Mr. Vrana (A Soulmark Series Book 4)

by Rebecca Main

  “It can’t be,” Sebastian reasons, dragging his hand down my spine in a lazy caress. I whimper, arching into the touch even as the pain continues. “The only sorcerers in the room are too busy fawning over Valdora to cause you harm. It has to be something else.”

  With a shaky breath, I pull back to rest my forehead against Sebastian’s. “I don’t understand it,” I admit. Distorted anger builds in the pit of my stomach. “It has to be magic. It’s”—the soulmark—"Vrana,” I croak. “Go. He’s in trouble.”

  Sebastian hesitates. Consternation is evident in his mocha eyes. “Where?”

  I close my eyes and reach out with the bond between us, but what little I can grasp at is only pain. “I don’t know,” I tell him.

  “He should be in the Lunarium tonight. I’ll check there,” he says.

  Then Sebastian presses his lips to mine in a languid but passionate kiss. I startle at the suddenness of it all and am prepared to pull away when his fingers dig into my waist. He uses my surprise to his advantage, his tongue plundering my mouth. I force myself to release a small moan and relax into his grip.

  “Stay here,” he orders, pulling back a hairsbreadth, his cold lips brushing against my own with his short command.

  I nod and allow him to stand, gracing him with a brush of my lips against his cheek before he strides away to the elevator. I watch him go with a neutral expression, unconsciously gliding my palms against the glittering material of my gown in a fit of nerves. Before I garner too many more inquiring gazes, I turn to the bar. The pain along my back still resonates throughout my body, but it is now accompanied by a somewhat jarring sensation between my collarbone and shoulder.

  Stay calm.

  “Claire.” I tip my head in greeting to the banshee, taking the seat next to her and ordering myself a vodka tonic from the bartender.

  “Hi,” she responds somewhat breathlessly. I raise an eyebrow to her wide eyes and parted mouth. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting a drink. What does it look like I’m doing?” I ask through gritted teeth as a spasm of electricity rocks my body. I hold myself stiffly, as if a steel rod has taken place of my spine, and force my tone into something more pleasant. “Perhaps I can get you your next drink?”

  “Why?” she asks, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I let out a frustrated sigh.

  “Why not?” I snap back.

  “Irina,” Claire casts a hesitant look around the room, her bone-white hair cascading in luxurious waves in front of most of her face when she proceeds to duck her head. “If you're seen talking and socializing with me, you’ll ruin your social standing.”

  “My social standing is already compromised by my lycan origins,” I respond dryly. I thank the bartender as he sets my drink in front of me. “Or so I’m told.” I cast a none-too-conspicuous glance over at the Roux sisters, earning a trembling gasp from Claire.

  “You really want to sit with me?”

  I grace Claire with a minor glare before softening my rigid posture. “Yes, Claire. Now,” I lean back against the bar chairs short, cushioned backrest. “How have you been since I last saw you?”

  She smiles timidly in return, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Good. There hasn’t been a lot of death the past week, so that’s been a nice rest for my vocal cords.” Claire passes me a grim, self-deprecating smile. Sympathy pulls me from my own discomfort, and I reach over to pat her hand.

  “Maybe you should have tea instead of alcohol for your throat?”

  Claire stares at my hand in shock, color building in her porcelain cheeks. A nervous laugh bursts past her lips as she looks to me. “I do a little of both, to be honest. Tea for my throat. Alcohol for my nerves.” She squirms in her seat, turning her back to the crowd of supernaturals watching our exchange with curiosity. I move my hand to her arm and give another reassuring squeeze.

  “A wise woman once told me to, ‘just be myself.’ Don’t worry about what they say or think, and neither will I. Deal?” My hushed words draw a large sigh from the banshee, and she gives me a grateful smile.

  “Sorry for being so—” Claire makes a funny face and issues a sound from her throat, then laughs hoarsely at my startled reaction. “—blah. Everyone really does tend to avoid me, so I lack the appropriate social skills from time to time.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m neither bothered nor offended by the way you act.” I earn another grateful smile and watch with satisfaction as Claire’s posture softens. Even her scent loses the stringent tinge of sadness and discomfort.

