Hearts At Stake

chapter 11

Solange

I was not enjoying this.

We weren’t even there yet and I just wanted it to be over.

We didn’t take the tunnels to Veronique. Her house outside of Violet Hill was completely independent of the Drake compound and Natasha’s royal courts in the caves and pretty much everything else. The house was perched on a hill and painted dark gray, with Victorian gables and stunted thorn trees all around. It was straight out of Wuthering Heights.

“I can’t believe she came here for this,” I muttered as Marcus turned into the lane. It was miles before it wound through the woods and then out onto a clearing with a narrow driveway. “She never comes here.”

“You’re special,” Quinn told me. “She came here for you.”

“Great.”

We got out of the car and I tried not to compare the slamming of the doors to gunshots. Everything had a dark, final feel here. I shook it off. I was letting the melodrama of the house infect me. This was technically my great-great-several-times- great-grandmother. While I doubted she’d baked me cupcakes, I had to assume she didn’t mean me any harm either. Each of my brothers had survived the formal introduction. I would too. I kind of wished Lucy was here; I could have used some of her swagger. I’d just have to find my own.

“Come on, little sister.” Duncan nudged me up onto the porch. The door swung open before we could knock. Veronique didn’t have guards, but she did have ladies-in-waiting. The one who answered the door didn’t betray a flicker of emotion. She was dressed in a suit with a pencil skirt and wore her hair scraped back into a bun. She looked competent and about as warm as winter at the top of a mountain.

“You’re expected,” she said. “Come in.” She stepped aside. “I am Marguerite.”

We bustled into the foyer and then just stood there in a hesitant clump. Even Logan wasn’t flirting with her. London scowled but looked at the floor. There were chandeliers everywhere, made of jet and crystal drops. Oil lamps burned on wooden chests serving as tables. It smelled vaguely like incense. A shield with the Drake family crest hung on the wall with our motto: “Nox noctis, nostra domina,” which translated roughly to “Night, our mistress.”

“Only Solange was summoned,” Marguerite murmured disapprovingly. “The rest of you may wait here.” She pointed to a long church bench. My brothers sat obediently, without a word. That was enough to scare me, even without the whole matriarch thing. “You”—she turned to me—“may follow me.”

I took a deep breath and trailed her down the hallway. There were several doors leading into drawing rooms and parlors and a huge dining room. She ignored them all and went straight back to a set of French doors, opened up into a long ballroom with polished parquet floors and tapestries on the wall.

“Madame.” Marguerite bowed her head. “She has arrived.”

Veronique sat on one of those curved padded benches that were in every medieval movie I’d ever seen. She wore a long blue-gray gown with intricate embroidery along the hem and trailing bell sleeves. Her hair was hazelnut brown, her eyes so pale they were nearly colorless, like water. She was so still, she didn’t look real. There was something definitely not-human in her face. I swallowed convulsively. I was so nervous I thought I might throw up on her. When she moved, just an inch, I jumped.

“Mon Dieu,” she murmured in a voice as distant and mysterious as the northern lights. “Your heart is like a little hummingbird.”

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing, only that it seemed best. Some instinct inside me trembled, like a rabbit under the shadow of an eagle. For all her porcelain beauty, she was a predator.

“So you are Solange Drake,” she said, considering.

“Yes, Madame.” I curtsied, putting every detail Hyacinth had painstakingly taught me into it. This was no courtesy bob a la Jane Austen; this was a full court curtsy. I stepped my right foot behind my left and bent my knees out and not forward. I went as low as I could without toppling over or sticking my butt out. I bent my head slightly. I prayed really hard that she’d be impressed.

“Very good,” she said. “You may rise.”

I stood back up and wobbled only a little. “Thank you, Aunt Hyacinth.”

“I am gratified to know your family has taught you proper etiquette.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Could she tell I was starting to sweat? It was hard to just stand there under her scrutiny. She was so composed, so hard.

“I understand Lady Natasha has summoned you to her court.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“She is not to be trusted, that one.”

“No, Madame.”

“You know the prophecy, of course.”

I nodded.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for a girl to be born to us.”

Great, no pressure.

“Your bloodchange is fast approaching. I can smell it on you. Even frightened as you are, your heart beats slower than it ought to.”

I wondered if that was why I felt like I might pass out. I lifted my chin. I was not going to embarrass myself or my family.

“I would have you strong enough to survive, little Solange. I may not want the royal courts for my own, but I won’t have them taken from our family as if we are nothing.”

She picked up a long silver chain from the small table beside her. The vial on the end was clear, capped with silver and held with more silver work, curled to look like ivy leaves.“Do you know what this is?”

“No, I don’t.” She held it up. From this angle I could see the vial held a dark red liquid inside. “Oh. It’s blood.”

“My own, to be precise.” She twirled it once. I watched it, mesmerized despite myself. “I do not share my blood lightly—only in extreme circumstances, you understand.”

I didn’t understand actually. But if she made me drink that, I really would throw up on her.

“I am prepared to give this to you. When your birthday arrives, drink it and it will give you the strength you need to claim your legacy.”

