The marbled stone turned cooler around her, then darker, too, as she was carried into a room. It looked familiar to her in a way, but her addled mind could not place where she’d seen it before.
"Place her down here, Floris," ordered Desara.
Floris hummed her agreement, then Luella felt the sheet shift, swaying as she was placed upon something hard and unforgiving. Stone.
She knew suddenly where she had seen this room before. It was where she’d first awoken—the room with the harsh stone table and many carts scattered around it, filled with silver instruments.
"Why am I here?" Luella slurred.
Floris’s face appeared above her, the female’s silver hair hanging around her face. "Princess, please, calm down. You have been hurt. What do you remember?"
Luella felt hands on her legs, then the hands moved, trying to pull her shift up and away from her shivering, hot body. That broke through her dazed mind; she screamed.
"Don’t—I don’t want to be touched!" Luella cried.
Floris tried to shush her. "Princess, please. It is just us. Floris." The healer gave a weak smile and touched her visibly shaking hand over her chest. "And Desara is trying to tend to you. To ensure the blood is not your own. Do you know what he gave you?" Floris faltered. "We need to know so we can help you. We cannot ask him, because?—"
"Floris, do not traumatize the heirus. She won’t be able to tell us any more than we know ourselves. Look at the symptoms: fever and chill, flushed skin, blown pupils—" Desara paused and said the word distastefully, "Arousal."
"She has been drugged." Floris stared down at Luella with sympathy. "Okay. We can do this. Desara, try to remove her shift and?—"
Luella gasped and tried to move, to bring her legs up and hide herself away. At the mere mention of removing her clothes, she was overcome by fear. She whispered broken pleas, sweat dripping from the ends of her hair and into her eyes.
The fear grew to be too much for her. Her vision went in and out of focus. She couldn’t take in a full, deep breath. Her lungs felt strained, tight, and shriveled.
Through the haze of her clouded vision, Luella was dimly aware of Desara’s face above her own, jaw set, brows pinched as the female roughly turned Luella’s head to the side and used a strange, thin needle-like thing to poke a hole in the side of her neck. She barely felt the prick of it as it entered her.
Then, nothing.
75
CHARNEL HOUSE
VALE
Vale roughly scrubbed his hand over his jaw, feeling the shadow of rough hair beneath his palm.
"Godsdamn it." The King stared at the wax seal, bearing the crest of Medius, which rested on the low table before him.
It was quiet, save for the gentle breeze filtering through. The others were all away, breaking apart anddoingtheir part to get Luella back. Scattered across the Isles and beyond, each unraveling in their own way as they hunted her down.
Graves was away, sending his spies to the furthest reaches for any hint of the Tenebrae’s movements. His Knight was also doing what he did best: working in the shadows and spying in his own way. Vale had barely seen the male return, his amulet hanging around his chest, wings gone, as he shifted from raven to male, stumbling to his rooms to rest.
Graves’s screams carried through the night like an omen. In the morning, he’d reappear, wings once more unfurled, eyes bloodshot and shadows beneath his eyes—and his dark, feathered wings once more at his back.
No one dared speak of it.
Tharen had turned the prison island into a charnel house. He came back coated in gore, pieces of flesh matted in his hair, and his eyes reflected nothing but violent glee. The Prima was breaking, and if Vale weren’t too, he’d find it somewhat intriguing that Tharen was finally giving in to their Vincire.
Azgorath was despondent. Vale thought the only thing to break through was the mere mention of Luella’s name. He’d stare at a wall, head bowed, fingers running over the curved edges of his horns, and once her name was uttered, it was as if a trance was broken. No longer the indolent demon, but a fearsome protector.
And Bastian was a shrunken husk of his prior self. He’d lost weight, denying himself blood, drinking only enough to keep going, like he’d be content to allow himself to be eaten from the inside out.
Vale pressed his palms to his eyes. The breeze knocked against the curtains and made the hooks clink constantly.
Clink. Clink.
Each sound echoed in his heart, the thrum of his blood in his veins, the clicking of his dragon’s talons against his ribcage.
