Page 27

She spun around the corner. Black smoke curled over her pale eyes.

The room was empty.

Silence laced with dread.

Elarian remained crouched at the threshold, listening until her ears ached from the oppressive lack of sound. Not a boot scraping over stone, nor the whisper of cloth against skin, or even the shift of a breath or the flutter of wings.

Nothing answered her.

Despite herself, she inhaled deeply, relishing the sweetened air and willing herself to forget its source. She had almost begun to think the stench of rot-filled flies and putrid water would imprint themselves in her mind. Head cleared, if only a little, she slowly rose.

Elarian counted to three, then stepped inside.

Her eyes adjusted to the bright light in fragments. First came stone counters running in long, unbroken lines from one wall to another. A thick film of dust covered the witchlight orbs overhead; the amber light bleeding through them felt ancient. She next spied clay pots strewn haphazardly, as if tossed aside without care. Against one wall sat several stone basins. Beside them rested glass decanters, a dark liquid housed inside. Elarian gagged; the thought of drinking blood made her stomach churn.

In the center of the room stood a long table, its surface stained with suspiciously dark splotches. Over it lay an assortment of clothes—some folded with care, most tossed in a pile—torn and dappled with dried blood. She drifted toward them, fingers gently lifting the clothes as if their owner might spring forth from the jumbled mess.

What was this place?

The skin prickled on the back of Elarian’s neck as she exhaled.

A faded blue dress, hemline stitched with a strange knotwork pattern. Several woolen coats, each faded and thread bare. Mismatched socks, torn skirts, and bloodied undergarments. Elarian sorted them unconsciously. Black clothes—of which there was very little—to one side, the rest shoved to the ground.

The vampires would never degrade themselves with such garments.

Thrall.

Elarian paused as the thought flickered across her mind.

So many thrall, led here for their final moments before slipping into the filth below and out the sewers into the marshy Evermist. Those poor, magicless humans…Once, they had been thought of as the enemy. What godsdamned fools the elves had been.

Elarian sniffled and blinked furiously.

Godsdamn shivaem.

By the time Elarian had sorted through the discarded clothes, she had a small pile of pants, tunics, and—much to her delight—a bodice nearly perfect for her tall frame. Relief slowly threaded through her weary limbs. Heartened by her serendipitous find, a burst of energy sent her exploring the shadowed depths of the processing room.

At the far end, nestled in a small closet, she found the crude makings of a shower. In a tiny alcove sat a bar of soap and a scalpel with a long, thin blade. She shuddered at its purpose; perhaps more than simply blood was stolen from the thrall before they slipped into eternal darkness. Brushing aside the thought, she stripped herself bare and stepped onto the cool tile.

Air hissed above her as she turned the shower handle with care.

Something in the wall screeched; Elarian’s heart leapt into her throat. She waited for the thundering of steps from the corridor leading to the rest of the castle.

When she was certain nothing would come, Elarian relaxed her shoulders and quickly ran a makeshift washcloth—a torn remnant of a man’s vest—over her arms and legs. The cloth tore at skin and sewer filth alike. Still, she scrubbed with desperate need. There was a reason she had carved her silver into more vampires than any other Blade.

I have to get this fucking stench off!

She scrubbed harder, nails scraping along her legs until tracks of red ran their length.

Elarian moved without a sound or scent, shadows bending around her as if the night followed her every step. Blessed by Melistra, some said. Few whispered of her pale crimson eyes.

Strange, is it not, that she is so alike the very thing she kills with ease?

Elarian’s skin reddened with anger as her thoughts strayed to the one possibility she never wished to face. Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes to focus on the newest scar from Lucan down her forearm.

At last, she cleansed the stubborn remnants of her unglamorous entrance from her body, all evidence snaking through long grooves in the tiles leading back to the way she came. Shaking the water from her short, silver hair, she stepped back to her clothes and began to dress.

Overhead, the soft hum of strings and the trilling laughter of Lucan’s court continued with reckless abandon.