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“Bastard is still ruining our lives all the way out here. Fine, then what about Levan? Or perhaps Serlaen? Either of those blathering idiots…”
The rest of the conversation faded as the two women walked away.
His court.
The Bloodlord Aurelion.
Yet still, you come for me.
It was only because he was her path to the master. That was all. All it ever had been.
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Elarian continued down the corridor—still mercifully empty—until it emptied into a large washing area. Beyond the numerous wash basins and mountains of towels, two more passages opened up. One looked to come from where Elarian had just been, but the other…
The unmistakable aroma of rosemary hung thick in the well-lit passage. She had first noticed the faint, flowery aroma on the maid she killed; clearly, her mistress fancied the herb. Clinging to some broken memory of her former life, no doubt.
Permitting herself a smile, Elarian crossed the washroom and entered the corridor that surely led to the countess’s private room. She balked at the bright lights, feeling naked under their relentless glow, but she had no other choice.
One step, then another.
She held her breath each time, waiting for the near imperceptible sound of a vampire ahead.
Pottery clattered behind her. Voices murmured. Footsteps rose and faded.
Elarian did not stop.
Her fingers gripped silver, hungry for blood.
After what felt like minutes of creeping low to the floor, Elarian came at last to a glass door at the end of the corridor. She cautiously peered into the room beyond; gold, deep crimson, and brilliant shades of emerald flashed in her vision. This had to be it.
Sliding her fingers around the golden doorknob, Elarian slowly opened the door. She prepared for a creak or a groaning hinge, ready to leap back into darkness at the faintest sound.
Silence.
I should have known she would suffer no less than perfection. If Melistra had truly guided her hand, then perhaps the goddess had not abandoned her after all.
Breathing in deeply to calm the faint uneasiness in her stomach, Elarian slipped into the countess’s private bedchamber.
Rosemary perfumed the air so thickly that Elarian wrinkled her nose the moment she stepped inside. Every curtain, every embroidered cushion, and every polished piece of mahogany furniture reeked of the herb. Draped in luxurious silks, walls gilded with ornate patterns of leaves and flowers, the room looked less like a residence and more like a shrine devoted to excess.
Beyond the receiving room, muted voices drifted through a half-open doorway.
“…the final fitting…”
“…Lucan must never suspect…”
“…before the masquerade…”
Elarian’s fingers settled around the hilt of her silver dagger. She melted into the shadows behind a towering wardrobe carved from black walnut and listened.
One voice belonged to an older woman, demure despite her age. The other…
Cool. Measured. Accustomed to being obeyed.
The countess.
At last.
“No, the rubies this time. Let Lucan enjoy his countess one last time.”
