by Rebecca Main
“Perhaps his blood rationing should be adjusted, Max?” Cecil offered as the two men walked toward their small audience. “Jakob is, after all, nearing his fiftieth year. Soon his time for rapid growth will come to an end, and his improvement will occur at the rate of a human. Surely a moderate increase in his blood allowance should rectify the situation.”
Max accepted the blut champagne he was offered, tossing it back before he eyed Jakob with a contemplative look in his eyes. Then a smile grew on his face, echoed by his lover.
“Perhaps.”
++
Vienna | Winter 1832
Upon the approach of the New Year, Cecil and Max mysteriously vanished. The only one concerned for their whereabouts was Jakob, who fret when neither Jasper nor Cordelia shared with him their location. His vampyré “lessons” were continued by the two vampyrés in Max’s absence.
Cordelia delighted in discussions of blood. She had acquired a vast amount of knowledge and loved nothing more than to quiz Jakob on who he was drinking. Young versus old. Foreign versus local. Poor versus rich. They all had their subtle flavoring, and Cordelia was an expert in deciphering their nuances.
Jasper brought to their conversations a breadth of knowledge far beyond that of blood. A budding scholar in his human life, books had maintained a source of stability for the century-old vampyré. The two men found themselves quite in accord with one another, spending several nights mulling over chessboards and the finer points of strategy and war, and how it differed in the world of the supernatural.
When the three spent their nights together, Max’s lessons found their way to the surface.
“I miss chocolate,” Cordelia bemoaned before the fire. She was the picture of impropriety. Posture slouched in an oversized chair and stocking-clad feet propped up upon a footstool.
“Your anguish is duly noted, sister,” Jasper commented. He hovered over a chessboard made of lustrous walnut and ash. A frown was deeply set over his mouth at Jakob’s latest move.
Jakob, for his part, smiled at Cordelia’s commentary. Cordelia caught a glimpse of his smile, and the pretty female sent a wink in his direction. “I miss chocolate, as well.”
“Have you heard of the sachertorte? I've heard rumblings it is to die for."
“You’re already dead,” Jasper remarked, still hovering.
Cordelia let out a small humph and righted herself in her seat. She tucked her feet beneath her, and her voluminous skirt puffed up around her as she leaned ever so slightly in the men's direction.
“You’re quite rude, sir. Losing does not suit you.”
Jasper spared the blonde a glare, though the shadow of a dimple marred his left cheek. “What is it that Max is so fond of preaching? Let go of the past and move on with the times. Don’t let yourself get stuck in outdated traditions.” Jasper sent Jakob a meaningful look. “You’ll never pull yourself out of them.”
“You weren’t listening, brother dearest. The sachertorte is set to be all the rage. I’m merely keeping with the times,” Cordelia explained, her deep blue eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Max seems to have an abundance of topics to preach on,” Jakob said.
The two vampyré nodded in agreement. A pleased smile transformed Jasper’s face from stern to something far more relaxed as he stepped away from the chessboard, his knight having found a new home on C5.
“Max is a wealth of knowledge. You would do well to follow his words with care, my friend,” Jasper replied.
Cordelia hummed her agreement, picking out the fasteners and clips keeping her hair bundled up atop her head. Lengthy blonde strands and chunks fell with each removal, and she softly sighed in relief.
“What else might he say to me if he were here tonight?”
“Find a hobby,” Cordelia offered after a long moment, an impish smile planted firmly across her pink lips. “Eternity is a long time.”
The three chuckled and fell into an amiable silence. Then Jakob scrounged up the courage to inquire about his mentor's location once more, hoping this time for an answer. Jasper deferred to Cordelia, and the female allowed her smile to grow. “Why, the Dark Court of course.”
Chapter 7
Present
I’m quarantined to the apartment suite for three nights while the others work on their assignments. My unwillingness to compromise damns me to this glorified time-out.
But Vrana’s wrath can’t sway my resolve.
