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My throat dissolves as the teleporter I paid to deliver my blood to Selphine stumbles forward, eyes darting, wildly trembling. He takes one look at Valentin and appears ready to vomit his soul out through his shoes.
Valentin’s voice is deadly quiet. ‘Who is this and why is he here?’
Malachi answers, feral satisfaction in his tone. ‘Gideon found him. He has something to confess.’
I can’t breathe properly.
Rowan eyes me, her expression now edged with disgust, as if she scents rot under expensive perfume. ‘There’s a witch’s signature on you I hoped never to smell again.’
‘Excuse me?’ My voice is too bright. ‘What is it with rude people and the way I smell?’
Rowan’s eyes stay fixed on my face. ‘How do you know Selphine Rousseau, Eira Cross?’
Fuck. My pulse is suddenly too large for my body.
Valentin takes one single step towards me. But it feels like a storm changing direction as his voice enters my mind, intimate and cold.
What is she talking about, little hunter?
My throat works. Bride’s Mercy turns to ice beneath my tongue. I shake my head because it’s all I have.
Rowan’s voice cuts through the silence. ‘Perhaps the better question is what her purpose was when she allowed you to drink her blood.’
Valentin’s head whips towards her. ‘What did you say?’
The witch doesn’t flinch. ‘You’ve been drinking from her, haven’t you?’ Her gaze flicks to his chest. ‘It made you feel incredible. Briefly. Then unlike yourself. Closer to whole, perhaps. Then worse. Desperate enough to go back for more?’
Gods. A cold sweat breaks across my spine.
Valentin’s voice lowers. ‘Explain.’
‘It’s simple. You’ve been treating an illness with the one thing that caused it, but also happens to be the one thing that can temporarily disguise its effects.’
Valentin’s face empties. ‘Illness.’
Rowan looks at him with something like pity, and the room’s volatility ramps so high even the wards seem afraid to breathe.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You have been blood-poisoned, vampire. Repeatedly.’
No. No. No.
Valentin doesn’t move for one beat. Then his gaze locks on mine and something in him morphs.
It’s viciously eerie for its lack of rage. Because in that void rushes the absence of mercy as the ruthless creature he truly is fills the room like a god of old violence. Every trace of softness, confusion and hunger withdraws behind a brutal creature old enough to make mercy feel like a story told to children.
‘Why would you do this, little hunter?’ he asks softly.
I shake my head, furious at myself for being helpless. For wanting to explain. For being unable to do it with Rowan watching, Malachi practically vibrating with triumph, and the Twelve waiting like executioners in tailored black.
The teleporter makes a choking sound, momentarily disrupting the savagery in the room. Valentin turns his head slightly. ‘Speak!’
The courier flinches so hard he nearly falls to his knees. ‘S-she paid me to deliver a box,’ he stammers, pointing at me without meaning to. ‘To New Orleans. A woman named Selphine Rousseau. She said no detours.’
The room tilts.
Malachi’s mouth curves in naked glee.
Valentin’s eyes snap back to mine, black and depthless. ‘Who is Selphine Rousseau?’
