The blade hangs there, blood stippling tiny spots on the floor. So much blood. It’s all over me. My gaze goes again to my skirt, to that straight line of droplets cutting across the white satin. I draw in a shuddering breath.
‘The dressmaker would never forgive me if I got blood on my dress.’
‘He is brother to those traitors! He should die, like they did.’ Joaquin snarls at Michael.
I put my arm across him, as though I can protect him. Even though I couldn’t protect … I couldn’t…
Joaquin tries to pull Michael away from me. I hang onto him, baring my teeth, snarling. ‘He stays with me.’ It’s all I can say. Each word feels like lifting a slab of rock. ‘He … he stays…’
Joaquin snorts, releasing Michael. He drops his sword with a muffled clang. ‘Fuck this.’ He turns away, heading for the door.
‘Bertrand, get them back to the palace. Take as many guards as you need. I will…’ Agony ripples across my father’s face. ‘I will bring her.’ He turns, leaving the room.
Michael and Bertrand try and help me stand, but I can’t see, can’t breathe, my legs unable to bear my weight. Bertrand swings me into his arms, Michael next to me as we speed through the underground corridors, a phalanx of guards around us.
All I see is blood.
I can’t stop the replay in my head, can’t hold it back any longer. Oliver swearing fealty then taking his sword back, his smile turning to a snarl. The slight bunching of his muscles. Michael grabbing me, pulling me back as Oliver swings his sword, as he breaks the most sacred vow a vampire can make. My father and Varin starting forwards.
My mother. Throwing herself in front of me. Fighting to protect me, as she has done all my life.
And Oliver’s sword slicing through her neck, separating her head from her body. The two distinct thuds as they both hit the floor. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hearing that. There’s no vampire healing to save her, no blood to be drawn to put her back together again.
My mother. My world.
Is dead.
I’m screaming again, but all that come out are husks of sound, whispering shrieks, my throat raw. There’s a hole inside me, where a connection bound me to her from the moment I was conceived. Now broken, now gone.
More memories. My mother’s head, rolling, her mouth a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. A line of blood,herblood, sprayed across my skirt. Michael pulling me away as my father, his blade moving so quickly it’s like a lattice of steel around him, slices Oliver in half. Taking out Jacques, coming to his brother’s defence, with another shattering strike. Varin and Joaquin going for the Ravenna guards who stepped forward in Mistral’s defence. The crowd screaming, more guards coming to Varin’s aid, the Ravenna contingent swiftly overpowered. And Joaquin, moving through the crowd like a wild animal, he and his followers cutting down anyone who resisted. More violence. More pain. More death.
‘Change is coming, but this time it cannot come with blood.’I said those words, so long ago, to the North Wind. Thought I was doing the right thing. That I was going to change the world.
But now everything is broken. So much change. So much blood. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.
ChapterFifty-Three
FIRE AND FURY
The building is old and crumbling, smelling of damp and the nearby river. The clocktower soaring above it is dark, the clock face tarnished and broken, its bell silent.
I don’t care.
I don’t care about much of anything, really. Apart from Michael.
I refused to go back to that underground room where my mother’s blood still stains the stones. I don’t care that it’s tradition, the place where Raven holds court in Old London. As far as I’m concerned, they can fill the whole place in like the grave it is.
My mother isn’t there, of course. Her body waits, shrouded in muslin, to be returned to the family estate for burial. My father hasn’t left her side. It would break my heart, if it wasn’t already shattered.
I asked if someone else could do this but apparently, as the crowned Raven, it’s up to me. I refused the sceptre when offered it, remembering it splashed with red, bright as the rubies adorning the Raven throne, brought here for today’s events.
I stand on a hastily assembled dais, the Raven crown heavy on my brow, Varin to my left, Bertrand behind me. And in front a row of Raven guards, swords out, separating me from the assembled crowd. Michael is to my right. If it wasn’t for him, I think I’d go down there and beg for someone to end this pain, to send me to join my mother.
A horrible way of thinking. I know it’s wrong, but I’m shattered and shredded, unable to pull myself back together. Michael’s arms hold the broken bits into a semblance of Emelia, but the old me is gone, taken for ever in the sweep of a blade. Tears threaten, and I shove them back. This Raven will not cry. Not here, anyway.
Bertrand’s hand comes to the small of my back, steadying me as I sway. There’s so little air in here. Michael glances over, his expression stern. I have to do this. For him, as much as anyone else.
I take a breath and blow it out. My fists clench. Then I step forward. The crowd, almost all of them dressed in black, sink to their knees in a rustle of fabric.
