by Lizzy Ford
“I know you’re hungry.” Myca settles on the floor beside me. His shoulder presses to mine.
“No.” My voice is barely audible.
“This isn’t exactly easy for me, either.”
I peer through my eyelashes at him.
He rubs his mouth. His incisors are long. I’m bitterly happy that he’s miserable, too.
“Why don’t we compromise?” he suggests.
I lift my head from the wall, startled. “Why?” The word comes out awkward, and I cut my lower lip on the fang I didn’t feel grow.
“Vampires only mate once. I haven’t fed since you turned, and I can’t feed off anyone else.”
I eye his incisors and shiver when I recall his brutal honesty about the pain. “Looks like we’ll both die this week.”
“Except you want something from me.”
Opening my eyes fully, I gaze at him, puzzled. He can force me. He’s strong enough, and I’m a weak, shaking disaster. I can’t imagine a vampire this old surviving by negotiating instead of simply taking what he wants. I also don’t understand why he would try to be careful with me, after murdering my father.
“No more games when it comes to feeding,” he says. “That’s what I want in exchange for the Blood Rite.”
I’m surprised by how little he wants and then curse myself. That’s my hunger speaking, not me. His scent is creeping into my nose and polluting my thoughts. Accompanied by his heat and strength, I’m starting to fall into yearning so strong, I don’t even remember why I wanted the Blood Rite.
“The curse,” I say aloud, fighting whatever effect he has on me.
“I’d recommend you let the magic decide what you need to know.”
“I know what I need to know!”
“Because you’ve been around for twenty thousand years and have a handle on things?” he asks dryly.
I glare at him, hearing the sense in his words.
“It won’t be me deciding, if that’s a sticking point,” he adds. “C’mere.” He pats the carpet between his legs.
I’m about to refuse when he bites his wrist.
“Ohhhhh…” I groan, lost the moment I smell his blood. With absolutely no shame, I climb into his lap and grab his arm.
Myca wraps his other arm around me and pulls me into his body, turning me so my back is pressed to his chest.
“Ask it what you need to know,” he reminds me again, his breath tickling my ear.
I barely register his words and tug at his arm. He lowers it to my mouth, and I close my eyes. I don’t bite him. I don’t need to, and within seconds, the odd mix of emotions and memories are sliding down my throat and into my body.
Show me what I need to know, I will the magic.
The dream that forms is hazy, very unlike my own memory. It takes shape gradually. At first, I see a stool, a counter, a mirrored backsplash, rows of bottles … and then I see everything.
Tristan. Ben.
Daddy. He’s alive!
I look around and gasp. I’m in the bar with him the night he died.
Someone is talking, but it takes a moment for me to tune into the conversation.
“ … Myca?” someone asks.
All eyes turn to me, and I realize with dread and exhilaration that I’m witnessing what Myca saw that night.
“Right,” Myca replies.
I’m him but not. I’m a watcher in, or near, his body. I can’t quite tell, except that I feel what he does but he’s in charge of himself.
I study Daddy, torn between sorrow and anger. Why did he not warn me about the curse, the Final Trials, the misery I’d be going through? The sense I never really knew him, or he never truly trusted me, cores me, and I forget to listen for a minute, too absorbed in trying to capture the details of his face one last time and trying to understand how he could love me and keep such secrets.
My father stops talking.
“What are you not telling us?” Ben asks with his typical alpha bluntness.
“That he fears it won’t work,” Tristan answers, eyes on my father.
“I am asking you all to sacrifice something very important. I know this,” Daddy’s voice has an edge. He despises supernaturals, though he appears to be making an effort to be civil with them.
“If it will stop the trials and the curse, it’s worth it,” Myca answers.
“I can’t guarantee it will,” Daddy replies with a frown. I can almost sense his inner turmoil. His last letter to me showed how tortured he was in his final days. I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and assure him I love him and everything will be okay.
But it won’t. This is the night he dies and with a sense of doom, I begin to wonder what all I’m going to see.
“We have the only chance in the curse’s history to break it,” says Tristan. “It’s worth the sacrifice each of us has chosen to make, no matter how hard that decision was.”
What are they sacrificing?
“Agreed,” Ben says. “It’s for the greater good.”
“It will take all of us,” Myca adds. “If one of us fails, we all fail.”
The three candidates exchange looks with one another. Their distrust is almost palpable.
“None of you are the kind who fails.” My father is almost amused. “I vetted you all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out three envelopes. “Read these when I am gone. I cannot reveal these details to you while I am alive. The letters will appear blank, but when I am dead, you can read them.”
“Took twenty generations of your clan to outsmart the system,” Ben says and accepts his letter.
“No, it took one Kingmaker with a heart large enough to see beyond the curse,” Tristan counters and takes his envelope.
“In other words, all four of us are probably fools to believe we might be the first who can break it,” Myca says and takes his letter.
