by Rebecca Main
“I have to admit, I’ve been dying to meet you,” she says, brushing her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and revealing the black gages in her ears. “They keep you on quite the studded leash.”
I flash her a smile full of teeth. “Not on the full moon.”
Franklin smirks in kind. “Touché. I heard you tore apart the Vrana apartment suite in a fit of lycan rage.”
“Oh, no,” I say, smile still ice cold. “Lycans are very much in control of their sensibilities while in our wolf forms. Nothing we do is without purpose.” I earn an appreciative nod from the shifter and watch as she flags down the bartender.
“Shots,” she says, gesturing toward the three of us. “Something to take the edge off.” Claire looks ready to protest, but Franklin gives her a reassuring pat on the back. “Relax, Claire. It’s just a shot. And after your evening, I think you need it.”
“What happened earlier?” I ask. Claire fiddles with her drink, avoiding my inquiring gaze.
Franklin arches a fine blonde brow. The piercing there catches the light from above. “Do you mind?”
Claire shrugs a shoulder carelessly, though it's obvious the subject makes her uncomfortable. Not only that, but there is a noticeable glaze to Claire's eyes. I realize belatedly that I don't know how many drinks Claire drank before my arrival, and I am poised to decline on Claire’s behalf when the owl shifter barrels on.
“The heads of the royal households had a closed hearing today for two of the Lamberg members. They made them fight to the death, with Claire acting as a spoiler of sorts.”
My mouth falls open. “That’s... cruel.”
“That’s court.” Franklin’s hand remains at Claire’s back as she continues, rubbing small circles into her shoulder blades. “But the Lamberg fellow who bit the dust was acting so pathetic, begging in the face of death—oh, thanks!” Franklin chirps as the bartender sets before us three shots.
“Rhodiola?” Claire asks, sniffing the green tinted liquor.
“You look like you could use it,” Franklin explains. She clicks her shot glass against ours with enthusiasm and downs the shot easily. The taste of the alcohol burns down my throat but soothes itself a moment later along with some of the other aches in my body.
“Well, that’s mildly addicting,” I comment, licking my lips like an afterthought. Claire stares grimly at her shot before tossing it back.
“Very,” Franklin agrees knowingly. “Onto more well-mannered subjects. Did you hear about Valdora?” Claire and I shake our heads in unison, and Franklin bounces on the balls of her feet as if her energy and excitement can’t be contained.
“She’s a sorceress, right?”
“That’s her,” Franklin says, and tosses a quick look over her shoulder at the female near the fireplace. She is dressed in dark purple and silver, a corseted top making her bust a pleasant pit stop for the male gaze. Her hands are raised above her head as if in a dance, but the glittering particles emerging from her fingertips say otherwise. I study her grace covertly and note the dark tattoos upon each wrist: sun on the right and moon upon her left.
It is difficult to tear my eyes away from her heart-shaped face.
"She's enchanting," I say. Franklin snorts, and I force my regard away from the sorceress.
Franklin arches a brow, haughty as ever. "Isn't she just?" I flush at her bland insinuation. “The Duchess has recently taken Valdora on as her apprentice.”
Claire perks up. “Really?”
“Which means Valdora is a tempest. She is a sorceress warrior.”
“Fascinating,” I say in a mimic of her earlier tone. Franklin deflates at my lack of excitement but quickly regains her energy. Directing it toward Claire instead.
“It is fascinating! There hasn’t been a new tempest at the Dark Court in ages.”
“Will they announce her calling soon?” Claire asks.
A hawkish gleam flashes in Franklin’s blue eyes. “Lightning. I did a little personal recon on the matter. Your man Jax should be careful—a sorceress scorned isn’t fun to deal with. But a tempest.” She makes a tsking noise with her tongue. “I noticed he was sporting a new gemstone in his staff earlier this week. One that looked mighty similar to the kind Valdora wears in her jewelry. Well, at least to me it did.” She takes a step back, an evil smile on her lips. “I should get back to my friends. I just thought I would come over and chat a bit. Oh, and tell Ruby I’m sorry about the other night… I’ll make it up to her somehow later.”
