by K. A. Tucker
Zander approaches from the vast darkness like a wraith in the night, his footfalls making no sound. He stops inches from me. “It is safe to assume you haven’t been lying about your memory loss.”
My body is rigid with terror. “What are you?”
His lips twist in a toothy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, no hint of fangs to be seen. “I’m like you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t do that.” Do I? My tongue smooths over my incisors, searching for evidence to say otherwise.
His gaze tracks the move, as if he knows what I’m checking for. “I was shocked when I realized you did not remember the profound difference between your people and mine. That Malachi would deprive you of that knowledge was … interesting. I can’t figure out why he would.”
Because I’d be horrified?
His eyes drop to my disheveled robe. “That night in the tower, I was so close …” His fingertips push the collar open to expose where the daaknar left its mark. “What would have happened to me?”
I flinch at the feel of his index finger tracing the scar closest to my collarbone. What would have happened had he bitten me, he means. I remember the moment—he tore at the seam of my dress and lingered over my skin. He wasn’t deciding whether to fuck the woman who broke his heart and betrayed his kingdom; he was deciding whether to sink his teeth into her.
And if he had, he might have died as the daaknar did.
“You can’t feed off me,” I say out loud as I process this.
“I certainly wouldn’t try.” He collects my chin. His eyes are no longer sleepy. They’re full of heat and anger and something else entirely. “Now you know why your kind finds ours so repulsive. Perhaps you’ll remember that the next time you look at me the way you did in the throne room.”
I struggle to push down the paralyzing fear gripping my body. Is that what this demonstration is about? “And what way was that?”
His eyes search my face as if there might be a truth hiding within my features. “As if there could ever be something real between us. There cannot.” He releases his grip of me and strolls away, disappearing into the shadows, back the way he came, to his room and his willing victim.
And I stay pressed against the door for many long moments after he is gone, my limbs shaky, my thoughts scattered.
Elisaf, Annika, the soldiers, the nobility …
All these Islorian immortals feed off humans. And Ybarisans, apparently, though they can’t feed off me.
And I’ve agreed to play smitten queen-to-be to their bloodsucking king. I clutch my hands against my chest, feeling the pound of my heartbeat. I need to find the nymphaeum and get out of this hellish place as fast as possible.
I cradle the stone mug within my palms, savoring the hints of orange and licorice in the herbal tea Corrin delivered. Below me, the lone swordsman twirls around the empty sparring court beneath the touch of dawn’s light. He swings his blade with smooth, practiced strokes as if from memory, a choreographed dance that he has run through a thousand times.
I didn’t realize it was Boaz at first, and when I did, I couldn’t believe it. The gruff, ill-tempered man moves like an armed ballerina. It’s impossible not to admire his talent, even if I don’t care for him.
Even if I now know what he is.
In theory, anyway.
Last night, under the glow of a lantern, I scoured my room for a secret passage, an escape. But my desperate search failed, leaving me little choice but to curl up in my stately bed and dwell on a hundred new questions and fears about this world I find myself trapped in. The hours faded, and while I can’t say what time I drifted off from exhaustion, it couldn’t have been long before Corrin marched into my room with a tray of breakfast. She took one look at my face, nodded solemnly, and stepped out. She knows I am finally privy to the true nature of the immortals of Islor.
What must it be like to be her, serving people who might order your vein as easily as a pot of tea? Do the immortal Islorians drink or eat as we do? How often do they sink their fangs into necks? I’ve been so isolated up until now, I haven’t had the opportunity to notice anything off about them. That must have been Zander’s goal all along.
Do these creatures exist in my world? They must. How else would vampire fables exist? Except they’re not like the nightmarish tales of my world. They don’t hide in the shadow of night and sleep in coffins and attack unsuspecting humans, stealing their mortality. They stroll down sunny paths and sleep in beds and toss gold coins to the poor.
A slight scuff against stone is the only warning I have that I’m no longer alone on my terrace. A fresh wave of tension slides along my spine as Zander leans against the railing beside me, his hands casually folded.
I pull my robe tighter around my chest. If Corrin returns while he’s here, she’s going to scold me for being indecent. I don’t see why decorum matters. I’m surrounded by people who drink blood.
“He is something to behold, is he not?” Zander says softly, as if afraid his voice will carry and disturb the captain. “He practices like this every morning. Always has, for as long as I can remember.”
I can’t help but stare. It’s as if last night’s horror never happened. Zander’s handsome face is serene, his shoulders relaxed. Is his oddly light and cheerful mood because he feels sated by that woman’s blood? Or is it about what they did after he left me alone in my room, terrified? I’d be an idiot to believe he didn’t get his pleasure from her. Zander may be a king, but he’s a male who brought a willing female to his bed, and I saw how she responded to him.
But to let me find out this monstrous secret the way he did, and then stroll out here this morning as if all is well in the world … my anger flares at his callousness, and it helps drown out my fear of him.
“You don’t have to guard your tongue, Romeria. As I’ve already told you, I would rather have your candor than your false fealty.” There’s amusement in his tone. “Speak freely. It’s just us here.”
