Page 66 of Level Up for Love

“I think we should go to the coronation,” Sindra announced.

It had been Mortimer who broke the long silence to politely inquire, “Are you quite out of your mind?”

“I mean it,” Sindra said, slapping her palm on the table. “I think we should go.”

Vera and Antoni scoffed at the same moment, and Moss asked, “But why?”

Once they read through the invitation, which detailed a masquerade ball that would be held in celebration of the coronation, it became obvious that the event was, of course, a trap. Prince Vadrien hadn’t even gone through the effort to hide this fact. Already skeletons had begun to circle Zaska, more of them than Antoni confessed he had ever seen in one place. They didn’t attack, not yet, but no one had attempted to leave, either. Great hulking, stinking undead creatures prowled the streets, and Sindra suspected that on the night of the masquerade, many of the townsfolk and Vadrien’s select special guests would be shepherded to the castle.

She couldn’t say what plans he had for them. But she didn’t want to find out, so they had to get the crown before then. It might be their last chance.

“For one, we haven’t got much of a choice,” Sindra admitted. “But it would also allow us to merge our ideas, yes? We’ll split the party—”

Gasps all around. “Split the party?”

“—yes, and we’ll each have a separate task. Part heist, part secret strike team, part attack, and…” She had paused in that moment to take a breath. “Part distraction.”

At their wide-eyed, frazzled stares, she grinned. “It’s our best chance of success. And can’t we admit that it might be—just a little bit—fun?”

Once she laid out the details of her proposed plan, their protests became less vehement. Antoni and Vera were pensive, and Mortimer looked dangerously giddy.

Grinning with her tusks on full display, Moss had been the one to point out, “You’ll need a dress, then, won’t you?”

The memory fades as the tailor holds up two different fabrics against Sindra’s skin. Sindra points to the one on the right and looks over her shoulder to ask, “Are you two finished?”

For their part in the plan, Mortimer and Antoni needed costumes of their own. Antoni gives an impatient nod while Mortimer runs the pad of his thumb along the midnight velvet of his coat’s sleeve. He was the first to endure alterations, and he hasn’t taken his costume off since. He looks, truth be told, quite fetching in it.

“I believe so!” the wizard affirms.

“In that case, could I ask you two something?” Sindra casts an apologetic glance to the tailor. “Privately?”

The tailor murmurs, “I’ll fetch the last of your fabric,” and disappears behind a curtain.

Antoni steps closer, salt-and-pepper brows drawn low over his eyes. Mortimer clasps his hands behind his back and waits for Sindra to speak.

Sindra quietly clears her throat. “Do you know if Vadrien lived in Moros? Was he a citizen here, before everything happened?”

Antoni’s expression turns dark. “Not to my knowledge.” He huffs. “If so, how could he do such a thing to his own people? Why do you ask?”

Sindra wets her lips. The vampire’s words, spoken with unsettling assurance, still echo in the back of her skull: You are nearly half mine already. She suspects that, even after everything, the captain’s trust has its limits. If he gets it in his head that Vadrien has any sway over her, he might cut her down just to be safe.

But the information she may have is too important to keep to herself.

“He visited my dreams—not on purpose, I think. I believe the bite…connected us somehow. I witnessed one of his memories. He was exiled to a place called Frozenfang Pass. Was that something that used to happen?”

Mortimer’s violet eyes sparkle with interest behind his spectacles. “Yes, it happened all the time, from what Master Kaelenas told me. King Ursan was known for exiling all of his perceived enemies, guilty or not.”

A shadow passes over Antoni’s features. “King Ursan was not as beloved as some of those who came before him,” he says slowly, “but he did what he thought he must to protect the kingdom.” Sindra can’t help noting his tired tone, like he’s used this excuse so often that it’s lost its shine. Is he trying to convince himself? “Who are we to question the will of Garren’s chosen?” he finishes bitterly.

Mortimer scratches his ear and looks down at the ground.

“You should question everything,” Sindra says harshly. “Always.”

Antoni’s mouth twists into a scowl. “I did. Perhaps that is why I did not recognize Vadrien,” he says darkly. “I attended every sentencing I could; it felt like my duty, to witness it. But they sent me on so many scouting missions in those days. Said I asked too many questions.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “So I suppose it’s possible that he could have been one of them.”

Sindra crosses her arms over the bodice of her gown. She wants so badly to pace, but the dress needs to be hemmed, and she’s wary of tripping over her feet.

“What difference does it make?” Antoni speaks up again. “Morosian or not, Vadrien has made himself an enemy to everyone in this kingdom by bleeding the land dry. He has to be stopped.”