Maeve’s relatives with their raven-black hair and deep brown eyes would be easy enough to identify by looks alone, even if most of the women weren’t wearing dressesthat expose their skull and crossbones tattoos. The witches move slowly, their gait off-balance ever so slightly, their skin marred with imperfections—a dry patch here, a blemish there. They are so obviously human.
No such imperfections slight the vampires. While their bodies come in all shapes and sizes, their skin is pale and smooth as glass, and when they move, it’s with the surety and grace of a veteran ballet dancer. I take a seat on Maeve’s side of the aisle, next to a young witch who scoots to the far side of her chair when I sit down. She whispers to her mother, “Why is she sitting on our side?”
I suppress a smile as her mother looks me up and down. Intentionally, I twist to gaze over my shoulder, giving her a full view of my tattoo.
“See,” the mother says, pointing to my back. “She’s a witch too. Just a different kind than us.”
“Why does she look like one of them?”
“I don’t know. Hush. It’s about to start.”
When I turn back around, I catch a glimpse of George and Marabella three rows ahead of me on the opposite side of the aisle. George meets my gaze, and I frown, pretending I don’t see him.
Maeve is waiting at the end of the aisle, dressed in a tuxedo-style suit with a purple floral jacquard jacket and satin peak lapels. She’s worn her hair up for the occasion and replaced her usual square black glasses with a cat’s-eye design in a print that matches her jacket. It’s all wildly Maeve’s style while also looking stylish and elevated. She’s stunning. Our eyes meet, and I place my hand over my heart.
A string quartet starts to play, and her eyes shift from mine to the head of the aisle. I stand with the rest of theattendees. All eyes fall on Ren, stunning in a spaghetti-strap ball gown that is formfitting to her waist and then juts out at the hip with layer upon layer of floor-length tulle. The white material is threaded with silver to reflect the moonlight, and she floats down the aisle an ethereal beauty, a bride awash in stars. When the officiant leads the couple through their vows, I see tears on both women’s cheeks. Their happiness is infectious, and I find myself overwhelmed with warmth and joy until the second they descend the aisle, hand in hand.
Afterward, all of us filter inside the rustic, restored building where the non-vampires in the group get in line for the bar. I decide a lemon drop martini is exactly what this day calls for and step in line myself.
“You look good, Eloise. It’s nice to see you.” George stands beside me, having popped up out of nowhere like a spot of black mold. The witches in line with me take a step forward or back, putting as much space between themselves and us as possible without losing their place.
“Funny, you still look short, fat, and devious,” I deadpan.
He snorts. “That’s fair, all things considered. Hey, we should talk. We never got to put things right between us after what happened.”
“You’re scaring the other guests, George. Besides, we have nothing to talk about.”
“I think we do. I think I never had a chance to truly apologize for how things went down.”
“Apologize for making me your pawn in a game I had no idea you were playing? I heard it’s worked out well for you, by the way. You slid into Valeska’s spot quick enough.”
A wrinkle forms along his brow, and his eyes narrow to slits. “As I recall, you were playing a game too, and my help was what gave you an edge. Considering I can hear your heartbeat, I think we can both agree it worked out for you as well.”
I slant a glare at him, just as I reach the front of the line and order my drink. When the bartender slides it into my hand, I turn from the bar and curse. George is still there. I guess it’s time we had this out. With a quick tilt of my head, I lead him out the back of the sawmill, to where a giant wraparound porch offers stunning views of the mill wheel that squeaks with every turn under the pressure of the water that flows toward the Rappahannock River. It’s decorative, as this place hasn’t been used for milling since the fifties, but the creak and groan of the old wood is undeniably soothing.
I need all the calm I can get as I whirl to face George. “What is it you want to say to me?”
He scratches the side of his stubbled jaw. George isn’t what anyone would call a looker. In fact, his closest celebrity doppelgänger is Danny DeVito. He’s balding and portly, not what anyone would expect from a vampire. But the woman who sired him didn’t want him for his looks. He’s wicked-smart and good with his hands. Rumor is that George can fix anything, including, it seems, an out-of-control vampire queen.
“I want to apologize for not telling you what Marabella and I had done, for not asking for your consent. I was turned without my permission. I knew the evil thing I was doing, but there was no other way. No other fucking way, Eloise. Do you understand that?” He holds out his hand, palm up, and shakes his head.
My nostrils flare as I catch his scent. He’s not lying. “I thought you said vampires couldn’t change. It sounds like you’re growing a conscience.”
He lowers his outstretched hand and rocks back on his heels. Human body language, purposely slow. He’s trying his best to put me at ease.
“Look, somehow I should have told you what it meant that you’d had my blood and I’d had yours. I really like you, kid, and I believed in you. I thought you could best her, and you did. You saved us all, the entire coven, and we owe you a debt of gratitude. That’s all I wanted to say. I hope you understand why I did what I did, and I hope we can be friends.”
Until this point, I hadn’t thought whether I could forgive George, but as I search my heart, I realize I already have. I’m a shade, finally Damien’s equal. And while George isn’t fully responsible for that transformation, his blood kicked it off. Being a shade is what I was always meant to be. I feel it in my bones and every time I use my magic. How can I blame him for helping me become who I am? And still, the darkest part of me awakens in his presence. George isn’t innocent, and my shadow heart wants reparation for what he’s done. And as the darkness within roils and homes in on the opportunity he’s opened for me, I strike.
“A debt of gratitude, you say? In that case, you may have my forgiveness on one condition. I need your help.”
“What kind of help?” he drawls suspiciously.
“I need men. Soldiers. Warriors.” George’s nose crinkles, and I barrel on. “All the problems you had in Night Haven, I have in Tenebris. I saved your world—now it’s time for you to return the favor.”
“You want me to lend you vampires to fight in your world? Fight what exactly?”
“An evil queen, not unlike Valeska. She’s a dark elf, as sinister as they come. She must be stopped. But as of now, Damien and I don’t have the muscle to take back the kingdom.”