Claire’s words haunt me in my forced solitude. I can’t win the Dark Court's game. Claire is right. They’d been playing it far longer and know the rules better than I ever could. They can also change the rules and make my situation even more precarious.
No matter... I'll start my own game.
No longer will I be the blithering fool.
No longer will I bow to this Dark Court.
New hope blossoms inside of me. I pester Vrana until I am allowed a chance to execute my plan. At sunset on the third night, he relents. But I am given only one chance to prove myself.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Irina?” Nova asks, stopping before the massive iron doors and their perverted etchings.
“Positive. I don’t want to be babysat. Besides, if I can’t prove that I can hold my own against the courtiers, I’ll only be worse off.” I’ll also never get a moment to myself to try and contact my pack.
Nova’s frown relays her disbelief. “And your grand plan is to sit and be quiet?”
“To be aloof,” I correct with a brittle smile. “I refuse to cower before them.”
“It’s your funeral,” she mutters, opening the doors and striding in.
I draw a long breath into my lungs before following in her wake with my shoulders tossed back and my chin held high in careless arrogance. Around me, the room erupts into whispers. I scan the assembled crowd and locate a vacant seat among the raised stands.
Whispers continue as I choose a stiff-backed chair near a group of men betting on the current fight's outcome. I feel the heavy caress of their gazes like a rough touch upon my skin. The wolf prowls in my mind, ready for action, but I hold it on a tight leash. I cannot afford to lose my temper.
Nova circles the pit once before joining a group of muscled and scarred men hovering near one end. She pays me no mind, but I keep my focus in her direction. I suffer a violent turn of my stomach as the putrid smell of blood and sweat coalesce but push past my discomfort.
Tonight I play the role of the ice queen and set the rules for my game.
Ten minutes is all it takes for the first vampyré to approach. By his looks, the vampyré was turned young. Perhaps when he was teetering on the cusp of fifteen or sixteen? His cheeks hold a ruddy color to them from having fed recently, but it’s the blood crusted at the corner of his mouth that gives his lunch away.
He's but a few feet away when I pin him with a look meant to scald. Every ounce of my disdain for being here is fired through my sights and at the curious vampyré. He falters at my sudden severity, tripping over his own feet as he completes the step he was taking.
A raucous bout of laughter from the vampyré’s friends startles the boy even more, and he shoots them a nasty glare. I roll my eyes heavenward and regret the action immediately, when the sight of severed and decaying limbs wave at me from above. Disgusting.
Nose wrinkled in distaste, I right my features from their harsh positions to something more placid as I set my sights back on the fight.
But I am allowed no reprieve.
The wolf lets out a cautious growl in my mind as I force myself to remain the picture of repose. I see him.
With my peripheral vision, I see the boy vampyré stalk forward. He acts as if we are playing a different game, where I am the prey and he the predator. The corner of my lip twitches upward. Not tonight, leech, I think.
At his next step, I raise my hand in the air, palm facing forward. The gesture halts his approach, and I turn my stony gaze far slower to him this ti
me. After a languid inspection of his lowered head and hunched shoulders and the growing crimson of his eyes, a scoff bursts past my lips. With a flick of my wrist, I wave him away and refuse to pay him any more mind.
Those around us watch with rapt attention, waiting to see what the vampyré youth will do. The foul-smelling air thickens around us as he debates his next move—as he hesitates. The vampyré leans forward, then stands quite suddenly with a rigid spine.
Don’t look, I coach myself. Your heart is colder than an arctic storm. Make them see it.
I’m unsure what makes him finally take his leave—the pressure of the crowd's regard or my unimpressed and standoffish manner. Either way, the vampyré turns, and in a flash, he is back below among his crowing and howling friends. A pleased ripple scores my skin. Excellent.
++
Over the course of the next two hours, I’ve earned a small crowd. A clique of female vampyrés sits to my right, and to my left, an assortment of shifters lounge. The shape-shifters watch with rapt attention as courtiers and household members attempt to break my blasé spirit.