“Perhaps,” my father agrees. “You’re all correct. Twenty generations of Kingmakers have sought a way to break the curse, and we may all be fools to hope it’s possible. But if I can undo what my ancestors did to you all, and in the process, save my daughter, I will risk everything to try to break the curse.”
“Ultimately, she’ll be the one to decide,” Tristan points out.
“If we do this right, together, we’ll save her from it and in doing so, save the Community,” Ben says. “That’s the theory?”
My father nods.
Myca is toying with his letter. “The Final Trials don’t start until you’re dead,” he reminds my father quietly. “The Community hasn’t chosen your death yet.”
“I have this part figured out.” My father draws a knife from the satchel on the stool beside him.
“Because one of us killing you will endear us to your daughter,” Ben remarks with a snort.
“You can’t tell me we’re going to draw straws for this,” Tristan says, eyebrows raised.
“You boys ever read or see Oriental Express?” My father’s gives a rare smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are sad.
“Myca’s been under a rock for a few centuries, so I doubt it.” Ben glances at the vampire.
“Yeah,” Myca agrees. “I’m not even certain what year it is.”
“In the movie, there are twenty two passengers on the train, and each of them stabs this one guy they all bear a grudge against. Hence, there are twenty two stab wounds, twenty two potential murderers,” Tristan explains.
“I think I just want one wound,” my father says and holds out the knife. “Preferably an instant death. I know all of you know how to do that. You can all stab me together.”
No one moves to take the knife, and the three candidates look at one another again.
I’m holding my breath, terrified of what’s coming.
“Why tonight?” Tristan asks. “Why not wait until the Community decides?”
“The time is right,” my father replies simply. “I have devoted my life to calculating the exact moment when this must be done. You must start th
e trials as soon as possible, within several weeks of my death. Keep them short, and protect Leslie from what she is until the time comes when she needs to know. Each of you has your official trial instructions, and each of you has the letters I wrote with what you need to know to outsmart the Kingmaker magic. This is the culmination of twenty generations of Kingmaker knowledge. You’ve all taken an oath to me to sacrifice what you must in order to break the curse. There’s no going back now. Save my daughter. That’s all I ask.”
Still no one will take the knife.
My father looks into the face of each of them.
“We’re not gonna do it for you, Kingmaker,” Ben says softly.
“Call it your personal penance,” Myca adds.
“But know we’ll do what you ask.” Tristan is the gentlest of them, capable of feeling my father’s pain.
“It’s only fair.” My father lowers the knife. “You have my eternal gratitude, gentlemen. I’d like a moment of peace.”
The three candidates turn away.
I strain to see my father, knowing I can’t, not when I’m trapped inside of Myca’s memory. I can only experience what Myca did and right now, his eyes are on the entrance door.
But I suddenly smell blood.
The three reach the door and face the counter.
My father is slumped over at the bar, knife in his neck, and a pool of blood spreading beneath his head.
No one speaks. The candidates stand in silence and then turn away, filing out of the bar and leaving my father behind.
I wrench out of the dream, frantic to see my father again and save his life. The world around me is dark, and I don’t know where I am at first. I can’t shake the vision of my father dying from my mind. I can’t take a deep enough breath, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed.
“Leslie,” someone whispers.
I push at him, stuck somewhere between the dreamland and reality. My senses are reeling, my mind a panicked mess of emotions.
“C’mon, angel. Take a deep breath.”
I recognize Myca’s voice, and it pushes away the lingering scent of my father’s blood.
“Breathe,” he says again, his breath warm against my ear.
I do so and gradually recall where I am. My breathing is ragged in my ears, my pulse slamming through me fast enough I might finally have a heart attack after all this shit. I’m shaking hard, and sweat dampens the back of my neck.
Myca has my wrists and is holding me against his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around me.
“Sometimes returning from a memory can be rough,” he whispers.
Myca didn’t kill my father. None of them did.
Why the fuck did he tell me he did?
Or is the alleged memory a set up?
What the fuck is real? Because I can’t tell anymore!
I strain in his grip without being able to budge his hold around me. “Myca!” I cry. “Let me go!”
“Calm down first,” he says quietly without releasing me.
I strain again and then stop, letting my head fall back against his chest. The memory is racing through my head, over and over. When the initial trauma wears off, I focus on catching my breath.
He lets one wrist go and touches my face before placing his wrist at my lips.
I twist my head away, too freaked out.
Myca chuckles and moves his wrist to my lips again. “Feed, Leslie.”
The pulse of his wrist against my mouth is a siren’s song, and need pierces me, driving away what’s left of the dream. Without even thinking, I sink my newfound incisors into his wrist. He tastes like … rain … a summer storm rumbling away in the distance while pattering raindrops lull us into sleep. It’s a sleepy, gentle, calming sort of flavor, and I can almost see the two of us entwined as lovers in bed, listening to the downpour as we cuddle.
My body relaxes of its own accord, and his blood clears my senses and centers me again. I feel the tears on my cheeks, the faint brush of a sea breeze sneaking through the crack in my window.
“Good.” Myca lifts his wrist from my lips.