  “How have you been? I noticed you were gone from the court a lot last week. Did it have to do with the full moon?”

  “Mostly,” I respond, taking a drink of my vodka tonic.

  But the cocktail lodges uncomfortably in my throat, falling down my trachea instead of my esophagus. A coughing fit ensues, but quickly becomes more than that. My lungs constrict and force the air out until I can’t find any more breath inside my body. Claire’s eyebrows shoot up, and instantly her hand is at my back, rubbing and patting as my fit continues.

  “Oh my God, are you okay, Irina?” She stares at my paling face in distress. “Irina?”

  I shrug away from her touch, but then it is gone. The brilliant flashes of pain leave my body until all I feel is an ache in my bones.

  “Sorry,” I rasp, before clearing my throat uncomfortably. “That really went down the wrong pipe,” I manage to say with a weak laugh.

  “Would you like some water?”

  I shake my head. “No, it's all right. I'll be fine.” Claire fidgets with her glass, and I realize belatedly she is still waiting for an answer to her earlier question. "Vr—Jakob thought it best I stay in the apartment suite before the full moon,” I lie. “But to be honest, I was feeling a little bit weak from Sebastian’s attention. He can be quite enthusiastic during my bloodlettings.”

  Claire colors brilliantly. “I see.”

  “He says it has something to do with my lycan blood,” I say, continuing my lie with ease. “It’s simply divine.” I let out a breathy laugh and relax in my seat, but a noise jolts me from the other end of the bar... as well as the rest of the bar.

  All supernatural eyes fall to Briar as she makes an unexpected and dramatic departure with her nose thrust high in the air. My eyes narrow on her retreating figure. How curious.

  The room remains still and silent until the gilded elevator lifts her out of sight. Immediately, whispers break out amongst the supernaturals, their speculations ranging from insipid to insightful. I scoff as they reach my ear, but then a timid warmth permeates the soulmark, and my breath catches in my throat. Thankfully, it is not painful.

  I signal the bartender for another drink, finishing mine off in an unladylike gulp. I need that necklace back from Jax, whether Vrana approves or not.

  “Making friends with death’s bitch, I see. How fitting that you two should find each other’s company amiable.” Iris’s voice is venom-coated sweetness as she saunters over to our side. She snatches my fresh drink just as it is set before me. “Oops,” she declares before dropping it.

  The glass shatters upon impact with the glistening black tile floor. The liquid splashes the bottom of our dresses. I wave my fingers at the bartender, ordering another drink silently as I stare down the more formidable Roux sister.

  Iris’s is dressed in a style reminiscent to the ‘20s—one Ruby would approve of. The dress reaches to midcalf and is embroidered in gold all down its front. I feel an irksome twinge of jealousy at how beautiful she looks.

  “Tantrums are for two-year-olds,” I explain patiently. “Not women over the age of one hundred.”

  Claire smothers a jaunty laugh behind a hand.

  “Funny,” Iris snarls back, her hatred clear as day. “And here I thought rumors of your famous bite were all talk. They say you put down three demons, mutt. But I’ve got my money on it being Omar who saved the night.”

 
“Well,” Claire interrupts, her husky voice holding a slight nervous tremor, “I’d put my money on Irina.”

  My heart gives a little jump at Claire’s gesture. “Than—”

  “Nobody cares what you would do, death singer,” Iris says. The caustic turn to her words draw a growl from me. Iris’s emerald eyes snap back to me, and a sharp twist of her lips paints an ugly smile on her face. “Did you just growl at me?”

  Iris’s shrill laughter rings throughout the Cellar, bringing the room’s attention on us. I keep my pose relaxed and my breathing slow. Claire, on the other hand, looks ready to faint.

  “The proper term is banshee and she-wolf. Some vampyrés just never learn.”

  “Why learn when every other supernatural is so inconsequential?” she says, her fangs gleaming in the dim light. The bartender places down my drink and clears his throat. I begrudge him a look over my shoulder, but his attention is on the ample amount of “inconsequential” supernaturals behind Iris. Even the few vampyrés in attendance toss varying disapproving looks her way.

