Page 6 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“Ariya would be most honored,” Catarina says, putting a hand to her chest and sighing as though he is the sole answer to her prayers. “She has had many young men vying for her hand over the years, but something always told me to wait, urging patience to her parents. Now I understand why! Without a doubt, there couldn’t be a more perfect match.”

Even as she speaks, the lord doesn’t take his eyes away from mine, his little smirk making a reappearance. As much as I want to believe a vampire’s hunger lurks within that smile, he is just as likely an ordinary man undressing me with his eyes. Fear creeps over me—not only from his attention, but from the reality that I am one step closer to marrying a complete stranger.

Silence hangs awkwardly in the air, all attention fixed upon me. I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to beam and fan myself at what is very nearly a formal marriage proposal. Instead, I gape like a fish, and I don’t move until Catarina clears her throat. Her smile remains, but her eyes narrow sharply. My hesitation has been noted, and I spring into action.

“She’s right,” I blurt. “I can picture no greater honor for the de Torelli family. My hand and heart are yours.”

I lift my wine in a toast and try to muscle down my revulsion at the dry taste. I haven’t tasted alcohol since stealing a swig of cooking wine with Chiara in the kitchens when we were eighteen.

With Catarina still prattling on with her own toast, I reach for the fork and knife on either side of my plate with calculated eagerness—and slice the base of my thumb on the blade. It’s the ideal spot, creating a wound that oozes slowly and steadily, yet easily controlled unlike an arterial injury that spurts like an opened faucet.

Hissing, I draw my hand close while Catarina coos over my unfortunate clumsiness. I look up at D’Agonisto, anticipation thrumming in my chest.

He has gone stiff. I await the blanched white eyes of a vampire prepared to feed, a groan of resistance… But as he leans closer, blinking with concern, he makes no move to touch me.

“Please, allow me to call for a servant to treat the wound,” he says, standing.

“No!” Fuck, I’ve all but shouted at him. The lord sits back down, alarm plain on his face. Composing myself, I force an embarrassed smile and fumble for a handkerchief from the pocket of my gown. “Do not trouble yourself, signore. I’ll find a servant myself. Besides, I… I—”

“You could use some air after all of this excitement,” Catarina finishes. Although her voice is doting as ever in her role, her expression is clear: search for evidence and pull yourself together while you’re at it.

I don’t give D’Agonisto a chance to refute her. Without awaiting further permission, I hurry from the dining room, nearly tripping over the unfamiliar weight of my gown.

Get a fucking grip, I chastise myself as my shoes beat against the polished terrazzo floors. I ball the handkerchief against the base of my thumb, applying pressure to slow the bleed. There has to be proof somewhere on these sprawling grounds. I know what to look for, but I don’t have much time before I’ll be missed at the table. I trust Catarina to regale D’Agonisto with enthusiasm, but everyone has their limits—even him, I’m sure. I need to be strategic and fast.

I will not fail her. I will prove myself to Mother Superior that I am worthy.

Perhaps by divine blessing, we can end this mission in a single night and just behead him here. A single swing of my blade over years chained as someone’s wife… But unfortunately, being a staggeringly handsome recluse isn’t a sufficient reason to kill someone. And yet, the failed tests so far aren’t enough to rule out a more sinister hidden nature, either.

I hasten my stride through the high-ceilinged antechamber that connects from the hall. A prickle works its way down my spine at the stare of the paintings hung on every wall—their brushstroke eyes following me. Wealth drips from every wall, laden on every table—designed to impress all who enter. It’s pure, unearned vanity. What is this man trying to compete with, the Vatican?

But then again, wasn’t I just daydreaming about having a portrait of myself painted for the Corvus abbey legacy hall?

I snatch a gilded candlestick, holding it up to some of the tapestries and massive gold frames. My attention settles on a portrait of him. The vibrancy of the paint suggests it is recent. The wallpaper bears a faint outline of a larger piece which used to occupy the portrait’s spot. Odd, but it means little as hard evidence.

Frowning, I peel myself out of the room and venture onward. At best, I have maybe five minutes before I need to be back in my seat at D’Agonisto’s right hand.

Keeping hold of the candlestick, I come into the entryway—my one point of familiarity in this labyrinth of a home. To my left, twin stone stairs soar toward the upper floors. The bedrooms and more intimate quarters would be ripe for information, but I don’t have time. There’s no way I can search all those rooms in mere minutes. I consider myself fit, but sprinting up three flights of stairs is excessive even for me.

Ahead, the other arm of the hall branches off with several doors—this will have to be my path. I’m almost running now, and I’m halfway down the hall when I realize how candlelight has become sparse as I venture further from the inviting entryway, the meager sconces casting strange shadows that dance and warp along the walls.

But the low light is hardly an obstacle. I grew up loathing the twice-weekly blindfold drills with Sister Gemma—particularly how our hands would be beaten bloody with a rod if we could not manage our weapons without sight. But now, I’m reaping the fruit of such discipline. My senses are fine-tuned to spot dried blood and signs of a struggle.

A few of the doors are ajar, allowing me a passing glance inside. Servant hallways, another antechamber. One room is furnished entirely in a regal blue, housing a few musical instruments. The harpsichord is clearly the pride of the collection, but there’s also a lute, two violas, and a silvery flute. I wonder whether D’Agonisto plays any of them himself or if he invites musicians to perform here.

And drains them dry.

Or maybe he’s just another excessively wealthy man who enjoys shiny objects.

My time is up. I can feel it in my bones that I’m exactly one prattling story from my “aunt” before suspicion is aroused. I need to get back—now.

But even as sweat beads on the back of my neck, my legs disobey. The final door on the right-hand side catches my eye—wider and more imposing than the others. The family crest is set in an iron fixture at the center of the banded wood. I test the handle—it’s heavy, but unlocked. As I pull it open, the old hinges groaning faintly at my touch.

A cool draft hits my face at once, carrying the smell of stone and mildew. The meager candlelight doesn’t penetrate far, but it’s enough to make out a wooden staircase leading down into the darkness. I imagine a physical presence at the bottom, devouring the light.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and lower my candle to acclimate my eyes more quickly—a crucial trick when hunting down nocturnals. I’m probably staring down into a wine cellar, but my skin still prickles at the possibility of a dungeon. There’s truly no better den of operations for a vampire looking to sequester victims for feeding. I’ve seen it before—and the memories of shackles, blood, and viscera still ignite a cold fire in my chest.

Any ordinary person would be pissing themselves and putting as much distance between them and this probable nightmare. But I am Corvus’ hewn blade. I have been made for these very moments—to go where others can not.