“She left his general alive—though forever tainted—and sent him back to the House of Blood with the prince’s head.”
Septimus’s eyes slipped back to the fire. “I have only heard my mother cry once,” he murmured. “Only once.”
Understanding dawned on me.
“He was your brother,” I said.
“One of them. My parents were unusually fertile for a vampire couple. I had seven siblings. Six brothers. One sister.”
Had.
He let out a humorless laugh. “The sister is alive. Not that that’s much comfort to my parents. Maybe they’re still off in the House of Blood right now, trying to make another male heir. Still hoping that prophecy of theirs might come true somehow.”
He lifted his cigarillo to his lips.
“Do you know what that makes me, dove? That makes me the last resort. So, you see…” A wry smirk, and he let out a long, slow stream of smoke. “I understand what it feels like to not have time. You and I, we don’t get centuries to play our games like they do. And I think it makes us better. More ruthless. More willing to do what needs to be done.”
He moved closer, still—so close that I felt the urge to lean back in my chair, put some more distance between me and the hungry look in his eye.
“And I am willing to do whatever needs to be done.”
I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. I’d learned young to recognize when vampires were looking at me with desire—though this wasn’t about desire for my blood or my body. This, somehow, seemed even more dangerous.
“I should be going,” I said. “Get some rest before—”
I started to rise, but Septimus caught my arm.
“My bet has always been on you, Oraya,” he said. “And if I have to choose, my bet will stay with you. All I ask for is loyalty.”
I fought hard to keep my face still. To reveal nothing.
Septimus was choosing his words carefully. But I knew what he was offering me. Knew what he was implying.
And for better or for worse, I knew that if I accepted his offer, he would hand me the crown to the House of Night. Yes, it would be a dangerous offer, the crown attached to more puppet strings than even Raihn’s.
My father, I knew with sudden certainty, would have taken this deal.
Months ago, I would have denied that. I had looked at the deal Raihn made and snidely, haughtily declared that Vincent never would have lowered himself to such a thing. Never mind that Vincent had proven himself more than capable of taking extreme measures. Never mind that Raihn had been backed into a position where he had no other options—backed into that position to save me.
I couldn’t consider those things then. It was easier to ignore uncomfortable truths. Now, uncomfortable truths were the only kind that remained.
Vincent would have taken the deal. Used the Bloodborn like a weapon to cut out Raihn’s knees from beneath him. Sold whatever he needed to sell to get power. Dealt with the consequences later.
He had, after all, already done such things before.
A few months ago, I wanted nothing more than I wanted to be Vincent. Run his kingdom. Be worthy of his blood. Win back his crown.
I looked down at Septimus’s hand, slender fingers curled around the cigarillo. His little finger was tucked in, mostly hidden, but I could see the tremors nonetheless. Both hands, now.
“I know better than to make a deal with a desperate man,” I said. “Besides, you’re right. I am tired of being caged. I recognize bars when I see them.”
I stood and put out my cigarillo in the ashtray, not breaking Septimus’s silver-gold stare.
“Thanks for this,” I said. “See you at the wedding.”
35
ORAYA
The dress was indecent.
Cairis had picked it, surely. Everything about the design was flawlessly deliberate. The patriotic colors of the House of Night, blue and purple rendered in layers of rich, rippling silk. The asymmetrical neckline, which echoed the style of Rishan men’s jackets—matching, I was sure, Raihn’s. The silver trim and metal accents, chains over my shoulders and hanging down my back. The long train. The tight cut, revealing too much.
And of course, the mantle, tight dark fabric that went over my shoulders, buttoning all the way up to my throat—designed, clearly, to hide my Heir Mark.
Cairis sent in half a dozen young women to help me dress and attend, it seemed, to every part of my body—my hair, my skin, my eyes, my lips. I protested at first, practically snarling at the first poor girl who came at me with a brush. But they were persistent, and eventually I came to realize it wasn’t worth fighting. I let them surround me in a flurry, and when they were done, they left just as suddenly, leaving me swaying in front of the mirror.
I should have hated the version of myself I saw.
I wasn’t so sure that I did.
Without the mantle, the gown was even more revealing than the one I’d worn at the Halfmoon ball, which had scandalized me at the time. I toyed with that mantle now, picking at the intricate silver embroidery. Beautiful, of course. And the Oraya of not long ago would have appreciated it—something thick to cover my arms and chest and throat, one more layer between my heart and the rest of this brutal world.
I undid the buttons one by one and let the fabric fall from my shoulders.
My Heir Mark pulsed, glowing slightly in the dimness of the room. Maybe my human eyes, much more sensitive to the difference between light and darkness, were more aware of that than those of my vampire counterparts. It seemed to fit the dress so perfectly, the neckline framing the wings of red ink across the span of my shoulders, the plunging V revealing the spear of smoke between my breasts.
It would be safer to wear the mantle.
Cover my throat. Cover my Mark. Make myself small and unnoticeable. The cynical part of me could say that Raihn’s circle wanted me to cover it because it made him seem more powerful, but I knew the truth was more complicated than that—knew that the Mark also posed a significant risk to me, a target painted right over my heart in a room full of stakes.
And maybe a part of myself was happy to hide it, ashamed of what this Mark meant—even as I still longed so fiercely for the man who had worn it before me.
Even though that man would have hidden it from me my entire life.
It had been a long time since I’d really looked at myself in the mirror. My body was starting to look healthy again, the muscles more defined on my shoulders and arms, the high slit of the skirt revealing a graceful swell of thigh. I turned around and looked at my back. The dress dipped low without the mantle’s cape, leaving it bare. The firelight played over the topography of my skin—tight over newly-developed muscles, stronger than they ever had been even at my peak physical fitness, marred by a few scars from a lifetime of fighting.
I was as strong as I was before. Stronger, even. My body showed it.
I faced forward again, running my gaze from my feet to my face. My face—serious and stoic. Big silver eyes. Low dark eyebrows. Cheeks that were starting to fill out. A mouth that was too thin and serious.