She doesn’t wait for our goodbye, returning to her group with the same swagger as she approached us with. I find myself at odds with her brief appearance. Her kindness to Claire earns a small amount of favor from me, only for me to be irritated by her brash comments. I tear my eyes away from her lovely figure and pin Claire with a frosty look.
“She’s watching my household?”
Claire fusses with her hair nervously, before giving a plaintive sigh. “To be fair, everyone has been watching your family. The fact that Jakob has somehow reclaimed his household's previous position is astounding. Especially after everything he's done.”
“How is it you know so much?” I ask. My voice is deceptively soft. Claire doesn’t take notice.
“My mother taught me the history of the court. Just as her mother did for her. It’s important to know the web of relationships here—and everyone knows about the fall of the Vrana Household. How Jakob turned on his household and slaughtered them. His banishment. And now he’s back?” Claire forces a laugh. “It’s incredible. Granted, not everyone is impressed.”
“Like the Mubarks?”
Claire opens and closes her mouth, her gaze becoming furtive once more. An ounce of frustration spills inside of me.
“I shouldn’t say. It’s not wise to speak ill words upon the higher houses.” My prolonged silence makes Claire restless. She fidgets with her drink once more, before she takes a deep sip, and I let the silence marinate between us. “Nova has impressed the court with her skills in the Pit,” she continues, a strain to her voice as she forces the conversation onward. “Even the Pulzins have complimented her skills once or twice, which is saying something. Jakob coming back and restoring his household to its former glory is like a Cinderella story. Except for—”
She halts abruptly. Her face is frozen in fright before she frantically smooths her expression.
“Except for what?” This time Claire takes note of my deadly tone, and her skin turns almost as pale as her hair. I make as if to leave, pausing in my seat to shoot her a hurt look. “I thought we were friends, Claire.”
The words are a low blow, but they do the trick. She takes hold of my arm and tugs me back into my seat, her eyes scanning the crowd surreptitiously. “I am your friend,” she tells me earnestly. “It’s just… I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“I have thick skin.”
Claire swallows thickly. “Everything about Jakob coming back is like some epic redemption story. The only part that doesn’t fit into the equation is you and Sebastian.”
I square my shoulders, unable to hide the sudden stiffness in my form. “And why is that exactly?”
“If you hadn’t noticed, there aren’t exactly a plethora of lycans in the Dark Court. Your kind is too… moral. At least for the likes of this crowd.”
The Wselfwulfs flash in my mind. Their treatment of their own people like a hot brand in my mind. Not all lycans were moral. “Your point?” I ask tersely.
“A lycan with a vampyré isn’t natural. I wasn’t there to hear Jakob’s case for your family, but apparently, he received a lot of flak from the Royal Households for bringing you in as Sebastian’s consort. He’s been spending his daylight hours meeting with the echelons of the Royal Households to appease them. Though obviously, some aren't taking to his words....”
I smooth my hair in hopes of hiding the lump I must swallow in my throat. I take a drink, striving for nonchalance. “I don’t expect people
to understand what Sebastian and I have.”
“A lot of us don’t,” she mutters. My icy gaze spears through her.
“Excuse me?”
Claire squeezes her eyes shut. “I didn’t mean it like that. But it’s no secret your kind has a natural dislike for vampyrés. Lore has it your kind was created to fight them. Yet, here you are, ‘in love’ with a vampyré.”
“Stranger things have happened, surely,” I argue.
A heat builds on her cheeks—one that has the odd effect of spreading to my own. “You just act so aloof. It’s not… natural.”
“And why not?” I demand. Her flush intensifies, as does mine.
“Because,” she hisses, casting a fretful look over my shoulder at the Cellar's occupants, “everyone knows how… erotic it is to be bitten. How addictive it is, in its own way. And you spend an awful lot of time recovering from bloodletting, Irina. But you act distant, for lack of a better word."
