Page 27 of Bloodgrove

Will’s dinner rose in his throat. “That is revolting. I can still taste the pig’s blood.”

“If you were lucky…”

Mr. Arcos laughed at Will’s horrified expression and slipped his coat off. “Here. Put this on before you get ill.”

“But I’ll get it dirty.”

Unmoved, Mr. Arcos held the coat between them. “Then take off your shirt first.”

Had Will not already considered doing exactly that, he probably would have refused. Everything about the offer suggested another trap, yet he also wondered whether anything could still shock him tonight. So his fingers found the first button and struggled to work it through the blood-stiffened hole, then moved to the next. All the while, Mr. Arcos watched with detached attention, following every movement from Will’s collarbone down his breastbone, across the flat plane of his stomach and his navel, until his gaze reached the waistband of his trousers. Only then did a muscle tighten in Arcos’s jaw.

“Berserker may not have been the right word,” Mr. Arcos continued as Will peeled the shirt from his shoulders. Even beneath it, his skin was still sticky. “A fallen angel, perhaps…”

“In the Capitol, we call fallen angels demons.”

Mr. Arcos’s smile changed, regaining its confidence and its danger. “That describes you perfectly.”

“I do not believe in angels or demons.” Will slipped into the offered coat, savoring the warmth that enveloped him at once—and tried to ignore Arcos’s smell of sandalwood, pepper, and cloves.

“Then you have never looked in a mirror.”

Will dismissed the remark with a roll of his eyes and drew on his cigarette. For a while, they stood in silence, looking down at the small garden at night while the distant howling of vampires carried through the darkness. The garden was never particularly charming, enclosed as it was by high walls, but now, in autumn, only a few scattered roses remained in bloom; it felt like a prison yard.

“Elodie said you have served the Red Hand for ten years,” Will said, breaking the silence. When he turned toward the ambassador, Arcos was already watching him.

“Hmm… Ten years? It feels like an eternity.”

The intensity of Arcos’s gaze made Will fidget. “You can leave the city despite the curse.” The word felt too large on his tongue. Some part of him still resisted believing the stories told about this place.

Mr. Arcos smiled as though he had seen straight through him. “You want to know how much of it is true, do you not? Whether you can leave Bloodgrove if all of this becomes too much for you.”

“Everyone keeps talking about tickets and a blood toll. Duchess Ormonde secured my return journey after New Year’s.” Will looked down at himself.

“Did she?” Arcos raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is time you begin believing the rumors about Bloodgrove. No one leaves this city without sacrificing a great quantity of blood in a ritual, and most lose their minds before they can pay the price and turn a vampire. The real question, then, is why an interior designer?” He somehow made the profession sound like an insult.

“How do you manage it?”

“I receive my tickets directly from the King because I travel in his name.” Slowly, he exhaled smoke into the night sky, veiling his searching eyes for a moment.

Will wrapped the coat more tightly around himself. If Arcos was telling the truth, he was entirely dependent on Elodie.

“And what if I took a horse and rode out?” He knew the question was pointless.

“You would lose your mind before crossing the first mountain.” When Arcos saw panic beginning to rise in Will, his expression softened into a mild smile. “There is no need to worry. You are one of us now.”

“So I am a prisoner.”

“Do not worry. We have all made a bargain or two that turned against us.” The ambassador crushed his cigarette against the balustrade and flicked the remains into the darkness below. “And having your wings cut off does not make you a demon.” He turned to leave, his smile lazy and at ease, as though he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Will caught him by the arm. “I cannot make sense of you.”

Only then did Will realize that the ambassador was drunk—not heavily, but enough to soften the steel in his eyes.

“Nor I of you, Mr. Frank.”

“Then why not ask me?”

“Because I am not ready for the answer.” With that, he pushed open the door and was gone.