What in the seven hells is wrong with me? I rub the back of my neck and am entirely grateful that no one is paying me much attention at the moment. I know it must be because of the blood we shared, but it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing.

Alaric inclines his head as he presents the sword to da, hilt first.

My eyes widen as I take in the sword. I’ve heard stories of the blade, of course, everyone has, but I’ve never actually laid eyes on it. Da had forged it years before I was born. It’s gorgeous, with the grip and cross-guard black as pitch, the wolf sigil of Alaric’s Coven on the pommel, eyes set with gleaming rubies and teeth bared in a fearsome snarl. The blade itself is such a dark gray that it’s nearly black as midnight, with silver stars inlaid along the blade. Real silver.

Silver is poisonous to vampires and Revenants alike, could even be deadly, but most of it had been used during the bloodiest parts of the war. The remaining stores, small as they are, are closely guarded. The fact that Alaric commissioned a sword with actual silver in the blade is…well, the barkeep at the tavern would have said that Alaric’s bollocks were as big as boulders for it. I have to agree. It could harm his enemies, of course, but it could just as easily harm him, kill him even, if someone managed to turn his own blade against him.

I watch, fascinated, as da takes the sword and looks down the long blade. The lights spark off of the dark and light metals, the wolf’s eyes glinting brightly. I idly wonder how the two men can possibly even hold the massive thing, let alone how someone might actually wield it in battle. It’s nearly as tall as I am and I can only imagine how much it must weigh.

Da twists it this way and that before running his hand along the metal, fingers gently skating over the stars.

“This may well be the most perfectly balanced blade I’ve ever made, and I daresay the most beautiful.” He hands the sword back to Alaric, and he quickly slides it home with a quiet schnik sound. “I hope it has served ye well.”

“It has. Its name is enough to strike fear into the heart of our enemies.” Da’s lips curls at that. He’s always been proud of his work, and having it complimented by the High General, the famed Alaric Montclare, is something indeed, regardless of the strange situation we’ve found ourselves in.

“And the bearer of the blade would have little tae do with that, I’m sure,” da muses, seemingly untroubled by speaking with a prince, by having him so near. Alaric doesn’t smile, but his features soften slightly, perhaps the ghost of a smile curling his lips ever so slightly. I wonder if he ever smiles. Perhaps when he’s cutting down Revenants on the battlefield.

“Only a little, I assure you.” Da grins at that, chuckling lightly, but Alaric’s features harden once again and he seems to steel himself. “I…Your daughter will be safe with me. I vow it.” My mouth drops open and I realize that I’m openly gawking, but I can’t stop myself. A prince is not only conversing with my father as if they were equals, but is assuring him of my safety ? Alaric doesn’t owe us such a thing. He doesn’t owe us anything . Why is he doing it?

I huff out a tiny laugh, one so soft that my father doesn’t notice, but Alaric cuts his eyes to me for a moment and I’m sure he does. I realize that he truly doesn’t know how to act like a prince. He might be one in title and blood, but he isn’t one in his heart, doesn’t hold with the notion that he’s above anyone and everyone because of the family he’d been born into. I can’t deny that I like that about him, that it makes this whole ordeal slightly easier to bear for some reason. We’re strangely alike in that respect and I feel that connection between us seem to tighten, almost as if someone’s tugged the cord, trying to pull me closer to him.

Da takes a deep, shuddering breath. He looks to me, a sad smile on his lips and so much love and tenderness in his green eyes, so like my own, that my heart splinters. He turns back to Alaric, studying the vampire for what feels like an eternity, and Alaric lets him, though of course he doesn’t have to.

“If she has tae go, I’m glad it is with you and no’ one of the others,” da finally says quietly. Alaric’s brow raises ever so slightly in surprise, but he otherwise shows nothing. He inclines his head and the two of them begin to talk battles and weapons, da pulling out parchment and pen to write down some requisition requests for Alaric and his men. There are other smiths that supply the bulk of the weapons to the army, of course, at least one at every camp, but the High General and his lieutenants get special items. I slip out of the shop without another word, deciding to come back after they’re done to say my final goodbyes, but I swear I can feel Alaric’s eyes on me as I go.

And damn it all, my heart races because of it.