by Jill Myles
“My lord,” she said, in a choked voice. “I am your wife in all ways.” She bowed her head. “I love you.”
Graeme cradled her body against his. She felt the armor hidden under his clothing, the hard ridge of a knife tucked into his belt. His head rested against hers and he pressed his lips to her hair. “I love you, too, Seri.”
She could not speak over the knot in her throat, but she reached up to kiss him, letting him know that she was his and his alone.
“Traitor,” Rilen snarled.
Slowly, theatrically, someone clapped. Seri and Graeme turned, and she met the gaze of the bored-looking king. “That was beautiful,” he said. “So touching.” He raised an eyebrow. “Has my soft-hearted son made a decision as well?”
Graeme took Seri’s hands in his and kissed the backs of them. “The One Goddess brought us together. Let no one but the Goddess tear us apart.”
“Then I suppose I had best sire a new heir,” the king said drily. She couldn’t tell if he was amused or irritated.
“If you do, I will gladly renounce my claim upon the throne,” Graeme told his father, putting an arm around Seri’s shoulders. “Vidara is my land and I wish to stay here with my wife.”
“This land is not yours,” Rilen spat furiously, lunging forward.
“Rilen, no,” Seri said, stepping in front of Graeme to shield him.
She watched in horror as her childhood friend flung himself toward her and Graeme. Toward certain death.
If we die today, we die for our people. Rilen didn’t care if he lived, and she was helpless to stop the chain of events. It was over so quickly. One moment, Rilen was reaching for her dress, a snarl of rage on his face. The next, he was on the ground, a dozen spears sticking from his back.
Graeme tried to turn Seri away. “Don’t look, love. You’ve chosen. So has he.”
But she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Seri stared at the blood seeping out over the pale blue tiles of the ballroom, at the man she’d once promised herself to. Clutched in his lifeless hand was a gleaming blade—a dagger meant to kill her.
The crowd took a step backward, staring at Graeme and Seri, wary. Only Jovis stepped forward and knelt at Rilen’s side.
He looked up at Seri, shock etched into his features. “You could have stopped this, Seri. You were to be handfasted to him, and you let the Athonites kill him.”
“My wife did nothing.” Graeme’s tone was cold. He put a protective hand on Seri’s waist. “He thought to attack her. I would never let that happen. None shall harm her as long as I live.”
Jovis’s accusing gaze turned to Seri. “You are no longer a Vidari woman.”
“I will always be Vidari,” Seri argued, her voice rising. “But I am a Vidari princesse and Eterna—and your ruler. Together, Graeme and I will make this a safe place for both Athonites and Vidari to live in peace.”
The king sighed, and whispers shot through the crowd like wildfire. Jovis stood, his clothes stained with Rilen’s blood. “And you believe these lies?”
Turning back to the crowd, she linked her arm through Graeme’s. “They’re not lies,” Seri said. “Even now, we are working together to change the laws, to make sure there is no recognized difference between Vidari and Athonites.”
“My prince, what should we do with all the rebels?” One of the guardsmen dressed as a noble looked to Prince Graeme, then uncertainly at the king.
“Kill them all,” King Lucan commanded.
Seri gasped. Kill everyone? But—
“Father,” Graeme cut in, gripping Seri’s waist tightly as if to reassure her. “If I am to end the rebellion, don’t you think it would be more conducive to be lenient in order to bring the people together?”
“You’re too soft,” King Lucan said in a bored tone. “It’s easy. If you kill all the rebels, you have no rebellion left.”
“And then we shall have another hundred years of strife. Am I not prince here? Are these not my lands?”
Seri tensed. The king frowned. But Graeme held his ground.
“You try my patience, boy.” After a long moment, King Lucan sighed and waved a hand. “It is your kingdom. Do as you please.”
The crowds glanced at one another, hesitant.
Graeme turned to the rebels. “Now is not the time to discuss the ramifications of what has happened here tonight. We will all get together—Vidari and Athonite alike—and determine a suitable penalty.”
