“Deer blood’s disgusting.”
“Fox blood, then.”
“Ugh. Too bitter.”
“You’re saying that so long as you keep me locked up here, you’re only going to let me feed from you?”
“That’s the whole point. I made that clear from the start.”
She sighed and leaned back against the wall.
Baz surged forward, yanking her by the arms. With a cry of outrage, she jerked her arms free.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I was trying to help you.”
“Oh yeah, right. You didn’t kill my brother, even though someone I trust saw you do it with their very own eyes, and you were just ‘trying to help me.’”
“I was. The castle, she eats people.”
She grunted. “If the castle eats people, she doesn’t eat me.” She pressed her back against the wall, extending her hands out to either side, laying her arms and palms flat to the stone and its usual impenetrable, murderous shadows.
Baz stiffened before lunging forward again, his hands dancing along her body without touching her.
“See?” she said. “Nothing but cold.”
A held breath stuttered up his chest. “She just ate the parvnit.”
Velle blinked. “She ate the parvnit? Cosette?”
“Yep. Her. Well, all but one of her legs.”
“Really?” Velle glanced back at the wall before patting it fondly. “How about that? Good castle.”
“The castle also seems to have taken the emperor.” Baz had no idea why he was confiding in her. She’s the enemy, dumbass. Enemy, remember what that means? “It’s a shitshow up there.”
Velle’s smile was brighter than the lumoon that danced between them, burnishing her eyes like the gilded leaves of autumn. She patted the wall at her back fondly some more. “Damn. I think you and I are gonna be great friends.”
Double dragonshit. If his prisoner hadn’t already been trouble before… If Mauldrene took a liking to her, there would be no door the castle couldn’t unlock, no escape she couldn’t facilitate. At least Mauldrene should have no effect over the dampening collar.
As soon as Cosette told Baz the identity of his prisoner, he’d gone to the nearest copy of The History and Conquest of the Domdurron Empire and riffled through it until he found the passage he’d remembered. The author of the book had posited that Zaraga might have defeated the invading Domdurron armies if only its princess, Soravelle Davana, had still been alive. Her power, the author claimed, would outmatch even the great Alobaz Hawxley’s military might.
Without thinking it through, Baz grabbed Velle by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.
“You’re coming with me,” he growled.
Chapter 8
The Formidable D’Arco Power Princess
Even while Baz was removing my ankle shackle, I didn’t believe he’d actually lead me from the cell that had been all I’d known for eleven days. Alobaz Hawxley, commander of the emperor’s entire military force, was reputed for being not only merciless but also cunning. He’d conquered most of the Opalese World not just by wielding his insuperable might, but also through careful strategy that capitalized on his enemies’ weaknesses.
Before knowing who I was, when the potential was wide open, he’d taken care to use an ankle shackle warded with dark faithum. No simple key had opened it. He’d similarly locked me in a room only accessible via magic—or Marina’s mysterious and wondrous resourcefulness. He’d dampened my power with a collar so rare that Marina hadn’t known such a tool existed—and she had access to the wealth of knowledge that was the goblin network—nor had Rafaela or Alonso warned me against it.
So it made no damn sense now that Baz knew who I was, and therefore that I was the most powerful sänglure ever to come from the D’Arco lineage, that he would afford me any freedom at all. If indeed the emperor was somewhere in the castle, Baz should have been giddily serving up my head for him on a shiny platter. It would forever go down as one of the greatest victories of all time: the formidable D’Arco Power Princess, resurrected after long centuries from the dead, only to be dealt a permanent death by the equally formidable Razer of the Rubors. Troubadours would compose songs about the great and mighty Alobaz, who killed the most beautiful woman history had ever known, delighting their eager audiences.
Not only had Baz released me from my prison cell, he’d taken me to his private chambers and allowed me to bathe. Sure, pretty much since my ankle shackle had snicked open, he’d been muttering to himself a litany of insults such as: “I must be out of my damn mind,” and “Idiotic! I’ll never hear the end of it;” as well as, “Stupid, scorching titfucker, what do you expect is gonna happen?” But he’d afforded me the consideration of getting to wash off the blood, semen, and madness that had coated my body in a sticky film of grime. After my confinement, which I’d survived without a single drop of water, the rain shower sluicing along my skin had felt damn near orgasmic.
