He’d been their host for these last six months. A supernatural art patron, like a mysterious Medici, Verin harboured a hatred for the Wake that ran as deep as her family’s, which made him the perfect person to hide the painter all this time.
There was only one problem.
Elisabetta wasn’t here.
‘Any news?’ Nicole asked him, between the sharp clacks of the swords.
‘Afraid not, my dear,’ the Vampire replied. ‘We might be waiting a few more weeks.’
She swept the sword, air whipping over her as it spun, bringing the Vampire’s subtle scent of cold water and iron. Her Empyreal played with it like a cat with a string before discarding it as it had every other she’d encountered recently. There was no kill scent. Therefore, no excuse for her to hunt.
Frustration veered up her spine and had her teeth clamping down as her sword locked with her father’s.
Clack.
She hadn’t got to grips with the new bounds of her Empyrean power.
Clack.
She hadn’t found the painter, or taken the next step in this centuries-crafted conspiracy.
Clack.
She hadn’t found anything that would give her a feasible reason to risk contacting Kyan early. They weren’t supposed to even try, unless there was an emergency. And even then, who knew if the Wake had already caught on to Kyan’s deception?
Why couldn’t she just—
She brought down the sword again, a little too hard, testing that eager power that crooned and crooned and sheignored. Her father lashed back, warm air brushing her cheek as she bent backwards, body smooth and raring.
But she misjudged the distance between her sword and the side table, where a priceless-looking vase sat.
Her faux blade caught it with a heart-stopping crack, sending porcelain shrapnel flying through the library.
Nicole threw her hand out in time to stop a larger shard. It didn’t break her skin, not now she was an awakened Empyreal. But her father’s hiss of pain lanced through the chaos. He’d brought his arm up in time to shield his face so most of the shards cut his arm instead, but her chest cinched in panic at the sight of his blood and the momentary colour of his eyes.
So many red veins, they almost looked black.
They seemed darker than they’d ever been, reminding her of the markedlystrangeSeer abilities she’d first glimpsed the night of her transformation: when he’d used some of them to unnerve Lynch.
Nicole dropped the sword in alarm. ‘I’m sorry!’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, holding up a hand. But all she saw was the blood smeared over the old scar bisecting his palm.
Her eyes snapped to Verin, her protective instincts glaring so loudly she grabbed her father’s arm to pull him behind her.
Shame immediately followed. Frustration. Verin made no move, nor did he show any blood hunger.
‘I’m sorry …’ she managed, backing up.
Verin had never once made them feel unsafe. He was around blood constantly, not just in his reference library but as the house was often open for public tours.
He’d told her early on: ‘Think of humans: if they’re faced with food,do they kill for it in a frenzy? No, they eat it calmly. It is the same for a Vampire. No established Vampire gluts on blood unless they want to make themselves sick. It’s all much more civilised.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear.’ Verin smiled softly, but it barely eased her. ‘That one was a replica.’
She met her father’s gaze, his eyes silver-blue again.
She’d have to ask about the night of her transformation eventually. Her mother’s bestiary notes on Death Seers and their scythes arced through her mind. But right now she needed some other piece of the puzzle of her life to slot into place before trying to address something as world-changing as why her father might have lied about what type of Seer he was her whole life.
