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“I anoint you in the name of Blood Wyne, my sire and mother.” A third time, and this time he pressed his thumb against my lips.
“I anoint you in my name—Roman, Liege of the Vampire Nation, Son of the Crimson Veil.” He lifted the goblet to salute me, then drank half of it. Handing it to me, he nodded. “Drink.”
I swallowed the blood and it tasted like spice, like cinnamon and cloves and fire and copper. As it bathed my throat, the room began to spin; slowly but surely, I swallowed my fear with the crimson nectar.
I’d been through portals; I’d been through death. I knew transition when I felt it. There was no going back now.
Roman stood and dropped his robe off. He was naked beneath it, and his scars were glowing in a way I’d never before seen. I could see every mark he’d accumulated during his thousands of years. He motioned for me to stand and I dropped away my gown. I glanced down, gasping as every mark Dredge had made on me began to glow and shimmer. I was lit up like I was covered with fireflies or glowworms. But for some reason, here—in this place—it didn’t bother me.
Roman took my hand and as we stepped back, the altar table slid to the left, and a secret door opened in the chamber, revealing a dark passage. A booming of drums and music began to sound as Roman drew me into the passage. He sped up and I kept pace, suddenly aware we were no longer in the mansion but somewhere in between worlds.
And then a light shimmered at the end of the passage, and we raced toward it, bursting through into a wide meadow under the rain-soaked night skies.
Up ahead of us sat a mansion that dwarfed Roman’s house. Painted in alabaster and gold tones, it was surrounded by guards, but they seemed to take no notice of us. They stood at attention, dressed in crimson robes, with gold-hilted knives at their belts.
We walked up the stairs, hand in hand, naked and glowing, and passed through the door as if we were ghosts. I glanced at Roman, but he seemed perfectly calm, as if he did this every day.
As we entered the mansion’s foyer, he pulled me to the right, into a small room, which turned out to be a coatroom. It was the size of our living room at home. Roman handed me a plain white tunic and draped a red cloak around his shoulders, trimmed with gold ribbons and beading. I slid into the simple cotton shift, wondering again what I had done.
After we’d dressed, we walked out and toward the central doors. Roman took my hand again.
He gazed down at me, pausing for a moment. “You are about to be inducted into the Crimson Veil. You will be my heir and hence related to my mother. Do not flinch. Do not hesitate. There is no returning to who you were before you drank the blood sacrifice. Do you understand me, Menolly? Do not fail me.”
As the significance of what was happening began to sink in, I could only nod. My only choice was to move forward.
“I do.” Every fiber in my being screamed against obeying—not because it was the wrong thing to do, but because I hated submitting to anyone or anything. But sometimes, in life, we had to relinquish control to a greater force, in order to bring about a greater good. And I knew in my heart this was the right thing to do, even though I rebelled against the idea of supplication.
Without another word, Roman led me to the doors, and two guards bowed low when they saw him. We walked through, into the throne room.
The chamber was tremendous, as big as our entire house at home, and it was filled with seats lining the sides, like a university auditorium. At the center and back sat a raised dais and upon that dais, a throne. The throne was built of black marble, and on the throne sat a woman dressed in gold with crimson accents. She was stately, with salt-and-pepper hair, and a face lightly marred by time. She’d probably been turned when she was around fifty, and she had been in good shape, from the way she looked. Her eyes were the same pale frost as Roman’s, and his facial features mirrored hers.
Blood Wyne stood, her dress billowing around her, form-fitting on the top and spreading like a princess gown at her hips, shining gold threads interwoven with sparkling rubies that had been beaded in swirling designs. Victorian in design, the dress had a low-cut sweetheart neckline and a gothic collar that shrouded the back of her neck. Blood Wyne’s hair was swept up into a high chignon, accentuated by a diadem of rubies and diamonds inset into gold.
Pale as the mist. Pale as cream, with no color to mar her lips or cheeks. Blood Wyne, Queen of the Crimson Veil, was as cold as a sculpture formed from ice and snow.
She waited for Roman to bring me up the steps leading to the throne, and as he knelt before her, I did my best to drop into a low curtsey without disgracing myself.
Blood Wyne gestured for us to rise. Roman let go of my hand and—motioning for me to stay where I was—lightly ran up the stairs to place a kiss on his mother’s outstretched hand.
“Your Majesty…thank you for seeing me.”
And then, the marble of her face cracked—just a little—and she smiled at her son. “Roman, we are alone with the girl. Don’t stand on ceremony.”
Startled by her forthrightness, I jerked my head up to stare at her. She gave me a wolflike smile. “What? You do not expect ancient queens to be understanding of the modern world? Your Fae Queens seem to be. Do not underestimate me, girl.”
“Never,” I said automatically, before remembering I should probably wait for her direction to speak.
But Blood Wyne just chuckled and sat back on the throne. “Rise, Menolly. So…you are my son’s chosen consort. Turn and let me look at you.”
Feeling like a prize cow, I turned in my simple white robe, wondering what she must think of me. I wasn’t cut out for the court, and I wasn’t about to wear billowing ball gowns or jeweled tiaras unless it was an official function for which Roman needed me to dress.
“Interesting. I like the fire in her eyes, my son.” She spoke to Roman as if I weren’t even in the room, but I wasn’t feeling much like contradicting her. She turned back to me and held my gaze. I felt like a stake was piercing my soul and I couldn’t move. I had a feeling she could hold any vampire hostage with her gaze, which meant her power was very real and very great.
After a moment, she let me go. “The eyes speak volumes, to mouth banalities. But cliché or not, it is a truth that we can read much by reading another’s gaze. And I can read the truth in your soul, Menolly. You do not love my son, but you are fond of him.”
I stammered. “I…I love him as much as I can, Your Majesty.”
Blood Wyne shrugged. “Love is overrated. My son seeks it, but love leads only to tragedy and loss. Fondness, loyalty are much better emotions to nurture. And I see that you have loyalty—but to whom? To whom do you bind yourself, Menolly?”
