Page 117

Comes face to face with a near-perfect illusion of Catalin. Her cornsilk hair falls around her in waves with braids woven throughout, the ends knotted with charms. Pretty, wide green eyes almost too big for her doll-like face. Lips stained red with paint, not blood. Her emerald dress—the one Mihal commissioned for her for when they partook in the Pledging—drapes off her shoulders in delicate layers of velvet.

He stumbles backward. “Amica mea?”

“Cor meum.” She smiles, then frowns as she draws closer to him. “What have you done to yourself?”

He takes another step back, shaking his head. “This isn’t real.”

“I miss you.” She holds out a hand. “Come. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He takes a step toward her.

“It’s a trick,” Vivian snaps, no longer concerned with Rory. She prowls toward Mihal.

Rory kicks her in the back of her knees and sends her sprawling across the floor. “You could never just mind your own fucking business, could you, Vivvy?”

Mihal’s eyes flick to me, narrowing into two bloodthirsty slits. A wooden stake slips from his shirtsleeve, and he points it at me. “You’re doing this.”

“Mihal, cor meum, please,” Catalin begs. “This isn’t you.”

His lips pull back in a snarl. “Enough of this trickery.”

He bolts in my direction, stake at the ready, but slides to a stop as the illusion of Catalin jumps in front of me, hands held up in a placating gesture. But it’s not just her who stops him in his tracks. It’s Godrick and Ioana and even the nameless servants he fed on to rile me. It’s everyone he’s killed to get to where he is today.

Creatures who trusted him. Creatures he betrayed.

They swarm him. Their voices roar throughout the cave.

The crowd draws silent, whether in respect for the lives lost or in awe of the sheer magnitude of my power, I don’t know.

The illusions part as I draw near.

Before me, Mihal’s kneeling—sobbing—with his head in his hands. He’s rocking back and forth, begging for the voices to stop. The wooden stake lays forgotten on the floor. I pluck it up and run my fingers over the initials carved into the grain—CE.

Catalin Enache.

He looks up at me, blood weeping from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Vivian is speechless as Rory holds a silver-tipped dagger to her throat from behind.

“I’m sorry too,” I murmur as I drive the stake into his chest.

He desiccates on impact and the illusions fade. Vivian’s scream is heart-wrenching, and painfully familiar, as her sire shrivels right before her eyes. It’s a pain unlike any other, and even though I long to rip her head from her shoulders, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Not even Vivian Alarie.

In a single fluid movement, Rory plunges the dagger into her sister’s heart. There’s a mix of looks cresting Vivian’s face—shock, despair, confusion—as she glances at the blade protruding from her chest and then turns to face her younger sister.

The sister she never treated with respect or kindness.

The cheers are remorseless and deafening, thundering throughout the arena as Vivian’s sneer contorts her rapidly deteriorating features. “But,” she gasps, “Death decreed I… would be the one to… kill you.”

Rory slides to the floor, cradling Vivian’s body, with more gentleness than the female deserves. She brushes her hair out of her sister’s eyes as bloodied tears stream down her beautiful face. “Death was wrong.”

Chapter 43

RORY

Everything happened in a whirlwind.