by Rebecca Main
“Don’t forget the honorary seat for the mermaid,” I add.
My breakfast turns again. Though I keep an outward facade of calm, I have earned more than Jax and William’s regard.
Through the soulmark, I feel Jakob’s wish for me to behave. He doesn't want me to draw attention to our group. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Lucky for him, tonight our wants are the same.
“How could I possibly forget,” Jax says. His contempt breathes like acid. “They’re such an active part in these meetings.”
“Sarcasm is hardly becoming on you, Jax.”
The gavel pounds against the table, silencing the representatives and the audience. I take note of the agitated crowd. Their energy throbs through the air, raising the hair on my arms.
“I motion to vote on the approval of demon representation on the Celestial Court,” Adrian delivers before Madame Roux can call the table to order.
“I second the motion!” Mr. Reynolds crows.
Madame Roux stares down both men as the amphitheater grows silent. Adrian Thorburn, who stands with his chair several feet behind him, does not sit down. With a controlled bow of her head to the other heads of household, she takes a moment to smooth her carefully styled hair down. The other members who have stood in their impassioned remarks take their seats once more, except Adrian.
“The motion is approved,” Madame Roux announces. The faintest trace of movement follows her lips—uttered words not meant for the ears of the audience but only those at the table. They all react differently but resolve to the same determined look after a moment’s time.
“Clever,” Jax comments, voice pitched low. “Abruptly call for a vote before the demons can plead their case.” I shoot Jax a pitying glance, but his eyes are trained on the vaulted ceiling. “If I was in charge—”
“Jax,” my voice cracks like a whip in reprimand, but the desired effect is achieved. Jax seals his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs rhythmically as he forcibly silences himself. A woman with burnished mahogany hair casts a curious look over her shoulder at the two of us, her eyebrows knitting together to see me so close to Jax.
I send her my most contemptuous glare, and she rights herself with a shrug made in our general direction.
“Should the motion pass, the demons will be allotted one seat to fill with a representative of their choosing,” Madame Roux announces. “As per protocol, all voting matters in regard to the addition or dismal of representatives will be done through secret ballot.”
Madame Roux fetches a stack of cards from the podium and passes out one to each representative. In turn, they snatch up the smattering of pens lining the middle of the table to cast their votes. Madame Roux circles back to the podium to retrieve a rectangular box. When she passes by next, the ballots are deposited inside of it.
Jax shifts restlessly in his seat, stirring forward once more to the edge of his chair. His elbows dig in to his thighs as he places his clasped hands to his mouth. My heart lurches at the sight. I reach out, my hand coming to rest on his back, light as a feather. He stills sharply before relaxing.
“It will never pass,” he mutters.
But it does.
++
The audience is in an uproar. And no amount of gavel banging will tame the occupants of the amphitheater. If anything, the cries grow wilder. Jax stares in shock at the table of representatives. All members are on their feet, the majority of which turn to each other and shake hands agreeably. The opposition shouts its outcry, demanding a recount.
“We’re leaving,” Jakob announces as he strides past us. He doesn’t bother to express formal apologies as he marches down the aisle. The Gunwyn Household parts for him. Their respect for the Vrana name still very much alive. The remaining three vampyrés of our household swiftly follow, but Jax and I are lax in their wake.
This decision is monumental—at least for the supernatural minority, which most certainly counts me among its ranks.
“Didn’t see that one coming,” William says, a certain skepticism in the undertone of his voice.
William rises, shrugging off his black suit jacket and unbuttoning the top few fastenings of his shirt. As he takes a breath, the fabric stretches across his broad chest. The button-down scarcely relaxes as a long sigh tumbles past his lips.
“Agreed,” Jax murmurs, standing as well. I look between the two, unable to tear my mind away from their height difference, which is most certainly a solid foot.
William holds out a hand to me, his regard as lazy as ever as I accept and stand. The households converge en masse in the aisles and begin to infiltrate the main floor. I watch with interest as Adele Blanc makes her way toward the section reserved for the other supernaturals.
William follows my gaze. “Hate to be the poor sap with her as a mother-in-law,” he drawls, the thick curl of his Scottish burr running down my spine as my gaze narrows on the woman in white.
Her part in tonight's proceedings are questionable at best. Arguing against the Adolphus pack? Just what are the Blancs playing at? A tempestuous growl surfaces in my throat. Hopefully, Winter, Atticus’s soulmark, is nothing like her mother. Because if so, more trouble is headed in the direction of the pack.
I have to speak to them.
I’m more than ready to speed through the crowd and corner Adele, when I stop and turn instead to Jax. I ready myself to plead my case, but he silences me with a smile.
“I lost you in the crowd,” he says with an accompanying wink.
++
Cold bodies press against me as I wedge my way through the thickening crowd, there numbers far higher than I thought.
Wandering hands boldly stroke my body as I pass—the Dark Court’s true nature off its leash once more now that the ceremony of the Celestial Court is over. Supernaturals swarm the amphitheaters floor, but in the throng, I spot a trio of heads all sporting the same gleaming white hair.
The Blancs.
