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Then he smiled almost wistfully—or as wistfully as a vampire who’d lived longer than any highblood had any right to could. “All good things must come to an end,” he said, his voice like graveyard dust. “Even my time with you, my precious gem.” He turned to the door. “It’s time to give my dear nephew a delightful surprise.”

Then he was gone, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Another guard had taken up position outside. The man peeked in for a moment before my glare warned him away.

I stalked over and slammed the door, then smoothed down the front of my dress. My hands were trembling. I forced them to stillness. I’d bathe and wash the scent of my new husband away down the drain, along with every memory of his touch.

Then I’d do it again and again.

I could do this. I could play their tyrant queen. Let them all watch and see.

Book 1

Wintermark

CHAPTER 1

MEDRA

I was flying.

Well, not quite. I was bouncing. Held in some sort of a sling contraption, I swayed with every heavy step my caregiver took. I flailed my arms—pudgy, uncoordinated, utterly enthusiastic, while my legs kicked just as eagerly at the open air. I heard squealing. Loud. Joyful.

It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from me.

“Easy now, little cub.” The voice was a warm rumble, familiar and comforting. “You don’t have to get quite so excited each time you see me.”

“I don’t think she’s gotten quite as used to talking bears as Morgan and I have.” The voice was rich and deep and came from somewhere behind me. A man’s voice. The man holding me. A strong hand came up, checking the straps of the contraption. Some sort of a baby carrier. I grasped for the hand, squeaking and squirming. Everything shook as the man holding me laughed. He let me raise his fingers to my face. They smelled warm and earthy. Like pine and sandalwood. Safe.

I couldn’t turn to see him. But warmth radiated from him like sunlight. I knew who held me. I could feel him, sense him. He was love. My uncle. My protector. Draven.

“Wrigglier than a fox in a henhouse,” the great booming voice intoned again.

I looked up in delight as a huge brown bear peered down at me, then leaned in to nuzzle their cool, wet nose against mine as I gurgled and gasped in delight. A warm summer wind crossed the glade, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, something silver caught my eye. Hair like shimmering moonlight flowed down her back. My aunt, Morgan.

She was dressed like royalty, in a rich scarlet gown trimmed with gold. She stood tall, head bent in conversation with a young knight. The halffae woman could have been no more than twenty-five, and yet her expression was thoughtful, her smile warm and wise.

There was something sharp about the young knight, something edged like a blade. Unlike my aunt, she was mortal. She wore her steel armor as if it were a second skin. Her blond hair was cropped short, with just a slight curl over her ears. She was intimidating. Fierce. Violence obviously became her. But when she looked across the glade at me, there was nothing hard in her expression. I saw only warmth and fondness.

The two women slowly approached me, their faces soft in different ways—both ways I loved. Then Morgan bent forward. I closed my eyes as she kissed my forehead with lips so soft.

“Our little Medra,” she murmured. “Oh, how precious …”

And then it was all gone.

My heart lurched. I woke up, coated in sweat, my heart hammering. The dream was scattered like ash in the wind. My sheets were damp. My breath fogged the air. I sat up, the ache in my heart still sharp and all too real. The room was quiet. I turned towards the other bed, Florence’s name on the tip of my tongue, everything in me calling for comfort and consolation.

The bed was empty. Another pain stabbed through my chest. I’d forgotten.

Florence was gone, too.

The morning dawned cold and gray. It was still snowing. I hadn’t slept well, not after that dream. I was used to intrusive thoughts—hell, Orcades had been nothing but. Still, the dream had been something different entirely. A reminder of my past life. Of who I really was. Of the family I’d lost. The last time they’d seen me, I’d been that baby. Giggling and gurgly. Would they even recognize me now? And what would they think of me if they did? What would they think of who I’d become, of what I’d done?

My aunt, Morgan le Fay. My uncle, Draven Venator. Hawl, the Bearkin warrior with a heart of gold. And Lancelet, my aunt’s dearest friend and faithful knight of Camelot.

They were legends in my mind, not real people. A world where fae and mortals and other fantastical creatures coexisted? From where I stood, with both feet fixed solidly on Sangratha’s blood-soaked soil, it all sounded like nothing more than fiction. I’d idealized them since I’d arrived in this place. It had been easy to do, considering how long it had been since I’d seen any of them in the flesh. What would they think of me? Maybe that was the wrong question. What would they think of the people I was surrounded by?

The highbloods. The vampires. Blake.

I tried to ignore the throb of questions in my head as I quickly got dressed.