This probably wasn’t a good time to tell her I didn’t want to be queen.

“Your brothers didn’t need it; the Drake men have been turning for centuries. But you’re different. I am curious to see how this will play out, and precious little incites my curiosity these days.”

So maybe being the bearded lady at the carnival wasn’t so bad after all.

“You will, of course, have to prove yourself worthy.”

“Of . . . course.” Because just handing it over would be too easy. “How do I do that?”

“There are skills every Drake woman should know, to honor her heritage. We will begin with embroidery.”

My mouth hung open. “Embroidery?” I sucked at embroidery. Aunt Hyacinth had tried to teach me, but we’d both given it up as a lost cause. Lucy, strangely, had picked it up really quickly and embroidered a tapestry of Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow for my last birthday. Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to help me right now. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at embroidery.”

Her lips pursed. My palms went damp. Her fangs were out, as pointed and delicate as little bone daggers. “That’s disappointing, Solange.”

I was going to die because I couldn’t embroider roses on a pillow.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Can you draw?”

“A little. I can throw pots. I don’t suppose you have a kiln?”

“No, but duly noted.” She waved her hand and suddenly Marguerite was back. I hadn’t seen her leave, and I hadn’t seen her return. She was carrying a small table like it weighed nothing and a chair. She set them down in front of me, then produced a sketchpad and pencils. “Go on,” Veronique murmured. “Draw me something.”

I wiped my hands and reached for a pencil, eyes racing over my surroundings for a subject. If she asked me to draw her, I might as well kill myself right now. I noticed a clay vase in the corner, holding a bouquet of stakes. I drew vases and pots all the time, getting ideas for my work at the pottery wheel.

I broke the tip of the first pencil. I took another one but had to wait until the tremor in my fingers subsided before trying again. This time I drew lightly, trying to pretend that my future didn’t actually depend on it. Veronique glanced at my page.

“Passable.”

I let out a breath in a big whoosh. She was like the scariest teacher ever. It made me glad I’d never gone to a regular school.

“And now for music. The harp? Piano?”

The harp? Was she serious? My mother taught me how to avoid hunters, shoot a crossbow, and stake a rabid vampire at twenty paces, not how to play “Greensleeves.”

“I . . .”

She rose from her chair with the speed of an ancient vampire and the grace and posture of a prima ballerina.

A prima ballerina who was about to pass judgment on me.

“No music at all?” She did not sound pleased. I stumbled back a step before deciding to hold my ground. I’d been telling Lucy for years not to run because it only made vampires chase you. “Tell me, what can you do?”

I felt useless and insignificant. And I couldn’t think of a single thing I could do that might impress her. How did you impress a nine-hundred-year-old vampire matriarch?

“Math?” she snapped.

“Yes,” I replied, relieved. “I’m good at math.”

“History?”

“Yes.”

“When was the Battle of Hastings?”

“1066.”

“Who was Eleanor of Aquitaine’s first son to rule?”

“Richard the Lionheart.”

“What year were my twins born?”

“1149.”

“Can you fight?”

“Yes.”

“With a sword?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

She clapped her hands once and another woman walked in, wearing the traditional white fencing uniform and face guard. I could tell by her eyes, which were light green, that she was a vampire. I had no idea if she was a Drake. And though I was pretty good at fencing, how was I supposed to beat a vampire? I was still human, and it was late enough that I would have been yawning by now if I’d been any less scared. My opponent gave me a mask and a vest and a foil.

“Begin,” Veronique demanded before I’d even had a chance to test the balance of the blade in my hand.

We began.

I gave the proper salute, bringing my handle up to eye level and bowing. My opponent did the same. Then she lunged. I cross-stepped backward, blocking her attack. The slender blades scraped together. She lunged again and I used a circular parry, low this time. I didn’t touch her, not once. She was too quick, a blur of white. I’d never felt slower. I was at a distinct disadvantage but I kept going.

“Riposte!” Veronique hissed, and I obeyed, cross-stepping forward to attack. I blinked sweat out of my eyes.

She blocked me, feinted, and then brought her sword down toward my head. I held up my own sword, parallel to the gleaming floor, and absorbed the power of the blow in my arms. The force of it rang through my bones. I knew if she’d wanted to, she could have cleaved me in half.

“Enough,” Veronique called out, sounding satisfied. I lowered my arms, panting. There was the sound of footsteps in the hall and then my brothers all trying to race through the door at the same time.

“Solange!”

“Are you hurt?”

When they realized I was unharmed, they stopped together, mouths snapping shut. Their eyes went from me, to Veronique, and then they bowed in unison.

“Bien,” she said to me. “You may go.”

I took off my mask and left it with my foil on the floor. I was halfway to the door in my haste to get out of there when she stopped me. “Solange.”

I nearly groaned. “Yes, Madame?”

“Don’t forget this.” She moved so fast I didn’t see her, but she was suddenly standing next to me. Even my brothers looked startled. She handed me the vial. I slipped the chain over my head.

“Thank you.”