The king snorted.
The faces of the Vidari were relieved—and stunned. Jovis hesitated. “And should we bow to you then, Seri?”
Seri shook her head. “No Vidari shall bow to another unless he wishes to. I have not earned your respect yet.” She met Jovis’s gaze with clear, confident eyes. “But I hope that I will someday.”
The Vidari man was silent. Then, slowly, he touched his forehead in the gesture of respect. The look in his eyes was wary.
It would take time, but that was fine.
After all, the Blood lived forever.
Six Moons Later
Seri sat upon her throne, fingers twined through Graeme’s, feeling slightly anxious. Below the dais, the ballroom of Vidara Castle was filled with guests celebrating Viktor and Josdi’s wedding. It was a simple affair, a mixture of both Athonite and Vidari customs, and servants filled the room along with nobles and villagers alike. Wreaths of springtime flowers covered the banisters, and the bride wore a laurel crown of bright pink and blue buds.
At Seri’s side, Graeme chuckled and her body warmed at the sound. “You look as if you are ready to order the guests from the ballroom, my wife.”
“Just a touch worried,” she said, assessing the scene before her.
Though a few of the Blood and the court had stayed in the castle, most of the nobles had retreated back to Athon. The king had left shortly after the ill-fated celebration ball, declaring Vidara dull and unsuitable. Ladies Mila, Penella, Jinda and the rest of the court were not far behind; the caravan had clogged the narrow roads for days, a grand exodus of silk banners, ornate carriages, and fluttering fans.
Seri wasn’t sad to see them go. Doubtless their paths would cross again, in the capital city or at another Betrothal Ball, but the dusty Vidari lands were best left to those who embraced the terrain and its inhabitants.
Still, it was an uneasy mingling of those who remained. This was the first formal gathering of the court and the villagers, and no one was dancing. The Athonites milled on one side of the ballroom, while Seri’s kinsmen and friends confined themselves to the other.
She frowned and adjusted her sky-colored gown. It boasted a modest, Athonite-style collar, but the simple, flowing cut was reminiscent of her old Vidari dresses. “Do you think this was a mistake?” Seri asked Graeme. “Bringing them all together? Is it too soon?”
He shook his head and gestured at the far end of the room. “Look. Your sister shames us all.”
Indeed, Josdi was pulling Viktor out onto the dance floor, his eyes shining. He twirled her once, then captured her against him, leading her in the rounds of a dance. Her face glowed with happiness as she spun fearlessly in time to the music, grinning at her husband.
Then Melene crossed the floor—not wearing a corset, Seri noticed with delight—and invited Seri’s former neighbor, Alaren, to join her. He glanced at the other men behind him before smiling shyly at Melene. She placed his hand on her waist, guiding him through the steps.
“Our sisters are marvels,” Seri said, glancing over at her beloved husband. “Paving the way with beauty and charm when all the spears in the world could not do it.”
“Indeed.” Graeme raised Seri’s hand to his lips and kissed it, the sensation sending goose bumps through her skin.
For the next few hours, the ballroom floor remained full. Seri’s father danced with abandon, moving from Josdi to Melene to the old healer who�
�d doted on him when he’d first arrived in the castle. When Idalla’s husband begged for a rest, Lord Tedrov spun her around, skirts swirling about her ankles. Even Mistress Anneve looked merry and red-cheeked as she drank wine and laughed with the master at arms.
When the musicians finally took a break, Seri turned to her husband.
“Shall we retire?” she asked, low and husky. “I find I am . . . weary.”
“I am always at your command, my Eterna,” Graeme said with a light smile.
They stood, and instead of bowing to them, the crowd touched their foreheads as one. Seri kissed her father and sister goodnight, then waved farewell to the guests.