The words I mean to speak, stall painfully in my throat. I look away, catching the way the bartender turns away too fast. He heard. I take a calming breath. My next words are chosen carefully.
“I’m—” Another choking lump lodges in my throat. “—ashamed.”
Claire’s mismatched eyes widen at my stilted confession. But I stare resolutely at my nearly empty glass. A flash of Vrana’s face enters my mind. His perfectly placed blond hair. The harsh slant of his jaw. The fullness of his bottom lip and those achingly stormy eyes.
“I shouldn’t want him,” I confess. “But I can’t help it. I can’t get him out of my head, or out from under my skin. No matter what I do or try, he’s there. Haunting me. And I know I shouldn’t. I know it goes against everything.” I issue a hoarse laugh. “But I can’t fight it.”
“How did you meet?”
I rock back in my seat, caught off guard by her breathless question. I finish off my vodka tonic and push it toward the end of the bar. “We were fighting, if you can believe it.”
The soulmark gives tingles at the memory of our union.
“And now you’re together?”
I nod, keeping my gaze averted. “It’s different here. Before we came, it was simpler. Now I have to be on guard every second.”
“Which explains the cold demeanor you’ve been toting,” she finishes with a heavy sigh. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. Integration isn’t exactly smiled upon here. I don’t know if there will ever be a point for the two of you to just be unless the Dark Court gets a major change in leadership." Claire emphasizes her point with an eye roll. "Someone will always want to test the strength of your relationship or question your place in the court.” She passes me a meaningful look, lips thinning as her brows pull together. “Be careful... it can happen at any time. Sooner than you may think,” she trails off in a whisper.
I nod at her thinly veiled warning. My thoughts suddenly a tumbling mess. We sit in silence for a time. The weight of the other supernaturals’ regard is like a stone upon my back. Every move I make feels constricted under their scrutiny, and it isn’t until I depart that my shoulders sag in relief.
++
I hesitate before the apartment suite's door, the raven’s unseeing eyes tearing through me. A sudden massive pull from the soulmark urges me forward, its strength almost punishing in its intensity. With a breath, I steal my nerves and enter our apartments.
Only to run headfirst into Sebastian’s chest.
“Oomph!”
Strong hands steady me, Sebastian’s hold a reassuring presence on my shoulders as I regain my shaken equilibrium. I brush the hair from my eyes and stare up at him questioningly.
“Sorry,” I apologize softly, moving to step around him, but Sebastian’s grip tightens.
“We have to go,” he tells me.
I arch a brow, peering past him to Vrana sitting on the couch. A cup of blood in one hand, a stained red cloth in the other. I catch his red-stained eyes and feel paralyzed.
“What’s going on?”
“We have to go,” he repeats. “We’ve been summoned.”
I tear my eyes away from Vrana and his empty expression. “Why? Go where?”
“We've received a formal invitation to appear in the Lunarium. They expect us in ten minutes time. You have excellent timing,” he tells me, his voice low and his cadence slow. A small frown tugs the corner of his lips downward. “I can only assume they wished to catch us off guard with their unexpected invitation.”
Sebastian retrieves a small card from his inner jacket pocket and steps forward, effectively ushering me back outside and closing the door behind him. I take it from his hold.
2 am
Beneath the Stars & Moon
The Royal Household of Thorburn
“What do you think they want?” I ask. A tremor of uncertainty runs down my spine.
Sebastian's lips dip further down, his concern is worn heavily along his thick brows and in his eyes, which are as hard as bronzite and cracked with silver spurs. “A test,” he murmurs, placing his hand along the small of my back and guiding me forward.
The Dark Court | 1837
The underground palace of the Dark Court was far more substantial than anything Jakob could have ever imagined, and still, it continued to expand. New salons and open-air parlors seemed to emerge over the day while the vampyrés slept. How the feat was accomplished, Jakob was still unsure, but the pure magic of it all kept his curiosity at bay.
