Page 7

Arrayed in their fine silks and stolen furs, the Blooded Court sickened Lucan.

Still, he smiled and turned his attention to the woman seated in his lap.

“My prince,” the vampire purred against his wrist. “Your return to the south is a delightful surprise. We thought you were gone until the Darkening Months.”

Lucan barely glanced at the woman in his arms. She leaned into his chest, but he only felt cold stone. Delicate with her movements and soft in voice, one might have mistaken her for a tender lover.

“Duty recalls me early this year,” he huffed, unwilling to speak more about what happened in the Evermist. He quickly wrapped his long fingers around her neck, tilting her gaze up to his. “You did well keeping the peace. It pleases me that there will not be a repeat of last time. I prefer your screams from my bed, Anileta.”

Eyes widening, Anileta meekly nodded. Trust no one, but especially the one you bed, Lucan. We have enemies in every corner. Aurelion’s words echoed through Lucan’s skull as he looked hard at the woman trembling against his hand. He tightened his grip on her throat until she gasped for air. Smiling, he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek.

“But do not mistake my bed for your sanctuary.”

Lucan released Anileta with such force that she scrambled to retain her balance perched atop his lap. Her smile wavered, a hint of fear flashing in those glowing, wine-dark eyes before calming again. Next to them, her thrall whimpered as he extended a pale, scar-marked arm to steady his mistress.

“Now, go and entertain someone else’s bed tonight,” Lucan said as he abruptly stood.

The vampire and her thrall stumbled down the dais. Lucan merely smiled. It was a practiced, rigid thing he wore over his near-perfect face. His fangs bared ever so slightly between his pallid lips, one eyebrow arched as if to say, I’ve always been better than you.

“Senna,” he called out, gaze still focused on Anileta and her thrall as they disappeared into the crowd.

“Yes, Your Highness?” a small, spindly man said as he scurried to Lucan’s side.

“Is that elf still in the dungeon?” That elf. What a kind way of saying the murderer of my favorite courtesan.

“Yes, sir.” Senna was a man of few words. That, above all else, endeared him enough to Lucan to appoint him as Chamberlain of the Blood.

“And he still refuses to speak other than reciting Laeitha’s Lament?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucan grinned—a real thing rather than the lifeless smile perfected by Aurelion’s brutal teachings. Reaching for a glass of bloodwine, he took a long sip while contemplating how best to dispose of the defiant elf. The vampiric court loved bloodshed, of course, but more and more, they demanded spectacle, innovation, and cruelty. Lucan could not fault them; how many of these vampires had lost their friends, their mates, their entire clan to the murderous elves clad in silver?

The last thing you’ll taste is my star-blessed silver in your heart, shivaem!

A woman’s acidic voice burned a hole in his mind. Metal rang out as Lucan dropped his bloodwine. It rolled underneath his throne and out the other side, coming to a stop only when Senna stuck a foot out. His gaze met Lucan’s, then quickly darted away as he bent to retrieve the errant goblet.

“About the elf then, sir?”

Lucan balled his hand into a fist, long nails biting into his palms until his arm began to shake with rage. Shadows billowed around his legs, hiding the way his knees trembled as his silver-tainted scars burned. With great effort, Lucan sucked in a breath through gritted teeth.

That woman—that fucking woman! Gairan curse the damned elf and her pathetic minions. His mind recalled her silvery-black hair and long, elegant fingers around a silver dagger hilt. A beautiful death she would make one day.

Now salivating at the thought of the pale moon elf’s blood, Lucan felt his thirst rising.

“Let’s give the court a show for my return, shall we, Senna?”

The vampire’s eyes lit up as he licked his lips. “Oh, yes, my prince!” he gasped with excitement. “Yes, I think the Court would delight in such an event. After all, the master himself will be attending tonight to welcome you home!”

At that, Lucan stiffened. His breathing stopped, frozen heart somehow stuttering in his chest.

Master.

Soul-breaker, Lucan wished to call him. Life-stealer, or grave robber, or m—no. Lucan bit his inner lip. Not that word. Never that word.

No, even in the safety of his own mind, Lucan could never let himself admit that Aurelion killed him those long centuries ago, and that only a ghost remained inside his half-decayed flesh.

Smoothing one hand over his short, white curls, he blinked the memories of that accursed night away. Senna dutifully stood next to him with averted eyes. Another reason the beggar had been raised to Chamberlain: all understood the Bloodlord’s cruelty, but few knew just how far that extended to Lucan; only Senna understood how to pretend as if it had never happened.