“Is it, though?” I make a point of shifting my gaze toward his terrace.
“I assume you’re referring to my guest last night? The one you saw while skulking outside my bedchamber?”
“I was not skulking.” My cheeks redden. “And bringing a woman to your bed the night you announce we’re together was not a wise move.” Regardless of his sinister reasons. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
Zander’s eyebrows arch.
Maybe I should guard my tongue a touch, but now that he’s committed himself to this scheme, I feel less risk of punishment with speaking my mind. If he wanted me dead, he could have killed me a thousand times over. “I hope you were at least discreet about your needs.”
“I’m always discreet,” he counters smoothly.
“Is it normal that the king would openly screw other women when his future queen is in the room beside him, or is that only our arrangement?” How often will he be bringing women to his room?
“Screw?”
“Bed. Hump. Fuck.”
His eyes flash. That, he understands. “Not as normal as it would be for the queen to join him.”
My mouth gapes.
“Should I expect this foul mood in the mornings going forward?”
“I don’t know. Do you have any more life-altering surprises to share with me?”
He mock frowns. “Not that I can foresee.”
I shake my head. He’s far too glib about it, especially for a man who last night used his disturbing nature as a warning against developing feelings for him. As if I ever would.
He sighs heavily, and when he speaks again, there is a hint more somberness in his voice. “Honestly, I don’t know what would be normal, given a Ybarisan and Islorian have not married for two thousand years, and your needs are not the same as mine. The need for mortal blood, I mean.” He surveys where my hand grips the front of my robe. “The other one is quite universal.”
I tighten my hold, swallowing against the unwelcome physical reaction the attenti
on stirs.
Something flashes in his eyes. “The tributary left immediately after, so those needs were not met, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” I snap.
The corners of his mouth twitch. “At least you are not so terrified of me today.”
I set my chin. “It was … shocking, is all.” But I’ve learned to bury my fear to survive. “Tributary? What is that?”
“A human servant who makes themselves available to us specifically for feeding.”
And fucking, apparently, if he’s in the mood. How do those deadly looking incisors slide out? I never felt so much as a hint of them when we kissed that night.
“You cannot see them unless I make a point of showing them to you.”
I realize I’m staring at Zander’s mouth, searching for evidence. I refocus on my mug of tea. But his words are not lost on me—he intentionally revealed them last night. He wanted me to know the truth about him.
I hesitate. “Are you a daaknar?”
“They are repulsive beasts with decaying flesh and tattered wings. Is that what you think of me now?” he says, a sharp edge in his tone.
I shake my head. Opposite of that, despite the fangs, which were not nearly as long or horrid as that of the demon’s. It’s obvious I’ve hit a nerve. “There is one rather glaring similarity.”
“Daaknars are said to come from Azo’dem, where evil resides. It has been suggested they once walked the living realm but upon death were morphed by sin and cruelty and turned into creatures like the one you saw.”
Azo’dem is their version of hell, I’m certain now, so the daaknar are demons. I remember the way it lingered over me, stroking the strands of hair away. It seemed oddly human—or elven—in that moment.
“How did it start?” What made them drink human blood? Wendeline made it sound like the Islorian immortals weren’t always this way.
“The priestess will explain all of that to you. I have neither the time nor the inclination for that history lesson.” Zander watches Boaz collect his sword and jacket and quietly leave the court. No one is out, except for a few guards. “I find myself oddly relieved that you now know about our nature. Though I cannot explain why I would care,” he mutters, more to himself. “But will you be able to put this revelation past you and play your part when the time comes?”
“Do I have any other choice?” I must, if I want to buy myself enough freedom to find the nymphaeum and get out of this place. “Yes, but can you at least warn me next time, so I don’t stumble on that again?”
He dips his head in agreement. “I won’t need it again for some time.”
“Can you live without it?” Is what I witnessed happening in Zander’s room more about pleasure or need?
Zander remains quiet for a long moment. I have so many questions, but he is not eager to fill in the blanks. “Not indefinitely,” he finally admits. “The longer we go without mortal blood, the weaker we get.” He pauses. “What were you doing on my terrace in the middle of the night, anyway? In your nightgown, no less. Did you have a need you wanted me to help with?”
My face bursts with heat. “No!” I scoff. Arrogant prick.
He smirks. “Then perhaps coming to try for my dagger again?”
“I came to see how things went with your court after I left.”
“They went exactly as I expected them to,” he says dismissively, studying the hills in the distance. “Many questions about where you’ve been and why I’ve been hiding you all this time, why you didn’t join me last night. Others danced around their displeasure in our union while trying not to offend me for fear of earning my wrath.”
“Your Highness,” Corrin calls from the doorway, curtsying deeply to Zander. Her shrewd eyes turn to me, and there is no missing the rebuke in them even before she speaks. “Your gown is laid out for you, Your Highness.” She looks pointedly at my robe.
“Thanks, Corrin. I’ll be there in a sec.”
She opens her mouth, but a quick glance at Zander has her scurrying back inside.
“Corrin isn’t one of these tributaries, is she?”
