Page 98

Julian St. George finally steps over the splintered remains of the front door, looking completely unbothered by the fact that half his forces are currently decorating the kitchen walls.

Kirk’s crumpled on the floor, the owl dragging his wing behind him as he gives me a mournful look.

Not a drop of sewer water appears to have touched Julian’s polished leather riding boots. In his right hand, he twirls a dagger between his fingers with the casual arrogance of a man who thinks he’s going to win. Behind him, four blood mages in red leather coats hover nervously, their hands alight with fire.

I bare my teeth.

"I must admit, Vivienne," Julian purrs, tilting his head as he surveys the carnage, his fangs glinting. "You've been far more troublesome than the previous sovereigns. Rowan died quietly in her bed like a lady. Alistair at least had the decency to bleed out in a duel." He sighs, stopping ten paces from me, shaking his head with mild aristocratic distaste. "You, on the other hand, fight like a gutter rat in an alleyway. Throwing encyclopedias? Really, darling. It’s undignified."

"Fuck you," I tell him. My voice doesn't tremble. "It’s twenty pounds of knowledge. Highly effective against pests."

Julian’s thin lips pull back into an amused sneer. "A witty, if not crude, final remark. Cherish it."

He gestures with the dagger toward Lachlan, whose body is sprawled on the marble, black steam gently rising from the wound on his chest as the poison cooks out.

I hope.

It better be cooking out. I clench my fists.

"Step aside, little queen. Let me finish off your bodyguard, and perhaps I’ll let you live long enough to sign over the estate trusts. I’m told your mortal accounts are quite... robust."

"You’ll need my attorney to do that," I tell him. "And you're tracking dirt on my rug."

Julian’s eyes flash dark crimson, losing their last vestiges of humanity. "Kill her," he snaps over his shoulder. "Skin her where she stands."

The three blood mages don't hesitate. They step forward in unison, thrusting their palms out.

Three whips of flame lash through the cold air.

There’s no hesitation left I me.

I won’t let them hurt Lachlan.

I won’t let them win.

I take one casual step forward and swipe my left hand through the air.

The moment my fingers touch the fire, there is no explosion. The spells simply cease to exist. The dark magic unravels like cheap thread batted aside by a cat, before dissolving into a puff of smoke.

A wicked smile curves my mouth up.

The mages freeze. Their hands stay outstretched, their mouths dropping open.

"My turn.” I wink at them.

I run straight at Julian St. George.

Julian’s reflexes might be centuries old, but arrogance or surprise makes him slow. His eyes widen as I close the distance in half a heartbeat, his dagger whipping up to slice at me.

I don't bother blocking it. I reach out and grab his forearm with my left hand.

I don’t need a weapon.

I am the weapon.

The impact sounds like dry wood snapping. The bones in his wrist splinter instantly, and his silver blade slips from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Before he can even open his mouth to shriek, my right hand slams directly around his throat.