  Iris stands tall and makes a noise of disdain in the back of her throat. “I’d be careful around here, if I were you, mutt.”

  Iris uses her vampyric speed to reach the elevator, her red hair trailing behind her like some vibrant flame. I make sure to keep my eyes on her as she enters the metal box and is slowly taken out of sight. My breath only returns once she is entirely out of sight.

  “She is horrendous,” I utter, spinning around in my seat to rest my elbows on the bar. “Truly.”

  “Agreed,” Claire says. “Thanks for stepping in.”

  I cast Claire a dubious look. “I was just following your lead. You stuck up for me first. Thank you for that, by the way.”

  She blushes furiously. “You’re welcome. It’s nice to have friends that are living.”

  “It most certainly is,” I agree with a small degree of exasperation. I clink my glass against hers. “Now, tell me about the Dark Court. All its ins and outs. I feel sorely lacking in my knowledge.”

  Claire gives an enthusiastic nod, her heterochromia eyes lighting up. “Okay! Let’s see, you know about vampyrés since you’re involved with one… what do you know about the demons here at court?”

  I raise an amused eyebrow. "Creepy black eyes, they can travel through shadows, and they feed off chaos.” I tick the three facts off my fingers as I go.

  “It's called 'shadow walking,' actually,” she corrects me with a kind smile. “And they don’t feed off chaos per sé. When a demon is near a person, they bring out said person’s vices. The longer they stay around, the more a person succumbs to those vices, and that's when the demon can feed off the negative energy they emit.”

  “Oh.”

  Claire sucks the last drops of her drink from a tiny red bar straw. “There's a lot of misinformation out there about supernaturals, but it's by their own doing most of the time. Anyway, that’s why so many demons like to live in large, flashy cities—like Las Vegas! The gamblers. The prostitutes. The drugs. So many vices… it’s like a grand buffet.”

  “So why come to the Dark Court?”

  “To have power and influence over other powerful supernaturals is pretty tempting, I should imagine,” she offers cautiously. “But their demonic influence isn’t as strong on other supernaturals, or if you’re strong-willed. Their eyes aren’t always like that either, if you were curious. In the Dark Court, they don’t keep their glamours on to hide their true face. Adrian calls them black souls.”

  “That’s rude,” I mumble.

  Claire’s facial features contort into a brief grimace. “He doesn’t like a lot of supernaturals. Where do you think Iris got her ‘death’s bitch’ and ‘death singer’ from?”

  Both of my eyebrows raise. “He’s not the most creative man, is he?”

  Claire almost spits out her drink at my offhand comment. It takes her a moment to clear her throat, but then she is laughing. Her mesmerizing blue and green eyes twinkle with mirth before fading away. “He’s creative when it counts, but that's just when demons hang too nearby him. Of course, Mubark despises the demons, especially the ones who loiter after Adrian.” Claire’s features darken. “He’s like Adrian’s personal lap dog. Always following him. Always looking for his approval. Always making comments.”

  My lips purse at the revelation.

  So, Adrian might be influenced by demons? And Omar is jealous of their devotion to his favorite royal head of household? How far would Omar go to gain Adrian’s approval?

  I glance away, so as not to let Claire in on my thoughts. “When did the demons first arrive at court?”

  “In the 1850s, I think.” Claire gives a little shrug, her nose wrinkling as she finishes off the rest of her drink and slams down the glass. “Another, please,” she orders from the bartender in her husky voice. “I can’t quite remember the exact date. It was around the time the last Greater Household was permitted entrance. The Gunwyns.” Lines crease her forehead as her brows draw together.

  “Don’t trouble yourself with it,” I tell her softly. Her scent has shifted. Its bitter undertones alerting me to her anxiety and disappointment.

  “Sor—”

  “Don’t apologize,” I interrupt.

  Claire ducks her head bashfully.