A hand glides over my hip, then another across the ridges of my spine. I keep my heart as calm as reasonably possible, which is to say, at a moderately clipped pace. A sea of red cuts through the crowd with abrupt precision. The Rouxs make their grand exit with Madame Roux at the lead… and Iris and Briar at her heels. I duck my head, wishing for the protection of my dark hair to shield me from the court's eyes, but my updo forbids it. I twist my neck to the side and wait for the crowd to push impatiently forward to signal the households’ departure.
It comes with a shove to my back. I grunt as I bump into someone, issuing a quick apology as I stumble my way through the crowd. The heads of white steadily gain distance.
I catch them filing out of the amphitheater into a brightly lit hallway. Several other supernaturals join them in their journey to depart, but not nearly as many as those taking over the amphitheater floor.
“Mrs. Blanc!”
My raised voice draws many disapproving stares, but at least they stop. I come before them, my breath in short bursts. I put on a serene smile and extend my hand.
“Irina Adolphus.”
Adele stares at my extended hand as if it is a snake, her top lip rearing back ever so slightly to express her distaste further. To save me from my embarrassment is a man who looks twice Adele’s age with sharp blue eyes.
“Malcolm Blanc,” he says, giving my hand a brief and firm shake before gesturing to his wife. “My wife, Adele, and—” He pauses to step aside and reveal another woman. “—my daughter, Winter.”
My smile widens genuinely, and I hold out my hand for Winter to take. She stands at the same height as her mother, about five foot seven—an inch shorter than me—with the same snow-white hair as her parents. But that is where their similarities end.
Winter is willowy in frame, unlike her parents with their stockier build. She keeps her head modestly ducked, but gray slate eyes peer shyly back at me through thick, pale lashes. She looks at my hand with wide eyes. Gingerly, she takes it and squeezes gen
tly as we shake hands.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.
“Likewise,” she responds. The simple response only enhances her modest nature and charm.
“You are Aleksander’s half sister, is this correct?” Adele asks.
I nod and retract my hand to my side. “I am—”
“And what has brought you here of all places?” The people around us become mute, a fact both I and the Blancs are fully aware of, but only Winter has the grace to look mildly uncomfortable.
I let out a two-note laugh. “Life is full of twists and turns,” I reply cordially. “One might wonder as well why you acted so adamantly against your daughter’s future pack.”
“A common betrothal is nothing to—”
“But it isn’t common, is it?” I interrupt sweetly. “The Blancs haven’t boasted a soulmark match in decades, have they? Winter is the first successful soulmark match the Blanc pack has had in years.”
Both parents bluster. Patches of red spot their cheeks, while a vein grows twice its side across Mr. Blanc’s temple.
“Insolent girl,” Adele seethes, stepping closer. “My pack is one of the oldest known among our kind, and you dare spout these lies?”
Behave, I tell myself. Taking a deep breath, I let my head bow a fraction. Don’t screw up the only chance you have to get word home.
“My apologies, Mrs. Blanc. I’ve let my emotions carry me away.”
Malcolm, still red in the face, lets out a scoff. “This is what happens when packs stray from traditions and teachings. Their women lose control.”
“Among other things,” Adele replies, her flippant tone implies much worse. To stay quiet, I grind my teeth together. The hallway, with its high ceilings and bell-curved walls, carries the chuckles and chortles of the other supernaturals well. Too well.
“Will we see you in December, Irina?” Winter asks.
I take a calming breath. “Should circumstances permit,” I say cautiously, earning an assessing look from Adele. A nervous tickle runs rampant in my stomach. “Atticus is a dear friend of mine, after all. He’s a good man, Winter. He’ll make you incredibly happy.”
Winter blushes, her cheeks infusing with a delicate rosy red on the apples of her cheeks. A long white curl falls in front of her gray eyes. She doesn’t bother to push it away.
“I am pleased to be the soulmark of—”
“Come along, Winter. We must be going now. I don’t want to stay in this crypt a moment longer. Good evening, Ms. Adolphus. We’ll be sure to pass along your regards to your pack should you be unable to attend the nuptials in December,” Adele says while ushering Winter back behind her father.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart skips a beat.
“Perhaps—if you have the time—you could send them my regards earlier?”
Adele stops midturn and levels me with a flat stare. “Take Winter, Malcolm. I’ll be right along.” She waits until the hallway clears out a bit around us before speaking once more. “And why, Ms. Adolphus, would I do something like that? When we arrived here this evening, I heard rumor of a she-wolf consorting with a slew of vampyrés. I would not have thought it to be a she-wolf of the great and rising Adolphus pack. Perhaps I shall tell your brother what you’ve been up to here… I believe there’s a name for wolves of your kind.”
She smirks at the stunted growl I release. Stay calm, Irina. Stay calm—
“I’ve heard rumors too,” I say, the temperature in the room dropping around us. “Of an old pack, the oldest of our kind, that caused the curse for all lycankind. Rumor has it they received an additional curse that denied them their soulmarks.”
A sharp clap marks the air as my head cracks to the side. I lift my hand to inspect the inflamed area of my cheek and watch through veiled eyes as Adele shakes with rage.
