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Only the last paper gave Elarian pause—a short letter, seemingly written in code but signed with a most interesting moniker.
The Singer in the Nest.
She could only understand one other word.
Lucan.
Fingers twitching, Elarian folded the note and shoved it into her dagger sheath. Her nails bit into her thigh. This can wait, she told herself. She did not need to unravel his world in one night.
Even if it was all she had thought of for the last month.
Turning her attention away from the useless papers, her gaze caught on a long, tapered candle in an ornate, golden sconce to the right of the desk. Though it appeared to have never been lit, scuff marks littered the wall around it. The wax was impossibly smooth, the wick long and white, untouched by fire. Quirking her head, Elarian studied the metal craftsmanship.
It was nothing like sun elf or moon elf handiwork. The metal was thickly formed, lined with geometric shapes reminiscent of teeth and the tall, rigidly straight towers the humans had once adored. Next to the lush, curving legs of the deep heartwood desk and the arched ceiling, it seemed alien.
Deliberate.
Elarian tentatively reached for the candle. As if expecting a shock, she gingerly touched the metal with one fingertip. It was strangely warm. Peering closer at the markings on the wall, she noted how they perfectly aligned with the silver ring on her forefinger. Curious. Wrapping her hand around the sconce, she twisted it on instinct. It slid with ease, then locked into place.
A moment later, the wall behind her began to shudder. It creaked, then the stones swung backward to reveal a long, sloping corridor leading to the rest of the castle. Somewhere from above, music drifted lazily through the stones—slow and mournful, as if the castle had already welcomed Elarian’s blade.
Pulling the candle from its home, Elarian flicked her fingers and summoned a small blue flame to the virgin wick. It wavered in protest, struggling to rise before finally bursting to life. Soft moonlight filled the corridor. Elarian lifted her gaze to the ceiling; somewhere above this endless mass of stone and rot, the waxing moon approached its zenith. She had no intention of failing her promise now.
Lucan Valmere had no idea she was here.
Would she hunt him quickly, burying her silver in his blackened heart before he even processed her face?
Or should she take her time?
Stalk him through the empty halls, cull his accursed court, and make him peer around every corner until he begged for it to end…Her skin tingled at the thought of Lucan on his knees. Each time she had stayed her hand before it would soon become a new cut over his frozen form. First, his eyes—those malevolent orbs that burned like a dying star and set her skin ablaze. Then, his throat—wet gurgles in her ears instead of that silken voice that dared speak her name.
Blood hot at the images of Lucan’s desecrated corpse at her feet, Elarian walked into the dim corridor, every step taking her further into the vampire prince’s lair.
Eight days. Enjoy them well, Lucan.
nine
Intrusions
The court had adjusted to Lucan’s return well enough. He had to dispose of a few petty lords who seemingly forgot—or did not care—that Anileta was Lucan’s bedmate again in the first week. One even dared to kiss the countess’s hand in front of Lucan. Not that he actually cared; that black heart of his held no affection for the woman. But he had his rules.
He did not share.
He did not forgive.
And he would never let another person love him again.
The last one was the easiest. Even Anileta, whom he had turned all those centuries ago, would rather see him entombed in silver these days. The thought exhilarated Lucan. What if she killed him while his cock was buried inside her ass? Or perhaps she would rip his heart out even as his mind swam with utter bliss and deep shame. Would she freeze his cursed soul in that moment, forever trapped in the agony of his undeath?
More and more, Lucan found his thoughts wandering to his death. Whether fear or yearning drove him, he was not sure; but each time they rose, the moon-pale elf with pale crimson eyes flickered before his eyes like a mirage.
Elarian.
Her name scraped over him like a freshly smithed sword, prickling every inch of his skin until gooseflesh rose. Deep, guttural screams in a language he did not understand burned his ears. Those full lips curved into a wicked smile.
Die, shivaem.
His breath stuttered.