I lick the last of him from my teeth and sigh.
“What did you see?” he asks.
“You don’t know?” My voice is rough.
“No.”
I push against his hold on me, and he gives this time. Sitting up, I twist to face him without leaving his body, not yet certain I can stand on my own two feet.
“You swear it?” I ask, studying his features. Partially shrouded by darkness, I can see one blue eye clearly, as well as the fangs that perch on his lower lip.
The hunger is back despite drinking his blood.
“Yes,” he replies without any sign of deception.
I don’t want to believe him, but … my instincts, and perhaps the leftover fae empathy, whisper that he’s telling the truth.
“Did you have it show you the curse?” he asks.
“I asked it to show me what I needed to know,” I admit reluctantly.
“And?”
I gaze off into space, not certain how to wrap my head around what I witnessed or even if I can trust what I saw. I haven’t been able to trust anything, or anyone, since my father died.
My father confided in the candidates when he couldn’t confide in me. But why couldn’t he warn me in a letter? Why did he suffer, and let me suffer, too?
Anger flares to life, absorbing my confusion.
I move onto my knees, facing Myca. His hands stay on me, and he’s watching me closely. I glare at him.
“Why did you lie to me?” I manage at last.
“About …”
My mouth drops open. “You lied about more than one thing?”
“Yes and no.”
I slap him. The reaction is instinctive, but I’m not sorry, no matter how old he is or how long his fangs are.
Myca touches his cheek with a smile. “Keep in mind, there are rules to the trials,” he tells me, unfazed. “Tell me what you think I lied about.”
“My father, you dick!”
“Yeah.”
I wait for more.
He doesn’t offer any explanation.
“Why?” I demand. “How the fuck could you lie about killing my father?”
“Ah. That’s what you saw,” he says and rests his head back against the wall. “I needed to test your magic, to know how strong it is and if possible, to drain it. You held out twice as long as any other vampire. If I told you the truth, what motivation would you have had to stay away?”
“You fucked with my head because you were curious?”
“Because I needed to know if I can break the curse.”
His quiet explanation stops my spiral into fury. “Explain.”
“A few things have to happen before the curse will break. I happen to hold the key to one of them. Each of the candidates has a key, and you have the final one. My magic is ancient, but none of us were certain if it’d be old enough.”
It is a conspiracy, but it’s nothing like what I expected it to be. They aren’t working against me, if the memory is true, but against the curse. That my father was in on it, guiding the candidates, baffles me. Why couldn’t he guide me, too? I’m at once envious he chose to spend his final evening with them and furious they, too, have kept such secrets from me. I’ve been in the dark my entire life, alone with what I am, shielded from who I am by an entire Community that knows the truth.
So … why are there five shadows in the video, if my father is the one who killed himself? Whenever something makes sense, I find evidence to counter it and end up like a dog chasing its tail.
“You didn’t kill my father,” I repeat.
“No, Leslie, I didn’t. I swear it on my soul.”
Before Tristan, I would’ve scoffed at such an oath. Now that I know souls are real, I’m finding it difficult not to believe Myca. For reasons I really despise right now, I’m relieved by his confession.
“But you left him to die.” Tears cloud my vision. I swallow ha
rd. “I hate you all,” I whisper. “Why couldn’t he tell me? Why couldn’t … any of … you …” I’m crying too hard to finish my sentence.
“Because we couldn’t.” Myca pulls me against him again.
I don’t resist this time, and instead, sink into his warm, solid body. His arms go around me.
“We still can’t tell you most of what we know,” he adds. “We all swore the same oath to your father to protect you in what ways we can. The trials complicate our efforts, but each of us is doing our part.”
Did my father reveal the truth about the Final Trials? That breaking the curse means I might banish or wipe out one of their clans? If they know, they’d never help me.
I squeeze my eyes closed. I’ve doubted my father more than once along this path and believed the Book of Secrets about how the candidates all want to wrong me in some way. If they’re forced to betray me by the rules of the trials, it’s one thing. If they came into the trials with the intention of fucking things up, it’s different.
Every time I think of Tristan and Ben, I remember how good they really are. I don’t know what to think about Myca after the drama of the past two days.
Myca rests his wrist against my lips again. I lift my head, not interested in feeding.
He nudges my head aside with his chin, and his warm lips brush the sensitive skin of my neck. The need I’ve been fighting flares to life and this time, I don’t have a solid reason to suppress it.
Except for one.
With effort, I twist out of his grip and leave his embrace to sit a few feet away.
“You have to be the bad guy, Myca,” I say, reigning in my tears and sorrow. “One of you has to be the bad guy.”
“Because the Book told you so?”
Because I have to hurt someone, and I can’t do it if I care for them. I can’t tell him this, though, and shake my head. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Someone has to be … exiled.”
“And you can’t consider Ben or Tristan for this honor because why?”
What a dick. Myca has the nerve to grin.
“Because it can’t be them!” I snap.
“You know none of us are harmless, innocent or beneath killing to fulfill our duties.”