“She was for a short time when she was young, as are all humans of a certain age. She was miserable in the role, and not particularly good at it. But my mother saw intelligence and loyalty in her, so she ordered her services as a lady maid, freeing her from other servitude.” He smiles, a genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle. “She said Corrin was too sour to be a tributary. Her blood would poison people as surely as merth.”
Amazing. Bad vampiric humor. I bite my tongue against the urge to say as much.
A grave expression passes over his face, and I sense his mood darkening. “That is how my father and mother died. You learned of their tributaries and had your lady maid taint their beverages with deliquesced merth. We had no idea it was even possible to create a poison like that. My parents always took their repast at night, but they decided to call for their tributary before our wedding ceremony on that day.” His jaw tenses. “The poison tore them apart from the inside. It took about fifteen minutes. I made it in time to see the end.”
So that’s how Princess Romeria did it—by targeting the humans who were supplying the blood.
While I struggle with how I feel about these Islorians feeding off humans, I don’t revel in stories of their suffering. Annika described touching merth as having a thousand razor blades slicing across your skin. What would that feel like from the inside? I cringe against the gruesome thought. “What did the merth do to the humans? The tributaries?”
“Nothing. It’s tasteless, odorless. They genuinely had no idea what had happened when they offered themselves. They were devastated.”
Devastated by the death of the king and queen feeding from them?
“You will never understand the bond that immortals can form with their tributaries,” he says, as if reading my thoughts.
Because this body I inhabit is immortal, and Islorians feed off human blood. Something strikes me as odd. “What were you going to do to me in the tower that night, then? I’m not mortal.” At least, this body isn’t. What need would he have for biting me?
His eyes trace my neck. “We can still feed off elven, though we don’t gain any sustenance from it. There are other, more intoxicating reasons to do it. But I planned to help you become that which you despise most. One of us. Let you live in our skin for a few hours, until you met your end in the square.” His gaze ventures off toward the rising sun, a somber look across his face. “Let you know what it’s like to be at the mercy of that craving.”
I feel my eyebrows arch. “You were going to turn me?” My God, they are like vampires.
“You are certainly safe from that now.” With a smirk, Zander moves for his terrace, calling over his shoulder, “Enjoy your lesson with Wendeline.”
I watch him vanish, an odd mix of fear and curiosity swirling inside me.
Chapter Seventeen
My wary eyes drift over the sanctum’s interior. The mahogany pews are smooth, the marble tile floor on the dais gleams white, and a waft of sage incense permeates my nose. All signs of the daaknar attack have been erased, as though it never happened.
Yet, if I inhale deeply, I smell its foul stench. If I listen intently, I hear its claws scraping against the wood. And in the darkness of my mind’s eye, I see the pool of blood and maimed body behind the altar.
Outside, the sanctum is a jaw-dropping Gothic splendor of countless angles and spires, a cathedral made of obsidian, but trimmed in so much gold, silver, and bronze that it glimmers like a beacon under the sun.
Soft footfalls sound. I turn to find Wendeline approaching, her translucent gold veil shimmering in the streams of daylight that shines through windows high above. Warmth instantly blooms in my chest at the sight of her friendly face.
“Your Highness.” She curtsies deeply. Her voice is a soothing song. “It’s good to see you again. Things have changed considerably since we last spoke.”
I smile through the
sting of resentment I feel toward her and Elisaf for dancing around the Islorian’s dark truth, even if Zander gave them no other choice. “More than I expected.”
Her vivid blue eyes venture to my shoulder, hidden beneath the maroon brocade. “Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Hot.” I tug at the collar that reaches to my chin. The dress Corrin insisted I wear today is heavy and better suited to cool temperatures, and I’m already sweating from the short walk here.
She smiles. “Then I suppose not everything has changed.”
I chuckle despite my bitter mood. “No, I guess not.”
“His Highness has requested that I tutor you in all things divine.” She holds out her arms, palms up, gesturing to the towering figures surrounding the altar.
“And some things that aren’t.” Would anyone call what these Islorian immortals are divine?
She dips her head in acknowledgment. “His Highness has finally revealed himself to you.”
“That’s one word for it.” I glare at Elisaf. Between the sheepish look he greeted me with this morning and my bubbling antipathy for him after standing outside my door last night, listening to my terror and saying nothing, our walk over was silent and tense.
Elisaf has the decency to avert his gaze. “Do you need me here, Priestess?”
“I do not anticipate another daaknar attack. Thank you.”
They share a lingering look before Elisaf bows to me. “I’ll be outside if you require my assistance, Your Highness.”
I required it last night, I want to say. My eyes trail after the guard as he marches down the center aisle, wondering how often he feeds off humans, and who he feeds off, and whether I wish I’d never found out. No … I’m glad Zander let me in on his secret. Maybe things will begin to make more sense now.
Wendeline studies me intently.
“It’s so bare in here without all the flowers.”
“It sounds like they may be back again soon enough?” There’s a teasing lilt in her tone, though I’m not sure Wendeline is capable of taunting. And my situation is far from amusing. The flat look I give her says as much.
