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“Well, since you spread your legs so easily these days, why not here in front of the court?”
Anileta froze.
“Hmm, too bad. That was my last offer.” Lucan stood. “Come, let’s get your precious masquerade set. Consider this my last gift.”
At the word masquerade, Anileta rose.
“Yes, Your Highness,” she replied coldly.
Motioning for Senna to begin the court’s entertainment for the evening, Lucan and Anileta disappeared down the back of the dais and toward the inner council chambers. The distant, shrill voices of Anileta’s ladies-in-waiting already made his skin crawl.
fourteen
White & Silver
She slept differently in the castle.
Lighter.
Drifting in a darkened sea, lulled to sleep by the whispers and groaning stone.
In the Evermist, the world was whittled down to nothing but gray and heavy silence pressing in, squeezing until she felt like a collapsing star. Alone with her thoughts—even when Aela and the other fey wolves guided her—they imprinted themselves in her flesh no matter how deeply she had buried them.
For a moment, she wished to become the wild girl running with wolves again.
But here in Lucan’s rot-stained castle, she lurked in the dark, thoughts trained only on one thing: her hands deep inside his chest, wrapped around his black heart.
Sometime during the night—or perhaps day, it was difficult to place the time—she found a service corridor that led to the upper level of the castle. The air smelled sweeter up here; cloying vanilla, rose, and jasmine meant to mask the blood that had seeped through stone for centuries. More of the tapestries she first saw in the lower levels decorated the walls, along with defiled statues of a long-dead woman.
Elarian found her way to the rafters easily enough. It was clear that whoever built this place had never worried about daggers in the dark. The tall Moontowers and vast caverns of the ancient Moon Court she trained in had offered little protection for the young assassin.
This was almost too easy.
Far below, vampires dressed in thick furs and gaudy dresses laughed as they walked the long corridors. Servants would occasionally follow in their wake, holding a woman’s long train or their master’s assorted books and papers. They moved with peaceful grace, oblivious to the moon elf stalking the rafters above their heads.
She preferred them that way, as much as her silver craved their blood.
One death—a servant, at that—might be explained. Any more and she risked drawing Lucan’s attention before her blade was ready. She just prayed to Melistra that he had not yet heard rumors of the maid’s death.
Pressing her cheek against the rough wood grain, Elarian relaxed onto her stomach to watch the activity below. A lady fussed with her maid over her shoes, slapping her before storming off. Like an obedient dog, the woman scrambled after her mistress. Not far from them, a door opened and four guards shuffled out, one stumbling as if drunk.
“Tastes fuckin’ sweeter n’ bloodwine!” he shouted as his fellow guards hauled him away. The faintest stench of iron wafted from the still-open door.
A different guard came marching down the corridor from where the others had disappeared. Elarian’s gaze followed him as he walked further down the plush carpet, then stopped in front of another who had stood waiting for him. They exchanged words and then disappeared through a set of doors.
Elarian breathed slowly as she lay there in the dark. Alone, the memory of the maid’s black blood spilling over her hands rose unbidden.
Wide eyes. Wet, thick gurgles as she choked on her own blood.
Elarian forced the image away. She had not intended to kill the woman, and certainly not so…messily. But the time for regrets had long passed. The corpse was hidden and the ruthless prince blamed in her stead.
She made a stupid mistake, but thankfully, Melistra bent fate her way.
Chest aching from the wood, she slowly sat up, back protesting with a series of deep pops. Stretching her arms wide only returned some of the blood to her weary limbs. As she moved to reposition herself, her fingers brushed against the golden signet ring hidden at her waist—icy cold, even through the stolen cotton tunic.
It had to be his.
A thick golden band, wrought to perfectly hold a set of rubies gleaming like freshly spilled blood.
