“You can’t wield it now,” I said, “because it’s mine. It belongs to the Hiaj Heir.”
I nodded down—to my chest, and the tattoo pulsing across it.
“But,” I said. “I could transfer ownership to you.”
“I’m not foolish enough to let you hold that blade.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Just let me touch it. That’s all. And it’s yours.”
She went still—that unnatural vampire still. I could see the calculation behind her eyes.
She’d kill me anyway, of course. That was what she was thinking. She wanted it all—the companionship, the Heir Mark, the sword, the crown, my blood. She wasn’t willing to give up any of those things after centuries of constant sacrifice.
“Fine,” she said.
She brought the sword closer to me, holding it out, while maintaining a strong grip on it over the cloth.
“I need my hands,” I said.
Her mouth thinned. Still, she nodded to one of her children. The little girl, the one who had been watching me so warily, approached me with a little dagger. Her abrupt slice through the binding cut my wrist, too.
Hands free. That was something. Not enough. But something.
I gave her a weak smile and gingerly pulled back the cloth wrapped around the blade. The red glow seemed much stronger than usual now, warming my face and reflecting in Evelaena’s eyes, which were wide and unblinking.
I stared at it. My father’s blade, supposedly carrying a piece of his heart. Just being this close to it again made me feel as if Vincent was standing just over my shoulder, forever out of sight.
If you are, I thought, you’d better help me here. You owe me that.
That’s a rude way to speak to your father, Vincent replied, and I almost scoffed aloud.
I took a deep breath and opened my palms over the blade, just an inch or two from the surface. I closed my eyes and tried to look very, very serious.
I was bullshitting so fucking hard.
Use this moment, Vincent commanded in my ear. This may be an act, but it might be the only time you get to prepare yourself.
He had a good point. I used this moment to connect to the forces around me, feeling the room.
Feeling the Nightfire.
I was probably too weak to generate it myself right now, or at the very least too inconsistent to be certain I could, but… I could feel it pulsing in those torches, the energy familiar, if weak and distant.
I could work with that.
All I needed was a few seconds of distraction.
I opened my eyes to meet Evelaena’s.
“It’s done,” I said. “Try it.”
She looked wary. “Are you sure it worked?”
“This is powerful magic. It knew you were blood.”
Telling her what she so desperately wanted to believe. The flare of desire in her eyes showed me she’d bought it.
The little girl was still giving me that wary stare, and she tugged on Evelaena’s skirt, as if in silent protest.
Evelaena ignored her as she unwrapped the sword.
“Take its hilt,” I said. “It’s ready to accept you.”
She was definitely going to see through this. How could she not?
But hope was a strange, potent drug, and Evelaena was at its mercy. She took the hilt and drew the sword.
For a moment, nothing happened. The room was utterly silent. A slow smile of glee spread over her lips.
She started, “It’s—”
—And then she let out a shriek of pain.
The steady glow of the blade flickered in erratic spurts. The scent of burnt flesh filled the room. The sound Evelaena was making rose from a moan to a scream, but she wouldn’t release the sword—or maybe the sword refused to release her. Several of the children ran to her side, pulling at her in panic. The rest hugged the walls, watching wide-eyed.
Move, Vincent roared. Move now!
One chance. One opening.
Fear is the fucking key to it, Oraya, Raihn had screamed at me, during the Halfmoon trial.
He had been right. The key was all the ugliness, all the weakness I refused to look at. Everything the sword had pulled up in me. Everything that had hurt me.
I reached deep.
Deep into my heart and my past and the memories.
My rage, my grief, my confusion, my betrayal. I took all of it. I ripped it all open inside myself.
Beneath it all was sheer power.
The brightness of the Nightfire seared my vision. Evelaena’s screams were so loud, so constant, they faded to a distant din beneath the blood rushing in my ears. Her form was difficult to make out around the fire, but she was stumbling, unable to control herself, still clutching the sword.
I leaned forward, ignoring the pain as the nails tugged at my wings, and grabbed her.
She was half limp. She turned to me, wide-eyed, and in that split-second, I saw exactly what she must have looked like as a five-year-old child, the night that Vincent had driven his blade through her chest.
For a moment, she looked at me like I might save her.
I didn’t. I pried the sword from her hands.
The moment my own closed around its hilt, the pain took me. I thought I couldn’t feel pain anymore, compared to what had been done to my wings. I had been wrong. This was deeper than flesh. Deeper than nerves.
For a moment, I wasn’t here anymore. I was in a dozen different places at once.
I was in a ruined tower in Lahor.
I was in Sivrinaj, in a colosseum full of screaming spectators, kneeling before a goddess.
I was in the Nightborn castle, sitting at my desk.
I was in my private training arena in the castle, training with my daughter, my daughter who needed to be better than this if she was to have any hope of surviving this world.
I was lying in the sands, my daughter holding me, death looming over her shoulder.
Stop.
But the images kept coming—more than images, sensations. I lost my grip on the world around me. The tide swept me away.
STOP STOP STOP STOP—
Focus, Oraya.
It wasn’t Vincent’s voice in my head this time. It was my own.
You have one chance. Right now. Take it!
I barely managed to claw myself back to awareness. The sword hurt to hold, but I refused to let it go.
I cut through the ropes binding my legs and stumbled forward. Pain flooded me as my full weight pulled against my wings.
The Nightfire had overtaken the room. Several of the children now climbed up the debris on the side of the walls, trying to stay away from the flames. Evelaena had pushed herself to her hands and knees, crawling toward me, a sword clutched in her burned-up hands.
No time to figure out how to get rid of my wings.
I pushed off against the wall and screamed as the delicate flesh ripped free.
I flung myself at Evelaena, pinning her to the ground. Her sword went sliding across the floor.
She reached for me. “Cousin—”
I didn’t let her speak.
I drove Vincent’s sword into her chest, right through the scar he had left two hundred years ago—straight into her heart.
She went slack beneath me, her eyes filling with betrayal before going vacant.
My breath was labored. The Nightfire still clung to the corners of the room.
I tried to get up—