  “You apologize far too much,” I tell her, feeling like a mother hen. “And there’s absolutely no need for you to do it. You’re not in the wrong just because you can’t remember something. Now, sit up straight. Slouching like that will ruin your posture.” Claire does so with wide eyes. She mimics the way I demurely roll back my shoulders and sit back against what little support there is for the bar chair. “Chin up, just a smidgen. Perfect. Now let’s talk about another group here, shall we?”

  Though Claire and I share a secret smile, inside my anger still simmers. But it isn’t solely for Claire. The soulmark once more warms my skin, and pulses with the currents of Vrana’s emotion. The urge to itch and press against the infinity symbol, to stop its incessant beat, is almost too much to bear. Instead, I shift my focus to the sorcerers gathered near the fireplaces.

  “Tell me about them.”

  Claire follows my line of sight. “Do you know much about them?”

  I give a small shake of my head. “Jax is my main point of reference.” Heat infuses Claire’s cheeks. “Do you know him?”

  “Of him,” she mutters guiltily, keeping her eyes on the sorcerers. “He’s a rogue sorcerer. There’s not many of those here. Ones who leave their clans behind and swear allegiance to one household. There are several clans here—albeit small ones—that he could have joined.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  Claire nods. “A lot of the households use sorcerers for infusing magic into jewelry or family heirlooms."

  "And how are they compensated for their magic?"

  "The vampyrés want anything that can make them stronger or give their family an edge. The sorcerers want the vampyrés’ knowledge. You can tell who belongs to what clan by the colors they wear or the instruments they use to conduct magic. They keep to their own mostly, but I’ve always found them to be quite polite. I enjoy the tinctures they make too,” she tells me. “They help me sleep.”

  “And it’s not usual for them to align with a household?”

  Claire’s shakes her head. “The sorcerers were the first supernaturals to gain entrance to the Dark Court outside of vampyrés. They'll take a job if the price is right. No matter who is asking. The shifters have a bit more loyalty.”

  “I suppose it would depend on the animal they shift in to,” I say, dragging my gaze back toward the rowdy group of shifters at the other end of the room. I pause when the pulsing of the soulmark fades away and release a thankful sigh before continuing. “Lycans possess many wolfish traits, even in our human form. There’s the pack mentality to work together. Our loyalty. And the way we stalk and hunt our prey tends to mimic how we face our foes in the flesh.”
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  “William doesn’t exactly possess those traits,” Claire comments.

  “The Beast isn’t entirely lycan anymore, is he?” I rebut. And he’s also a lone wolf.

  “No, he isn’t,” she murmurs, a far-off look to her eyes. After a moment, she shakes herself from her reverie. “I'm sorry, what were we speaking of?”

  “Shifter loyalties.”

  “Ah, yes,” she says, eyes narrowing back on the group at hand. “Shifters tend to have household alignments, but the group as a whole tends to leave those affiliations behind when they get together like this.”

  I tilt my head a fraction to the side, watching her watch them. “Do you like them?”

  “They’re loud,” Claire explains. “And cliquey, if I’m to be honest.”

  “Which you always are,” I am quick to point out, playing with one of the long strands of my dark hair.

  “I’ve learned the hard way that telling the truth is best.” Claire takes her new drink and sips at length on it. “But some are okay—oh, here comes Franklin! She’s honest too.” Claire spares me a grin as Franklin—or Miss Baum—approaches.

  The shifter walks with purpose, her gauzy dress fluttering around her legs as her hips swing from side to side. She has a sharp, calculating glint in her azul eyes.

  “Starting fights without me, Claire?” Franklin stops in front of us, resting her forearm along the back of Claire’s seat. “You know your household has my favor. Currently.”

  “Owls aren’t exactly known for their fighting skills,” she says, a pleasant flush on her skin as her grin remains.

  “One of the bears is taking me under his wing.” Franklin declares with a wink. “I have something for your master.”

  Franklin reaches into her lace bodice and produces a small scroll of paper. Claire’s grin weakens, but she takes the paper with good grace. She pockets it, her eyes scanning the room cautiously as she does.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Of course,” Claire says. “Franklin, this is Irina. Irina, meet Franklin. She works for the Thorburn Household. Currently.”