Once out of the ballroom, Seri picked up her skirts and began to run down the hall, laughing. Graeme chased her, and they raced like children through the endless maze of Vidara Castle until they reached their chamber. They shut the door behind them and collapsed into each other’s arms, lips meeting lips and hands searching to remove the restraints of clothing.
And when, hours later, their bodies were sated and Seri’s neck tingled with the aftermath of Graeme’s desire, she sighed with contentment in his arms.
“It feels like a dream, Graeme,” she said softly. “Your people and mine, together, like you and me. Can this peace possibly last?”
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her brow. “Trust in us, my love. There will be unrest; there always is. But change is coming, and we are here to navigate Vidara through the good and the bad. This is our home now.” A hint of a smile touched his lovely mouth. “And thank the gods for that. I believe we would not be particularly welcome in Athon.”
“Does that bother you?” She looked up at him earnestly. “That you are trapped here in Vidara with me?”
“I could not possibly be happier,” Graeme said, pulling her tighter to him.
“I’ve thought of a name for our daughter,” Seri told him softly.
He sat up in bed. “Daughter?”
She nodded, caressing her stomach. “I am not showing yet, but in another moon or two, I will.”
His eyes went wide. “A daughter,” he said again as his hand went to her belly, reverence in his expression. “You are amazing, my wife.”
“Don’t you want to hear the name I’ve picked?” she teased.
“More than anything.” His eyes gleamed with pleasure and she could feel his excitement and pride throughout her very being.
“Kiane,” she said, her fingers twining with his over her belly. “And Melene for your sister.”
“Kiane Melene,” he repeated. “It is lovely.” He kissed her shoulder. “As lovely as her mother is.”
She smiled at him and their emotional tether sang with pure joy. In that moment, Seri knew, deep in her soul, that the Goddess was happy with them. Kiane Melene, Princesse of the Blood, was a gift straight from the Goddess herself, a living, breathing symbol of their love. She would be Vidari and Athonite, powerful yet kind—and a beacon of hope for her father’s once doomed line. And curse or no, she would be loved by all.
Jill Myles is the pseudonym of New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Jessica Clare. She lives in Texas and has many nerdy hobbies.
If you loved Queen of Blood, try this action-packed trilogy!
IMITATION
by Heather Hildenbrand
Ven knows everything about wealthy, eighteen-year-old Raven Rogen, from her favorite designer down to the tiny scar on her right arm. That’s because she’s Raven’s clone, though she’s never met her face-to-face. Imitations only get to leave the lab when their Authentics need them—to replace the dead, to offer an organ transplant, or in Ven’s case, to serve as bait after Raven is attacked in broad daylight. Thrust into the real world for the very first time, Ven must draw out Raven’s assailants, or die trying. But when Ven falls for Raven’s bodyguard, she discovers some things are worth living for. She was created to serve . . . but is she prepared to sacrifice herself for a girl she’s never met?
Turn the page for an excerpt of the first book.
1
Everyone is exactly like me.
There is no one like me.
I wrestle with these contradicting truths most nights while the others sleep. Tonight is worse because Marla has left me a note to see her in the morning. No one sees Marla and comes back. Lonnie reminded me of this after she snatched the note out of my shaking hand and read it for Ida, who promptly burst into tears. We didn’t speak after that, lying in our bunks until lights out.
Above me, Lonnie steadily breathes in and out. She’s not worrying herself out of a good night’s sleep. She’s not the one going to see Marla. Below me, Ida is quiet. I suspect she is awake, ruminating. She has a way of latching on to other people’s stress and not letting go until everyone is happy again. I long to call out to her, but there is no talking in the dormitory after lights out.
The rough fabric of my cotton nightgown chafes so I lie very still. Once, during a training exercise, they gave me a satin blouse in place of my coarse uniform. For a few moments, I was completely her—eighteen-year-old Raven Rogen, my Authentic—down to the fabric. The slippery material felt like cool fingertips on a hot day. All I could think was: She wears clothes like this every single day.
