Page 87
‘While you reveal entirely too much,’ Valentin says, soft enough to terrify the stone. ‘Resentment. Jealousy. A century of devotion curdled into entitlement. Do not mistake my patience with your pain for blindness.’
Malachi flinches so hard I know the words have struck blood.
Valentin’s voice drops further. ‘You leave the Tower tonight, or I sever our bond for a decade. Choose.’
A decade.
The sentence moves through the dungeon like a blade dragged over bone.
Malachi’s whole body locks. For the first time since I met him, the leader of the Twelve looks as if the floor has opened under him. Snarl and polished threat have given way to raw horror he tries and fails to bury fast enough.
His head dips lower but Valentin holds him in place for several more seconds. So when he releases him, Malachi drops to his knees. The motion is stiff enough to crack.
Eyes still on the floor, he rasps, ‘As you command, sire.’
Valentin turns his attention to Draven, still unconscious in the corner. But when Malachi moves towards his fallen comrade, Valentin holds up a hand.
‘No. He does not leave with you. He goes to the Sunless Crypt.’
Malachi’s head snaps up. ‘The Crypt?’
The words mean nothing to me, but every vampire within hearing distance reacts. Even through the pain, I feel it. A ripple of dread. Revulsion. The particular horror of predators hearing a punishment built for their kind.
Valentin doesn’t look away from Draven. ‘Bury him beneath consecrated limestone. No blood. No voice. No darkness deep enough to comfort him. Seal him where the old chapel roots touch the stone.’
Malachi swallows. ‘For how long?’
‘Until I remember his name without imagining my hands inside his skull.’
A chill crawls across my skin.
Apparently there are places even vampires loathe. And Draven’s just earned one.
The Twelve’s leader hesitates one fatal second and Valentin’s eyes flare black-red.
Another flinch, then Malachi moves. They’re gone in moments, and the dungeon exhales around the space they leave behind.
I sit on the floor, blood drying under my nose, skull pounding, throat raw, and stare at the formidable, sexy-as-Netheris vampire who just banished his own sired after throwing me into a cell for the exact betrayal that made this little nightmare possible.
My life has become narratively inconsistent.
Valentin turns back to me but the softness doesn’t return.
My laugh scrapes out of me, ugly and thin. ‘Mind-rape is reserved for the scum of the earth and mortal enemies, but apparently your Twelve have no qualms covering themselves with that dubious glory. Well noted, Don Moretti.’
It might be the darkness playing tricks, but I swear he flinches.
The sliver of satisfaction lasts about half a second. Then his expression shutters.
‘I did not sanction this, Eira. And they will feel every moment of their punishment,’ he breathes acidly. ‘But if you are attempting to point me at their crimes so I forget yours, do better.’
My mouth closes as another wave of icy dread washes over me.
The king. The executioner. The vampire who can hold my head like something precious and still look at me like a traitor a breath later.
‘Your witch put poison in my blood through you,’ he says. ‘You sent your blood to her and you lied when I asked for truth, and you refused me again when given the chance to explain.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I snap, too fast, too raw.
