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Counting on the vampires not thinking to check the massive bins of bloodied sheets and tablecloths for a body until weeks after she had slipped away, Elarian buried the corpse in the bin furthest in the shadows. The vampire was lighter than she anticipated, as if most of her mass had been made of air. After weeks of beleaguering travel through the Evermist and sewers, she was grateful for an easy kill.
Easy, but stupid.
Utterly fucking disastrous.
Pressing her fingers against her temples, Elarian turned to grab a gown from the maid’s basket and clean up some of her foul black blood. As she lifted the fine crimson silks, a folded letter slipped to the floor. Fine golden filigree flashed in the amber witchlights.
Elarian caught it between two fingers before it touched the blood pooled below. She quickly unfolded it, smoothing the velvety-soft paper with her thumb.
Countess.
Her heart leapt at the first word.
Could she be so lucky?
Elarian scanned the hallway for movement, then quickly read more.
The Bloodlord always watches from afar, Countess of Ravenholm. He is most pleased with your work; the hunter you recently provided makes these elves sing so sweetly.
Shivers ran down Elarian’s spine. She forced herself to continue.
He requires you to attend court this Snow Moon. Enjoy this last masquerade, countess, for another bride will be wed soon if you move with care.
Faint rustles at the far end of the hall stirred Elarian from her crouched position. She quickly folded the letter and tucked it in her boot. Using the silk gown still clutched in one hand, she wiped the vampire’s cool blood from her face, then darted into a shadowed corridor to her right.
As Elarian disappeared into the dark, she heard a vampire’s shrill laughter behind her.
“Prince killed another one, did he? Let’s hope it was Misa this time!”
So, your very nature helps aid in your death. Well, Elarian thought to herself ruefully, at least I’m not the only monster lurking in these corridors.
thirteen
Startled Mice
Sleep never came to Lucan.
It was one of the stranger things he missed about his humanity: the relief it brought each night, a promise that no matter how the day had gone, for at least a few hours he would be sheltered from the world.
Still, he kept a massive bed in his chambers.
A ridiculous thing, really.
It dominated the center of his chambers like an altar no one prayed at. He furnished it with a soft, feather mattress and silken sheets to caress his eternally cold flesh. Routine comforted him. When the sun reached its zenith, he would curl up under the oily-black silks, close his eyes, and drift listlessly through his memories.
Usually, his thoughts strayed to the look in his father’s eyes before his fangs pierced his neck.
This time, he could not stop imagining Elarian in the Evermist, damp strands of her short, silvery hair clinging to her bloody cheeks.
At last, he heard the stirrings of servants on the floor below. They had become his clock in this oppressive palace of stone and blood. Obeying their command, Lucan begrudgingly left the comfort of his bed. Reaching for a long, velvet-wrapped cord, he rang for Senna. The chamberlain appeared a moment later.
“He has returned safely.”
Senna’s first words were not what Lucan expected to hear. Nonetheless, the tightness in his chest eased slightly. Though he had spent decades in that festering dungeon dreaming of every way he would kill Aurelion, some sick part of Lucan still harbored affection for the ancient vampire. He broke him, yes, but he let him live even as his family perished.
He told himself that meant something.
It fucking had to mean something.