Two women sit somewhere above me. I’m unsure of what they are, the scents and sounds of the Pits too overpowering for me to detect with my lycan senses. They keep a running commentary of the entire goings on of the room, so I keep one ear tuned to them as much as possible.
My careful concentration wavers when Nova enters the ring. The fight begins, and it is immediately clear Nova will win. She is savage and shows no mercy to her opponents.
“A Vrana through and through that girl,” one of the women behind me says. They politely applaud when Nova’s dislocates a vampyré’s arm.
“Both of them,” the other woman replies.
“It’s as if Jakob deliberately spat in the Royal Households' faces with the addition of the little she-wolf.”
“I'm sure the Mubark's will be more than willing to lick their wounds.” Both women cackle, but the sound of their amusement is drowned out by the cry of the audience.
The fight ends thanks to Nova’s ruthless efficiency. While her obvious fighting talent earns her praise, it is clear the crowd would have liked more. More suffering. More screams. More blood.
Nova gives a mocking bow to the crowd before relegating herself to the winners' section near the Royal Households’ boxes.
“You look ravishing.”
I level a scowl at the man who dares approach me.
The man’s dark, wild hair perfectly matches the dark and crazed look in his eyes. My eyes sweep over his crouched position and the way his arm rests casually upon my seat's armrest. The urge to bare my teeth and snarl at the offense is fierce, but I suppress it, letting the molten heat of the wolf’s anger melt into my eyes instead.
The vampyré smiles. “A vision, truly,” he persists. Boyish excitement lilts his words. “I’ve never seen a true lycan.”
I glance back to the fighting well and force myself to relax. Ignore him. He'll leave, just as the others did. Be patient.
The vampyré inches his hand forward toward my face. This vampyré is bold... and about to lose a hand.
“Touch me,” I threaten, my voice butter smooth, “and I’ll break your fingers.”
He laughs. The sound draws what little breath the room holds to a standstill as its inhabitants watch the real match of the day continue: Lycan versus Dark Court.
Several notions run through my mind as his hand inches closer. One, I must stand by my word or lose all credibility I've earned here tonight. Two, he’s a young vampyré. The silver dashes in his eye are faint, which means in his fledgling youth he possesses a wild strength. And three, he wants me to break.
I release the chokehold I have on my wolf to follow its superior instinct with more ease. The rush of the wolf's power makes me shiver. My gums sting as my canines become more prominent, and my hands clench in my lap as my nails shape into small claws. It is only because the full moon is a few nights away that these small transformations are possible.
Soon they'll all learn what happens when you face off with a lycan.
The vampyré traces his icy fingers down my jaw, and I turn into the touch. My lips grace his palm, as I keep my eyes carefully shielded through the thick veil of my lashes. When I release a throaty purr, the vampyré responds with a choked noise of surprise.
“The bitch does get hot for vampyrés,” he breathes excitedly, trailing his fingers to my chin and upward slowly....
When my eyes flash open in all their golden glory, his own widen in shock at their malicious intent. Too late, asshole. Before he can zip away, my teeth snap down on his offending fingers. He howls with rage, yanking back his hand frantically. But like a dog with its bone, I only clamp down harder and use my lycan strength to anchor myself in my seat.
“You crazy bitch!” he shrieks, finally ripping his hand away from my greedy hold.
His transgression has lost him a single finger, which I consider to be fair compensation. He cradles his hemorrhaging hand to his chest all the while glaring at me with crimson eyes. His finger falls to the floor, and I delicately wipe the blood from my mouth and chin.
“I told you not to touch me,” I say.
If possible, his crimson eyes become darker. The vampyré lunges, but I’m saved by some invisible force field. The man smashes into the field and crumples to the ground with a groan.
“Was he bothering you?” Stormrow asks politely.
He approaches from somewhere behind me and comes to stand by my side. A large bow staff is held firmly in his hand. I eye the piece with curiously. The top of the staff is in the shape of a hollow diamond and peaks to a cruel point.
