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In its wake is Riven with his burnished crown and cunning eyes. He’s dressed in fae finery donning a delicately embroidered vest over a plain white long-sleeve shirt. His black breeches cling to sturdy legs. And, of course, he’s donning those pointed boots.

His grin is more animal than male. “You have it?”

The mask of the Mors Soluta slips into place as naturally as the sun rises over the horizon.

“You must believe yourself to be quite clever,” I say.

He huffs a breath through his nose. “And why am I so clever?”

“He doesn’t think you’re clever,” Rory corrects. She steps through the doorway, her hair a tangle of waves, draped in silk with her lips stained red. I can hardly contain my urge to go to her side, to prevent any possible danger from coming her way. She doesn’t notice as she surveys Riven, eyes lingering on the upper arch of his ears before they sweep down to his boots. When those playful eyes cut back to his, she adds, “None of us do.”

“Ouch.” He mocks a stake to the heart. “You wound me.”

She flashes her fangs. “I haven’t. Not yet. Though your little errand nearly got me killed.”

“Oh, sweet Rory.” He tilts his head back and laughs. “You must be confusing me with someone who cares. Now, where is the book?”

“Which book? Refracted Knowing Whims?” She shrugs. “We don’t have it.”

“I’d say you’re full of shit, but everyone in this room can scent that you’re actually quite full of both blood and seed, so spare me the lies.” He flicks his hand at her as if he’s entertained her for long enough and fixes those cunning blue eyes on me. A twin to Godrick’s. “Do you have the book or not?”

“We were unable to obtain Refracted Knowing Whims,” I drawl. “But you knew that already, didn’t you? You gave me a false title, likely with the hopes I’d fail your pathetic little test so you wouldn’t have to back me.”

If he’s surprised at all, he doesn’t show it.

“Unfortunately,” Rory begins, “you didn’t account for me. I spent years writing and decoding notes with my friend, and the book you’re after is one of my childhood favorites—Warnings from the Wicked.”

He blinks, bored. “Where is it, then?”

Risna and Eivor’s gazes swell with pride as I cross the room to a small writing desk and gather the book from the drawer.

He holds out a hand, expectant. “Give it to me, and I will grant my blessing for you to Challenge Mihal.”

Fae bastard.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Grant your blessing? That could mean anything. If you want this book, you’re going to have to be very specific in your promises from this point forward.”

“Godrick truly taught you the ways of the fae, didn’t he?” He strokes the stubble on his jaw. “Let’s try this again, shall we? If you give me Warnings from the Wicked, I will cast my vote unto you so that your blade may finally be complete and you may officially Challenge Mihal for the chance to become vampire supreme.”

I glance at my kindred. Then at Rory, whose mind whirs behind her calculating stare. She meets my gaze and lifts her chin. Satisfied.

Riven notes the exchange but says nothing.

Warily, I hand him the book. His lips curl as he buries it into a leather satchel that hadn’t been slung over his shoulder a moment before. From his hip, he withdraws his dagger. The blade is lethal crystal in a myriad of colors, the hilt deep, black leather.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Riven pricks one thin, pale finger and does the same to mine. Two beads of blood surface, and he hesitates at the sight of it. It’s brief, nearly imperceptible, but I can’t help but wonder what gave him pause. There’s no time to dwell on it as he presses our fingertips together. With his sultry, pompous voice, he repeats the vow. “As fae supreme, you have my vow, Quill Godrickson.” He balks as he says my surname, as if it physically pains him to acknowledge what our father is—was—to me. “Blood to blood, I choose you to fill the role of vampire supreme.”

The fourth and final vow.

Blinding light spills from my forearm, as if my body has harnessed the sun. A ruby blade merges seamlessly with Alyvia’s hilt. With the light dimming, I reach into my skin and pluck the dagger free. It’s heavy in my palm, buzzing with the promise of death.

Mihal’s death.

A violent shudder ripples outward, rattling the chandeliers, the book-lined shelves, the castle’s very foundation. An earthquake of epic proportions, yet as the light dissipates, only my kindred remain.

“Fucking fae,” growls Eivor. “Gone without ensuring the deal had been met.”

Rory points to the table Riven had been standing by. “Quill, he left you something.”