Jakob passed the Lamia Den, one of the newest lounges, far smaller than the rest... and far more intimate. He stopped to peer inside at one of the many entrances but refrained from going down the short length of stairs to enter the den’s belly. It reeked of blood. But not just any blood. The blood of children.
An angry vein developed near Jakob’s temple, the only true sign of his displeasure. The scent of children's blood was often poignantly sweet. The one taste Jakob ever had was unbalanced, and its finish left his mouth puckered in distaste. Cordelia had made a note to never pour him a glass of their select stock again.
The Lamia Den was circular in shape, its multiple entry points flanked by tall, fluted columns to support its faintly domed ceiling. The walls it boasted between the columns were covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors, making the room’s current occupation all the more… startling.
A curvaceous woman, with thick porcelain thighs peeking out of layered sheer organza, draped herself artfully over a gleaming black chaise lounge. Her mouth and chin bore a lacquered red, which dripped artfully down her neck as her fingers plucked at her covered breasts.
“Another,” she moaned, her pale arm reaching out with a golden snake band wrapped around it.
A man dressed in formal attire strode across the open gallery, a child hanging limply in his arms. The woman did not bother to open her eyes to acknowledge the source of her midnight meal.
This time, Jakob’s brows dipped over his stormy blue eyes.
The woman had no respect for the blood that gave them their gift. Many, Jakob had learned from his time at court, did not.
He did not watch the woman feed. Instead, he continued on his way toward the Grand Salon where he was set to meet his sister and Cecil. When he arrived, the crush of the court was in full swing.
The glittering lights of the chandeliers above sparkled and danced off pale shoulders and daringly, almost-bare chests. At the Dark Court, toeing the line of propriety was paramount—a game they all played with their clothing, words, and actions. It amused Jakob, but the game paled in comparison to the one he had partaken in since the night of his arrival. Jakob’s eyes found his opponent with ease.
Ren Roux.
Amidst the sea of frothing skirts and pinched waistcoats, she emerged from the pool of vampyrés with unsurprising grace. Her own skirt petaled out in pale pink, and along with the fashion of the time, she kept her short hair pinned firmly back with two tight curls left down to frame her face. Their eyes met across the swell of the crowd, but t
heir movements did not cease.
They circled the Grand Salon and the crush, boldly staring one another down.
Three years and they had not spoken more than ten words to each other. It hardly mattered, at least to Jakob. Everything spoken between them was far better delivered through the means of body language and subtle comments made in hearing distance.
A thrill traveled up his muscled back, an insatiable itch plucking at his fangs as he wondered what she might taste like. Ren slipped from his view and behind a moor of people. Jakob paused. Their interaction was forbidden. It was a rather unfortunate stipulation of their arrival that had spurned such a rule. Alliances between households would not be tolerated.
“Brother, finally!”
Cordelia neatly stole beside Jakob, her maroon gown sprinkled with pearls. She peeked from beneath her kohl-lined lashes up at him, the deep blue and striking silver held a wicked gleam to them.
“Cordelia,” he answered back. His eyes traipsed over the crowd, looking for Cecil’s head of dark hair. “Where is your maker?”
“At the Pits. Come, let us join her.”
“The entrance fight is not for another hour,” Jakob said.
Cordelia steered them out of the Grand Salon. “We want a good seat. Besides,” she said, her voice stealing low as she passed him another look beneath her lashes, “there’s no need for you to spare any more of your attention on that siren.”
Jakob nearly tripped over his own feet. Correcting his misstep, he forced his spine a little straighter. “You imagine things, sister.”
Cordelia hummed and remained silent for but a beat. “I’m sure that’s what all the men say before they are devoured.”
++
Cordelia played the part of mischievous sister all too well, and Cecil, that of the reprimanding mother, even better. Jakob never stood a chance against the pair.
“Family first, Jakob. You know this,” Cecil prattled on. She had lost her vehemence ten minutes ago but felt it her duty to badger on. “Why on earth would you make eyes at a Roux when you know such an act is considered treason?”