“Not anymore,” I say. I make sure my voice is as bland as possible. “Do be a dear and spare me your handkerchief. I was forced to reprimand this... child.”
Said child hisses and pulls himself up on his feet. He strains forward, but Stormrow’s magic keeps him at bay. “I’ll have you beaten for this. Your blood is mine.”
With moves I didn’t know Stormrow to possess, he inserts himself between me and the vampyré, the sharp point of his bow staff held against the vampyré’s pulse point. To the shock of the crowd and myself, the blackened metal of the staff sizzles against the vampyrés skin.
“If I recall correctly," Stormrow drawls, "she gave appropriate warning. Did she not?” Several agreements sound through the crowd, much to the disgraced vampyré’s ire. Stormrow steps back, his point made.
The vampyré falls to the ground as Stormrow’s spell breaks in the blink of an eye.
“Off you go now," he says. The sorcerer's pleasantry holds a glacial air to it—literally. A chill so sudden and virile shocks the air around us. The vampyré retreats, snatching up his finger and blurring out of the Pits with his vampyric speed.
The show of power isn’t lost on the crowd who break out into excited murmurs. The gossip mills will be running at full speed thanks to our performance.
Stormrow noisily drags a nearby chair up to mine before handing over his handkerchief and sitting. I dab at my chin and lips, taking slow, deep breaths to soothe my wolf. It delights in the blood, and it’s a challenge to cage it once more.
“You’ve gotten it all,” Stormrow comments nonchalantly. I drag the handkerchief away from my chin, clutching on to it still even as I lay my hands on my lap.
“Iris will be thrilled when she hears about this,” I mutter to fill the silence. "'She-wolf goes mad! Protect your households from the feral, bitch.'" My impression earns a sidelong glance from Stormrow.
“Jakob will be even more thrilled,” Stormrow stage whispers.
“Funny.” My droll draws a wide grin from Stormrow. “What are you doing here?”
“Just finishing up some business with Valdora. The woman has an incredible knowledge of healing. Other than that, I heard about the double-feature today and thought I would enjoy the show,” he jeers. When I do not respond, he takes my hand and places a sloppy kiss on my k
nuckles.
"Stop that!" I hiss.
Stormrow's grin cuts deep, and a dimple emerges in his cheek. He bestows a playful bite before releasing me. "Relax," he croons. "I'm not expecting any repayment for my noble deed."
"I didn't need saving."
Stormrow leans in close, his hazel eyes full of trouble. “Of course not, Irina. I know all too well how capable you are when it comes to the men in your life." My cheeks flame red at his insinuation, but Stormrow takes it a step further, brushing his shoulder against mine as he continues forward.
“Storm—” His eyes flash at my slip, and he gives a subtle shake of his head. “Jax, where are the others?”
“You mean your dear Sebastian? He can’t be with you all the time. I hope you’ll be satisfied with my presence in his absence.” Jax brushes a strand of hair from my face and softens his gaze. I lean away with a gentle huff.
“You’re adequate… I suppose.”
Jax lets out a loud and unruly laugh a beat after my pronouncement. His ash brown hair falls out of place from its carefully manicured position. When he finally abates, he runs a hand through his hair, disturbing it even further. He looks wild and untamed at this moment, and far too mischievous for his own good. I've seen this expression worn before... by Ryatt. The thought seizes my heart in a death grip and releases after a long, painful second.
“I shall relent my teasing, then. Have you been behaving tonight?”
“I’m no savage,” I say and pass him a sly grin of my own.
“Not in comparison to the Beast," Jax concedes. I cock my head to the side, my eyes drifting to the room's entrance. Crowds of people are beginning to enter and take up the seating around us.
"Who's the Beast?"
“He's on tonight's docket to fight Delacroix's pets." Jax sneers as he delivers the last word, his contempt unbridled for a singular moment before he tucks it back away. "The Beast is a hybrid. He's half vampyré and half lycan. Not to mention the only of his kind.”
My eyes widen as my lips part in awe. “That’s impossible.”
