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‘Because that is the difference between dying quickly,’ I say, ‘and my Twelve slicing a piece from you once a day for the next century.’

His thin black mouth works. Then he spits out, ‘Lord Vale. He sends his regards.’

Dorian. Of course.

My blood runs hot and incandescent.

Power surges, and for one dangerous second the room sharpens too much again. I hear Eira’s blood beneath her healing skin. The demon’s pulse struggling in my grip.

Then, beneath it, the dullness stirs. A shadow under the flame. Not now.

‘Wait,’ the demon rasps. ‘Don Moretti, I can serve you. If you let me live, I can⁠—’

I separate head from neck before the plea finishes.

Behind me, Eira says nothing.

The estate music drifts through the night as if nothing has changed. But something has.

Kessler is in my custody. Dorian’s name has entered the blood trail.

I have plumbed new depths of whatever this thing is with my hunter.

And my miraculous recovery has just shown its first crack.

7

VALENTIN

We return to the Tower with blood on our clothes and Dorian Vale’s name lodged beneath my skin like a blade.

One of my Five Blood Brothers’ mercenaries. In my city. A mortal politician baited with immortality, sent to deliver Eira dead or alive.

And a fucking Myrkshade.

I walk with Eira at my side, one hand fixed at her waist, my grip too tight to be polite. I should loosen my hold, will some distance and clarity between her questionable blood – which I still crave more than I want immortality – and my murky senses but my fingers refuse to even contemplate that command.

She says nothing about it. Perhaps because she can still smell the demon ichor on my jacket. Or she can still feel the place where my blood healed her arm. She knows, even if she does not yet understand, that I am one wrong breath from tearing something apart.

The restored strength in me has not settled. It scrapes.

Every sound in the Tower comes too sharply, especially Eira’s pulse, steady but too close to the memory of venom.

Concern and terror have a scent tonight. And I dislike it.

As Kessler is transferred to the lower levels, Iskander glances at Eira’s healed arm, then at me. ‘You healed the hunter.’

‘Uh, that hunter has a name,’ Eira says.

I eye my war hound. ‘Did you expect me to watch her die?’ The very thought drives a stake close to dangerous places.

Silence.

Then Luca, ever reckless, says, ‘With respect, sire… you have watched worse.’

My vision tunnels.

One moment he is behind me. The next he is pinned to the wall with my hand around his throat and stone cracking beneath his spine. The impact shudders through the floor. His eyes flare, startled rather than afraid, until my fingers tighten.