Page 154
If they survived.
The lock yielded beneath his shadows without protest. Vaelor was careful, but even after these long centuries of decay, Gairan’s ancient palace still obeyed its former prince. Amber light flooded the corridor; beyond, gold gleamed brightly. The older vampire had hidden himself among silk and marble, surrounded by the trappings of a man who believed he would always have another tomorrow.
Lucan stepped inside first.
The apartments were exactly what he expected: immaculate. The curtains all draped over the floor in the same manner, the witchlights never flickered, and every surface shone bright. One might have expected scattered documents or hurried attempts to destroy evidence, yet they found no indication Vaelor had anticipated their arrival. Their only greeting was the lingering scent of blood beneath expensive incense.
Elarian entered behind him, her gaze sweeping across the room.
“He knew,” she murmured.
She spoke steadily now, the tremor in her voice gone along with the gash at her side. Only pale pink flesh betrayed the wound that left her clinging to Lucan mere hours before.
“What?” Lucan turned toward her, an uneasiness churning his stomach.
“He knew you would come.” The words settled uneasily between them. “I would not doubt he is watching right now if he has not already left.”
Lucan shuddered as he stepped deeper into the apartments. Vaelor Thane was many things, but careless was not one of them.
Nothing had been disturbed.
The bed remained perfectly made, the coverlet pulled smooth enough to catch the amber glow of the witchlights without a single crease. Crystal decanters sat untouched upon a sideboard beside two polished goblets, one still stained with the faint crescent of blackened wine upon its rim. A volume of poetry rested open upon an armchair, its ribbon bookmark carefully folded between the pages as though its owner intended to return before supper.
His shadows answered the growing unease inside him. They seeped beneath wardrobes, slipped through the mortar between ancient stones, crawled beneath the floorboards in search of hidden compartments forgotten by everyone except the palace itself. Black tendrils returned again and again with empty hands. Lucan searched every surface, every place where an intelligent man might conceal something worth killing over.
Nothing.
Behind him, Elarian knelt beside an ebony writing desk. Her fingers traced the polished grain before pausing over a circle scarcely wider than a coin.
“The dust has been disturbed.”
Lucan was beside her in an instant, shadows tearing open the doors without command. The desk contained precisely what one expected of Lord Vaelor Thane: fresh parchment, immaculate quills, and sealing wax bearing Aurelion’s crest.
But no documents or scrawlings of evidence. Not even the ash one might find from burned correspondence.
A cold sensation crawled beneath Lucan’s skin.
“No,” he whispered.
Elarian watched him carefully through guarded eyes. “Lucan.”
“I saw the letter in his hand.” The words came sharper this time. Lucan’s vision tunneled until he only saw red. “It has…it has to be here.”
Vaelor would have only written to one vampire about the only thing worth reporting amid petty court politics, lover’s spats, and endless rebellions.
“It existed,” he breathed, unable to finish his thought.
Lucan ripped open another drawer, hard enough to splinter its sides. He could still picture the letter: folded once, Aurelion’s black seal glinting beneath candlelight as Vaelor slipped it inside his sleeve before their meeting. His shadows erupted outward without waiting for permission—smashing open cabinets, overturning shelves, splintering carved furniture that had survived centuries only to perish beneath their prince’s growing desperation.
Still…nothing.
Only the sickening certainty that somewhere far to the north, a messenger rode carrying every secret Lucan had spent five centuries burying beneath careful smiles and immaculate obedience.
“Elarian…” Her name scarcely escaped him, and he didn’t know whether he spoke it as a warning or a prayer.
Because he knew exactly what this meant: if Vaelor Thane had truly run, then the Bloodlord already knew of his son’s profound disappointment.
“Gairan preserve us,” he whispered.