I know everything about Raven and the world she lives in, thanks to the video footage I watch during my training sessions. But I have never experienced anything for myself—not even the sun. My entire life is an imitation of hers.
I am an Imitation.
All of us here are. From the time the tubes are removed and air is forced into our lungs, until our petri-grown organs learn to contract on their own, we are nothing but shadows of our Authentics. I used to think there was an Imitation for every Authentic, but when I asked my Examiner, Josephine, she laughed and said we’d need a whole lot more space here if that was the case. Only special Authentics get the privilege of a copy—ones with money, power, influence.
It seems as if there are thousands of us, though it’s hard to tell exactly how many exist. Twig City is sorted into sections, our placement depending on our gender, how old we were when they “woke” us, and whether we’ve gotten a note from Marla. Those woken at a young age live in a different wing, where nurses and teachers chart their development daily. You have to be at least twelve to live on my floor—the training sector, where we learn to become our Authentic—but the oldest I’ve seen is somewhere around fifty. There is no saying how long you’ll stay in this sector once you’re here. Could be a week, could be a year, depending on when your Authentic needs you. I’ve been awake for five years. Training. Preparing. Waiting—for a note from Marla. And for what comes after.
Some say Marla is our creator—but I don’t think so. I have a memory, a hazy nightmare, of the day I woke. None of the first faces I saw were female. One man in particular stands out in the fog. I can’t recall his features, but the impression he left is one of utter fear. Though I can’t explain it, I am positive this man is our creator.
Others say Marla is the gatekeeper. A walker between worlds, connecting us, the Imitations, to them. The humans, the womb-born, the Authentics.
I don’t know which is true. All I know is no one ever returns from meeting with Marla.
Across the pitch-dark room comes a whisper, and I count down the seconds until an Overseer comes in. Overseers are the sentries, the silent guards who watch and wait, only intervening when a rule is broken or boundary overstepped. A minute later, I hear the sure, swift fall of an Overseer’s feet as she makes her way to the offending bunk to bark an order of quiet at whoever it was. Probably Clora. She’s new and headstrong. Lonnie speculates it is a trait from her Authentic. I hope not. If it’s part of her DNA, it won’t be easy an easy habit to break.
“This is your only warning,” the Overseer threatens. “Another infraction and you’ll be reported to Marla.”
I’m convinc
ed Overseers are paid to be cross. I’ve told this to Josephine, and she doesn’t bother arguing so I know it’s true. Josephine is more laid-back than most, but I’ve never told her the real truth: that the idea of leaving Twig City is terrifying. Instead, I tell Josephine what she wants to hear, what Imitations are supposed to say: When I am called to duty, I will be ready. I will serve my Authentic in any way necessary.
After all, I was created to serve.
The Overseer finishes her warning and exits the room, back to her monitoring booth full of cameras. The door latches with a soft click and all is silent save for the omnipresent hum of the building. They say it is the sound of life being poured through plastic piping and into the tiny tube-grown humans housed downstairs. Tonight, it grates on me.
I chase sleep, grazing my fingertips across its tail end but never fully catch it. Hours later, the lights come on, signaling to our windowless chamber that it is morning. I shove the blanket aside and sit up, blinking against a sea of sameness.
The sleeping room is a long rectangle with high ceilings and a bad echo, lined with triple-level bunk beds. Everyone here is part of a trio. Lonnie says it’s because three’s a crowd. It creates diversity and therefore animosity. It discourages the bonding that happens when there are only two. Ida tells her she’s wrong because the three of us have bonded just fine. I see both points; no one else seems as close as we are, but no other trio has lasted this long. I’ve been with Lonnie and Ida since I began. Most others have lost at least one of their threesome to a note from Marla, only to have them replaced by a stranger.
And now I have a letter.
I slide out of my bunk and land lightly on my feet. In the bunk above, Lonnie is slow to wake, grumpily mumbling about bacon and coffee as she stretches her toned arms toward the ceiling. She thinks her Authentic must not be a morning person.
