Page 90
“Aurelion’s latest creation.”
“He is losing himself…”
“…beautiful little thing…”
Lucan smiled. Good, he thought with dim satisfaction. Let them whisper all they want, drown themselves in comforting lies and scintillating rumors. If they saw a capricious prince allowing himself another grotesque indulgence, all the better. So long as the words assassin or Ashen Blade never passed from their lips, Lucan cared little what they thought.
As the two stepped further into the throne room, the court burst back to life.
Musicians resumed their melody from a raised gallery overlooking the hall. Servants drifted between nobles carrying silver trays laden with bloodwine in sparkling crystal goblets. They wove silently between colorful gowns and tailored velvet jackets, specks of dust amongst the jewels of the Blooded Court. Several courtiers returned to the dance floor while others lingered between the pillars leading to the Blooded Throne. They whispered behind fluttering fans and gold-rimmed goblets.
Lucan paid no heed to the court set aflame.
Gaze set firmly on his throne, he walked with measured precision as he listened to Elarian’s bare feet stepping against the black marble.
Courtiers gawked as their prince and his claimed courtesan ascended the black dais steps. He lifted one hand and the music ceased. One by one, conversations died again as nobles inclined their heads. Some bowed deeply. Others merely lowered their eyes as if wary of displaying reverence for such behavior from their prince.
Lucan sighed, then settled into his throne with the enthusiasm of a man walking to his death. Cultivating his image in the court’s eyes had always been an exhausting task.
“Come, Eliyn,” Lucan commanded.
His hand wrapped around Elarian’s hip, pulling her to his lap before she had a chance to turn away. Shadows stirred beneath his throne as her weight landed against his thighs. They curled lazily around the carved legs before creeping over the dais in slow ribbons of living darkness.
Like curious beasts scenting unfamiliar prey, they drifted upward. One ribbon coiled lazily around her ankle before slipping away. Another brushed feather-light across the bare curve of her shoulder, lingering there as though committing the sensation to memory. Her nipples turned to hard pebbles as the blackness cupped the fullness of her breast before slipping away.
Elarian’s breath stuttered. She closed her eyes, lips curling inward. Then, a stifled moan reached Lucan’s ears.
Faint.
Quiet enough that, had he not already been enraptured with the killer chained to his wrist, he might have missed it.
But Lucan heard, and his thirst for defiling the elf until nothing of her remained clawed at his every thought.
Next to the throne, a different shadow stirred. A moment later, Senna appeared—sealed note in hand, with a glass decanter of bloodwine and an empty goblet balanced on a polished tray.
“Your Highness.”
Senna spoke plainly, as if his prince did not occupy his throne with a naked woman in his lap, shadows curling over her as if he meant to ravish her then and there. Rich vermilion robes draped over his bent shoulders. Black hair held back in a low bun, he looked more haggard than usual.
“There is an issue,” he continued, not waiting for Lucan to respond.
Irritation flared. Lucan snarled as his shadows withdrew from Elarian’s trembling form. She slipped her legs between his, smoothing her hair before composing herself into a perfect statue.
“What, Senna?” Lucan hissed.
“Lady Drevain insists on a private audience.”
Senna extended a thin arm with the letter in hand. Glancing down, Lucan noted the wax seal in the shape of two writhing snakes had already been broken. It seemed even his trusted chamberlain now tested the limits of Lucan’s power. He snatched the letter from Senna’s hand, long nails catching on the back of his hand.
“That is hardly an issue.”
“My pri—”
“Bloodwine for Eliyn, Senna,” Lucan said as he waved his hand, signaling he would speak no more of Lady Drevain.
Lucan opened the letter, quickly scanning it before letting it fall to the floor. It contained nothing he did not expect. Worries about Ravenholm, an insistence on increased guards, and a desire to host his delightful new courtesan for a meal.
Grasping hands, always seeking to bolster her power.
