Page 52
“The courtesan the Bloodlord sent has arrived.”
“Has she?”
Lucan shifted his weight forward, lips parted as he breathed in deeply. He scented only old stone, rosemary, and bloodwine through the open doorway. Nothing useful.
“Let her feed if she requires, then bring her to the masquerade. I am eager to view this new treat.”
The servant bowed again, then disappeared the way he came.
Senna softly touched Lucan on the forearm, then handed him several golden bracelets.
“Do you truly trust his generosity?”
Lucan laughed. “I trust him to poison every gift before it reaches my hand.” His gaze passed over the offerings, then waved them away. “No. No gold, Senna.”
As he spoke, something buried deeply in his putrescent heart flared. Before Senna could offer another suggestion, Lucan found himself crossing to an old walnut desk tucked against the wall.
His hands moved of their own accord, opening a low drawer in his desk and retrieving a small, unceremonious wooden box. Curious… He hadn’t opened this in years. He tried to stop himself but felt as if a marionette on strings. Gripping the wooden box, he set it on the desk. Age had splintered its edges, deep stains splotched across it like outlines of a watercolor map. He pressed against a hidden latch and the box unfolded.
Within lay an assortment of trinkets. A pen with a fine silver tip. Finger bones. A lock of stark white hair, plaited and tied with a delicate purple ribbon. And—the prize he sought—a braided leather bracelet.
As he pulled it over his hand, he told himself he only wore it because it was black.
“An odd choice, sir,” Senna observed.
Lucan turned the bracelet around his wrist once, studying the cracked leather.
“Mhm.”
He really couldn’t remember why he had kept the old thing—only that throwing it away felt impossible. It was only a part of the game—had to be.
nineteen
Masks
Elarian stood under bright witchlights surrounded by vampires. Her skin crawled, breath in her mouth rank.
But she remained dutifully still, golden mask arranged over her face and silver hair pinned back with more than a dozen glittering rubies. She wondered if this was ever what Reshva had planned. Would he see this as necessary, or the continuation of her failure the other day in the chapel? Would the Knight-Saint even let her return after she had been so defiled—and fucking liked it?
Before she could sink into despair, the tall wooden doors in front of her groaned open.
Music spilled through first.
It was not the frantic rhythm of moon elf festivals, nor the solemn hymns of the supplicants in the Grove. This was older, slower, yet intoxicatingly lively. Strings sang beneath the vaulted ceilings, perfectly harmonized with shimmering crystal chimes.
Elarian stepped inside, breathless.
The ballroom was unlike anything she could quite imagine.
Hundreds of witchlights floated high above polished black marble, their reflections dancing across the floor until it seemed the guests walked upon a midnight lake. Emerald banners cascaded between towering columns wrapped in flowering ivy. Rich violet silks draped every balcony, threaded through with gold so fine, they shimmered whenever the music stirred them. Crystal chandeliers caught the first rays of moonlight filtering through the eastern windows, scattering pale starfire across jeweled gowns and polished masks alike.
It was grotesque.
It was magnificent.
Vampires drifted across the room in ostentatious masks, laughing softly behind jeweled fans while servants moved among them carrying golden trays laden with bloodwine. Every movement seemed rehearsed, every smile sharpened, laughter concealing fangs.
Elarian lowered her gaze beneath her gilded mask.
