Page 8 of Vervain

She nudges her chin to the woman seated beside Serun. A spider crawls up the woman’s cheek and disappears into her hair. “Lady Maeve sees everything.”

Devan clasps his hands behind his head and leans back against the cage. “You’re feeding our heartbeat too much information for a name we will all learn soon enough.”

Olivia twitches an eye at him. “And she could learn this information from her Lord Husband if she wanted to. We made our deal to establish trust. Something you seem not to have learned yet, newborn. Fuck, why are men so useless?”

With an aggravated hiss, he pushes off from the iron bars and pointedly focuses on the auction.

“Your name, Serun’s consort,” Olivia says as the bidding continues below.

I rub my thumb up and down my sweaty palm. “Saya.”

“Last name?”

“I said I would give you my name, and I have.”

She nods, accepting this.

Time passes quickly. Some stay in the light unsold and without a master, while others join us. The nightwalkers left behind panic, clutching the bars of their tiny birdcages and rattling them. Some even bite the metal, and others try to press themselves between the bars to no avail.

Even if they escape, I doubt they will get far. Lucifer eyes them before announcing the next newborn. “Cage seventy-two, Amber!”

Murmured conversations increase as a caged mountain of a man descends. Silver scars shimmer against his bronze skin, one of them running from his eyebrow up and across his shaved head. The man folds his arms across his chest, muscles on top of muscles tightening, while veins thicken under blood splatter that speaks of recent violence.

“Huh…” Devan grunts. “That guy again.”

“Care to elaborate?” Olivia asks, looking at the already enthusiastic crowd.

After a swift glance in my direction, Devan clicks his tongue. “Screw it. Wherever he went, death followed. They called him the Death Spirit. No newborn wanted to be on his shit list. So, the streets quieted, and the death toll lessened. Some believed masters were hiring him as a mercenary to keep newborns in check.”

Hands greedily shoot up when the bidding starts.

“He’s popular,” Olivia says. “Cute, too.”

My throat tightens, the words sounding just like something Emily would have said.

Devan curls his lip, flashing a fang. “He will pose a threat if he sees us step out of line. They don’t call him the Death Spirit for nothing.”

“Why would he care?” I ask, mildly interested.

“Not in the Under—” Olivia is cut off by shocked gasps from below. Lady Maeve is standing with her hand raised. The bidding quickly ends there, and the Death Spirit’s cage is moved to join ours.

“Fuck,” Devan spits, spiralling further. “Lady Maeve has claimed him, and rumour has it she is Lord Serun’s informant.” He suddenly grabs the iron bars, his brows knitting as he adopts a pleading expression. It does absolutely nothing for me. “Let’s join forces in the Undercity. The three of us can have each other’s backs.”

“I don’t make deals with weak men,” Olivia huffs out.

I grip my gown as I take in the huge nightwalker at the end of the row. Cold and unfriendly eyes watch us, his ear twitching as if hearing everything this moron says. “And why would I need you when my Lord Husband is Serun himself?”

Ash settles in my mouth at the words. Even though it’s true, the idea of using this to assert power has bitterness thickening on my tongue.

Lucifer claps his hands sharply, drawing the attention of the crowd back to him. “The auction is over. Whoever claimed a newborn, please make your way to the entrance. Everyone else, enjoy the show.”

Some of the crowd make their way to the exit, while the others turn to the still-lit cages of nightwalkers who weren’t claimed as they cry and plead for someone to save them.

“Lord Serun, care to cull the weak? Repast on undead souls?” Lucifer purrs, straightening his stance. His eyes flash to me, smile curdling. “Or do you fear your dove will be frightened to see what you truly are when the lights are out?”

The crowd grows silent as Serun stands. Darkness pours from him and over the gallery like a thousand snakes. Through the hood of his cloak, neon red eyes flare in my direction before he raises his clawed hands high. The theatre drains of light, sending us into complete, obsolescent darkness.

My breath sharpens, magnifying in my pricked, pointed ears. I shuffle back when the cage trembles and the chains rattle. I tip my head up, straining to see anything, when ice caresses my cheek, and I suck in a sharp breath. On an exhale, I whisper, “Nightwalker?”