As the wine slides down my throat, warmth blossoms in my chest. I take another sip, appreciating the complex flavors.
It’s not that bad, really.
Almost instantly, my body feels lighter. The foggy feeling in my head clears, and my fatigue lifts away. It does nothing for the jittery feeling in my stomach, though. Nor does it settle my racing heart.
Neither does it stop warmth from pooling in my belly and spreading between my thighs.
But I do feel much better.
Corvan was telling the truth. His blood, even when mixed with wine, is a healing elixir.
I open my eyes. He’s standing now, watching me closely. Everything seems clearer. The sunlight—wintery and faint as it is—appears brighter. The colors are more vivid, especially his irises, which are flecked with brown.
A strange sound fills my ears. It takes me a while to realize what it is—the whispering of many voices, speaking a language I don’t understand. Frantically, I look around, but there’s nobody there—only Corvan, watching me intently.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his brows furrowing in concern.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
The voices grow louder. The glass—mostly empty—falls from my hand.
Like lighting, Corvan is there, catching the glass before it shatters into a thousand pieces. His big hand curls over my shoulder, his touch gentle in spite of his strength. “What’s wrong, Finley?”
I grip the armrest, my fingers digging into the wood. “I don’t know. I feel better. Not tired anymore. But strange, like there’s something inside me, and it’s fighting to get out.” I grip the chair tighter.
Maybe I’m imagining things, but it almost feels like the wood has turned into soft wax beneath my fingers.
I must be hallucinating.
Fear grips me.
Was there something in that wine?
Did they… drug me?
The whispering grows louder; it’s like a choir, a thousand voices speaking in unison, in a melodic, mournful cadence. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but it’s strangely comforting.
“If… if I told you that I think I’m going mad right now…”
Corvan is staring, but he isn’t looking at me.
His attention is drawn toward my hand, which is curled around the armrest.
His eyes go wide. He whispers something under his breath—a short, sharp curse.
“Ciel!” he bellows.
He turns to me and places his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. “That’s enough, Finley. Rest easy. I’ve got you.”
All of a sudden, the vampire archduke is comforting me, and his body feels warm and solid. His scent surrounds me; he smells faintly of leather and myrnim and crisp, woody fragrance, mingled with something warm and delicious and undeniably male.
“That’s some strong wine,” I say half-heartedly, hiding my terror as the sound of whispering starts to recede. Relief courses through me. He’s just as surprised as you are. He didn’t poison you. “I hope you weren’t trying to get me drunk, Corvan.”
“Not my intention at all, believe me,” he murmurs, gently removing my hand from the armrest. He threads his fingers through mine, holding my hand still.
His palm is large and callused. That makes sense. I’ve heard he’s a master swordsman.
Across the room, a heavy wooden door opens, and Vinciel appears. He’s changed into more fitting attire; grey trousers and a blue jacket over a crisp white shirt. His long golden hair is tied at the nape of his neck with a dark blue ribbon.
“Explain this,” Corvan growls, gesturing toward the chair. One of his arms is around me. In his other hand is the empty wineglass.
The physician looks down. His blue eyes widen in shock. “You did that, Your Highness?”
“Not me. Her. As soon as she drank it, something strange happened. This is what she did to the chair with her bare hands. Explain.”
Vinciel slowly shakes his head. “I can’t.”
For the first time, I follow the direction of the physician’s gaze.
He’s looking at the polished wooden armrest. Corvan’s staring at it too.
When I gripped it, it felt like my fingers were sinking into wax.
Now I understand why.
Right there, in the dark polished armrest, is an imprint exactly the same size and shape as my hand. It’s as if the wood had turned to clay when I gripped it.
And the memory of whispering voices rings loud in my mind.
“I take it you have no idea what this is either, Finley?” Corvan asks in a low, gentle tone.
I turn to him. “Maybe I’m hallucinating. Does your blood have that effect on people?”
The Archduke of Tyron frowns. The wine must be going to my head, because I can’t stop staring at him.
He’s so handsome it hurts.
“I wasn’t aware that tasting my blood could cause one to develop the ability to melt wood, but then again, stranger things have happened.”
21
CORVAN
After escorting Finley to her quarters with strict orders for her to rest, I make my way to the mess hall.
I have a thousand questions, and there isn’t a single doubt in my mind that my father sent Finley Solisar here for a reason.
The ability to mold wood as if it were clay?
What is she?
I force myself to walk at a normal pace, acknowledging the servants as we cross paths. Their reaction to me is as expected; a pause, a deep bow, eyes downcast, body language betraying their fear.
I don’t know all of them by name. Gerent is responsible for hiring and training them. The former seneschal of my palace in Grenovia, on the outskirts of the capital, he runs a tight ship, and I trust him implicitly.
He selects the staff carefully, combing through their family ties, work history, debts, and weaknesses.
Weeding out anyone that could be compromised.
I exit the main castle through a side-door and cross the vast, empty courtyard. It’s midday. The sky is blue and cloudless.
For the first time in three years, I’m able to walk in the sunlight without hiding my face. It’s her blood that’s done this to me. I feel clear-headed and refreshed. My vision is sharper, my hearing more acute.
The terrible thirst that torments me for so much of my existence…
It’s completely gone.
And yet, her aftertaste lingers in my memory, as sweet as anything I’ve ever known.
I reach the stone walls of the soldiers’ barracks, passing rows and rows of imposing steel-and-glass windows. The stark rectangular building gives way to a hall with high walls and a tall gabled roof. Smoke drifts lazily into the air from a wide stone chimney. The aromas of beef stew and freshly baked bread fill the air.
This place… it reminds me of days of old; of long, hard training and evenings spent in the company of fighting men, with good food and cold beer.