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Thirty-Five
According to Laila,Morrigan lives in a tower at the back of the castle. Of course she lives in a tower.
In a moment of complete horror, I wonder if one day, I’ll be as gaunt and haggard as Morrigan. I imagine myself living to be over one hundred years old but looking every single one of those years. Not staying young and beautiful like a vampire.
You’d still be beautiful to me,Cyrus says.
Ah, what a charmer.
I hesitate at the bottom of the steps. I can’t stop picturing Morrigan biting off my head in the form of a great dragon, cackling hyena-style in harmony with Laila’s soul-piercing chortle.
You have an overactive imagination, Kira Belvedere, Cyrus says.
Try living with it.
I am, in a way.
I shake my head and make my way up the steep stone steps.Yes, but you don’t have to.
I like it,he says.This room is so boring, and I have no one to talk to. I like your mind.He goes quiet for a moment.But if you’d like me to leave—
No,I say.I like you being there. Plus, you pretty much saved my life with Gabrielle.
It was nothing.But you should watch your back around her.
I’m inclined to agree with him.
By the time I reach the top of the stairs, my chest is heaving with rapid breaths. I hesitate in front of a large mahogany door, not unlike the one that leads into Cyrus’s crypt.
Father’s war room,Cyrus says.I was never allowed up here. Even though I was supposed to rule after him, he kept me away. I think he knew his children would not agree with his actions. He hid them from me intentionally.
By the last bit, Cyrus’s voice is sad. I send what I hope is a warm hug to him.
“Are you going to stand outside all day, or are you going to come in?” Morrigan says from the other side of the door. Before I can respond, she adds, “Kira Belvedere.”
I gently twist the handle and push the door. It’s stiff, and I have to shove it with my shoulder. When I enter, I see Morrigan sitting on a narrow wooden chair by the window.
“Come in, child,” she says. “Take a look at this view.”
I walk over to the window and stare out at the sea. The mainland coast is just visible in the distance. Charcoal clouds gather over the water, threatening a storm.
“You’re here to talk about your destiny. Is that right?”
I turn to the crone, surprised. “No. My ancestor.”
Morrigan shrugs. “Same thing. Sit.” She gestures to the chair opposite hers.
I do as I’m told, my backside uncomfortable against the hard surface.
“You knew Alaric,” I begin. “What was he like?”
“He was a good man,” she says. “Up to a point, that is. To be a necromancer means to live between the living and the dead. One can become too accustomed to the shades of grey.” She clicks her long fingernails together.
“And that happened to Alaric?”
“In a sense. And in others, no, it wasn’t. He fought against his nature and demanded absolute answers to a morally grey question.”
“Whether the vampires should be allowed to exist after what Vladimir Dracul did?”
