Page 102

Rising Infernos

Melistra’s watchful gaze faded from her dreams.

She heard no trickling water from her silver altars, nor priestesses whispering ancient hymns beneath Estarin, their Mother. The night was an endless sea of shifting blacks and purples. Though no stars shimmered across her vast expanse, Elarian did not fear the sight.

Warmth surrounded her.

Endless as the first rays of dawn upon the deep blue waters of the Star-in-the-Lake, she wished to never leave this liminal place. No orders waited beyond the horizon. Blades did not need sharpening here, and blood did not stain her hands. Given freedom from her shackles, nothing more demanded another impossible sacrifice.

Breathing.

She was simply breathing.

Somewhere beyond the veil, a whispered word called to her—low, warm, and achingly familiar. It swam through her veins and wrapped around her heart, coaxing something long buried beneath centuries of discipline to unfurl.

Something tilted in her vision.

Elarian shifted against the mattress, cradling her fever-stricken body. Cool fingers brushed aside a strand of silver hair. Her mind flickered not toward her blade, but toward him.

But in this place beyond even the goddess’s watchful eyes, she let herself continue dreaming of that impossible desire burning ever brighter within her gods-blessed heart.

If this was damnation, then perhaps paradise had never truly existed at all. As those crimson eyes found hers through the darkness, Elarian smiled.

Only then did she remember she had come here to kill Lucan Valmere—not soften him into something more.

Silver chimes and temple bells did not awaken Elarian.

The stench of bloodwine, sex, and sweet roses greeted her instead. Morning light spilled through the tall windows in pale ribbons, colored deep red by the stained glass—bathed in crimson, just as she had become.

For one wretched heartbeat, she told herself that was all a dream.

But the stickiness between her thighs did not lie, nor did the words that scraped across her throat as she confessed to the most debased of sins: wanting to feel a vampire buried deep inside her, melting her from within until her thoughts blurred.

No.

Not any vampire.

Lucan Valmere.

Gods.

Heat rushed to her face faster than the fevers ever had. She rolled onto her back and stared at the carved canopy above, wishing the world beneath her would crack open and swallow her whole.

Yes.

The word screamed at her, mocking her, humiliating her like the pathetic creature she was. It was not commanded of her, not coaxed out by the promise of death; she had simply closed her eyes against the black silks and let the word slip from her blood-stained lips.

Yes.

It was the fever. The bloodwine. Lucan’s shadows winding through her thoughts, blurring reality until she no longer knew it from fantasy. She had only said what she needed to in order to survive.

Hadn’t she?

Elarian had never been able to stomach the taste of lies upon her lips. A curse escaped beneath her breath. Dragging an arm across her face, she buried the memory where it belonged.

Something soft tugged at her wrist. Frowning, she lowered her arm. Blinking to focus her eyes, a narrow strip of clean linen circling her left wrist came into view. A dull ache rose as she pressed against it. Elarian moved to strip it away, but Lucan’s cool fingers caught hers before she could even move.

“Do not concern yourself with that. I shall give you a golden cuff to wear.”