“You know nothing,” she spits and pats protectively at the strange amulet hanging from her neck.
I right myself slowly, massaging my fingers along my jaw. “Then I suppose in that, we are equal,” I respond. “Mrs. Blanc—”
“You are a disgrace to our kind, Ms. Adolphus,” Adele says with a harsh breath. “And though I would delight in seeing the look on your brothers' faces should they learn of your actions, I’ll do them a kindness and keep your whereabouts a secret.”
“Mrs. Blanc, please—”
Her eyes alight with victory at my plea. “Good evening, Ms. Adolphus,” she purrs. “Oh, and I do believe that fellow is waiting for you at the end of the hall.”
Adele Blanc spins on the balls of her feet and strides away before I can utter a single protest. With her departure, goes the last of my hope. If I had just stayed calm…. Hot tears flood my vision, but a few deep breaths correct their arrival. There isn’t any time for tears or self-pity. I need a new plan. A new—
Someone clears their throat behind me.
The Dark Court | 1866
Jakob had never apologized. For three nights and three days, he was consumed with this thought.
Jakob had packed little and left without a word, the only remarkable token in his possession the picture of his family Cordelia loved so much. Max had maintained his distance the entire time, before guiding him out.
What had he done?
How had Max learned of his… betrayal.
Jakob had ruined it all and lost everything. And still, despite the pain he had caused his surrogate father, Max had given him purpose—a hope to reunite one day and stand by their side once more.
A shudder racked the man’s body. He hadn't apologized.
Jakob could abide by Max’s wishes to leave and return with the amethyst… but not before saying a proper farewell and issuing the apology they all deserved.
His timing could not have been worse.
++
Indecision plagued Jakob. It clung to him like a shadow, driving his thoughts down a dark hole on his journey home, back to the apartment suite the Vrana’s had earned through his blood and sweat and Max’s cunning and intellect. The passageway from their Vienna apartment to the underground palace was torturously long, yet he could not summon the strength to use his vampyric speed to pass through it.
When he reached the end of the passage, he was vaguely transported back in time to his original arrival. He remembered the daze of his circumstance. The only clear impression of that night being the weight of destiny resting upon his shoulders alone.
Jakob refused to blur this moment from his memory. He would not ignore his past wrongs, but learn from them as his family would want him to.
And so he memorized the solid oak door and its round iron handle before pulling it open. He touched the tapestry made of reds and golds and vibrant oranges that covered their family’s private entrance. He breathed in the cold, damp air that lingered in the minor hallway whose walls were dressed in smooth stone.
The walk back to the apartment suite was short.
He knew their location in the southernmost corner of the palace to be secluded from the rest. The Royal Households had never believed the Vrana’s would win, but on the chance that they did, they assigned their quarters as far away from their own as possible. The Vrana’s Household had never minded the snub. For all they had ever wanted was to belong there.
Jakob knew there to be something wrong when he smelled blood in the air–too much blood.
With dread he had not felt in years, he rushed to their apartment suite door. The scent that wafted from behind the massive door made Jakob gag. His form shook as he made his way inside.
Little light lived in the foyer of the apartment suite, nor further on in the sitting room. Sparse candles remained alight… the fire’s embers a distant glow. It was enough for Jakob to see what chaos had consumed his family.
Their bodies lay hazardously about the room. Their flesh was torn and maimed. Their heads ripped from their bodies. Their faces still depicted their horror.
Cordelia across the couch
J
asper on the ground near his favorite leather chair.
Cecil slumped against the wall.
And Max… Max, whose true death was taken with a bone-white stake, was speared to the coffee table.
Jakob dropped to his knees, unable to comprehend how—who—what—
“Oh, you’re here. Too bad my friends just left,” a velvet voice droned from afar. Jakob looked over his shoulder, fangs at the ready. But no one was there. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” the voice continued, now at his left. Jakob stood, his crimson eyes searched for the disembodied voice when its lips brushed his right ear. “Just look at what happened to them.”
He moved on instinct alone. His fists lashed out but met only darkness.
“Show your face!” he cried.
The reply came in the form of a knife thrust into his back and the velvety voice’s return. “No.”
He fell once more and groped the ground.
“You’ve made enemies, Vrana,” the intruder said. It worked the knife in deeper and jammed it upward. Jakob’s gurgled scream filled the air. “Time to pay.”
Chapter 16
Present
There is a chance the members of the Dark Court slip out of our path out of respect for the Vrana name—much like the Gunwyns do—but I know this is not the case. Sebastian’s ire is palpable as he steers me through the cold undead. Their silver-lined eyes greedily follow us to see what punishment shall be dealt to me.
“Eyes forward,” he reminds me as I glare at a pair of women snickering at the two of us. Following Sebastian’s command is easier said than done—especially after my confrontation with Adele.
Habit sees my fingers tucked into my palm, my knuckles straining white as I keep a placid expression on my face. Walking back through the tunnel toward the underground palace is far longer than I recall. Ages pass before we finally enter into familiar corridors. The overwhelming presence of the undead finally thins out.
