“I won’t need the carriage until tomorrow evening,” I told the coachman as he helped me down. “I have preparations to make.”
“Of course, miss. I will repair the damage to the carriage to not alert the others’ suspicions.”
I glanced at the puffs of white stuffing emerging from a headrest, then at the broken window, and nodded. It must’ve been part of his payment.
“Should I tell the household you’re not to be disturbed?”
“Yes, of course.”
Carrying my supplies, I stepped into the mansion and past the Krudelbach servants without a glance, each stride measured, silent, untouchable. Grace propelled me through the grand foyer and up the curved staircase, each footfall a beat in a choreography practiced under sterile lab lights between sleepless nights. Movements once rehearsed beside test tubes and beakers now unfolded beneath chandeliers and marble. Every gesture, wrist poised, chin lifted, had been refined under the clinical gaze of preparation. Still, I needed to avoid contact and limit the chances of others seeing through my ruse.
Every curve of the manor matched the intelligence I’d gathered. The opulent corridors stretched before me, marble and mahogany everywhere, with portraits of deceased Krudelbachs glaring down from gilded frames. Ilyana’s room awaited on the third floor, in the east wing. I found her quarters and slipped inside.
The door latched behind me. I drew a sharp inhale, as if surfacing from being underwater for too long. My chest ached, not from fear, but from pressure and restraint.
Ilyana’s chambers were an explosion of burgundy and gold, lavish to the point of vulgarity. A half-empty glass of blood sat on the vanity, already forming a sticky ring on the polished wood.
My stomach churned as hunger stirred within me. I tore my eyes from the glass.
I removed the slayer’s kit from my bag and laid my tools on the plush velvet chaise, then pulled the weapons frommy thigh holster. I inspected each piece: the matched daggers with their gleaming silver edges and my two remaining stakes.
Beside them, I placed the vials: consecrated water, several flasks of rupture, my healing serum, and empty syringes. I wasn’t sure whether the Sanguine guards would seal off my access point to enter and exit the mansion, but I’d packed additional vials in case getting in and out proved more difficult than anticipated.
Finally, I placed out a selection of ration bars. They were thick, bland bricks of sustenance, each as nutritious as a full meal. Since I would be heading into the heart of vampire territory, I would be relying on them to survive.
I turned to her wardrobe. The doors flew open, releasing a cloud of stale perfume. I searched inside, past frivolous silks and gossamer-thin fabrics, seeking structure, layers, and darkness. My fingers found the heavy nap of a velvet gown, its blue so deep it was almost black. The full, pleated skirt would serve as an arsenal, hiding stakes strapped to my thighs.
I added a black satin dress with a complex, ruffled bodice that would provide ample cover for a sheathed blade. Pushing aside silks and satins, I located what I needed: three ball gowns in varying shades of burgundy—clearly her favorite color, judging by the number of variations filling her closet. Behind the formal wear, I discovered her trial outfits: leather combat attire, supple and well-oiled, with reinforced panels across the torso—new and never used.
My gaze fell on the leather armor I had worn earlier, now folded in my satchel. For a moment, I contemplated using it for the trials. It was practical and worn-in, but it wouldn’t fit on Ilyana’s body. I would still take it with me, just in case I had the opportunity to hunt vampires in mytrue form. No one would question me. It was armor, after all.
Before beginning to alter her clothes, I discovered the adjoining bathroom. It was a cavern of marble and gold fixtures, featuring a tub large enough for three and gilded faucets shaped like serpents. The sheer excess was obscene, a brutal contrast to the stone basin at the temple or the cramped washroom tucked behind the servant’s wing in Nemea’s mansion.
I allowed myself one indulgence. I reached into the band beneath my bodice and pulled out my engagement ring. The cool metal nestled in my palm. And yet, it carried everything. I slipped it onto my finger where it hung loosely and turned it with my thumb, watching how the gold caught the candlelight. It grounded me as a reminder of why I was here.
Zane. Revenge.
I turned the faucet handle, and water surged forth, striking the basin with a satisfying hiss that faded into a quiet roar. Steam curled around me as I sank into the tub, and I sighed with relief as heat seeped into every aching muscle.
I didn’t remove the fang bracelet. Even submerged, I didn’t dare risk it. The disguise clung as tightly as the rage coiled beneath my ribcage.
By the time I emerged, the bathwater had grown cold, my skin was pruned, and my thoughts were somewhat clearer. I wrapped myself in linens so soft they might have been woven from clouds, then collapsed into a bed that embraced every inch of my weariness. For a while, I slept the daylight hours away like someone who still had a soul to lose.
Yet the nightmares crept in, turning rest to ruin. Istartled awake to the sensation of thorns digging into my flesh and turning my blood into a crimson rain. When I inspected my arms for damage, all I saw was the delicate, unbroken skin of an aristocrat. I moved about the room sluggishly, checking the shadows for unsheathed claws.
Satisfied, I fastened the chest band, tight, familiar. The ring returned to its hiding place above my heart, the only safe place for it. No room existed for sentiment. I only had one night to complete my work here.
I changed into some pajamas I discovered in one of Ilyana’s drawers and opened my sewing kit. With practiced stitches, I worked hidden pockets into the seams and slits in several of her gowns. My fingers worked smoothly, guided by muscle memory from years of maintaining my own gear.
The stakes needed accessibility but invisibility. The daggers required sheaths that wouldn’t show through the fabric. By dusk, I had transformed Ilyana’s wardrobe into an armory disguised as aristocratic fashion. Now I had to get used to wearing such garments.
As I secured myself in a newly modified gown and slid the last blade into its hiding place, I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror. The face looking back at me was Ilyana’s, but her eyes were those of a slayer—cold, calculating, and ready to kill.
A sharp pounding at the door made me jump.
“Sister? Open up! We need to talk.” A woman’s voice, young and fraying at the edges. This had to be Tahlia.
I remained silent, hoping she would leave.
