Transcription
The letter sits on my mahogany desk, an ugly reminder in an otherwise perfect morning. It is heavy, cream-colored stationery stamped with the seal of the Dominion High Chancellor. I have read it three times, and each time the words make my stomach churn with a familiar soldierly dread.
"Captain Moore," it reads, "The Dominion requires the immediate assistance of the Vampire Division. The Liykan threat in the north is growing. We require your expertise and your assets. Report to Iron Forge immediately."
I stare at the signature. Lord Vain. He writes like he speaks, sharp, imperious, and utterly devoid of warmth. He treats me like a dog he can whistle for, and my wives like weapons he can unsheathe at his leisure.
I sigh, folding the letter and shoving it into the back of a drawer. "Not today, Vain," I whisper to the empty room. "Not today."
Today is the winter solstice. The longest night in the vampire kingdom. This is more than just a holiday. It is a celebration of their nature. For them, the sun is a fleeting pale ghost that will hang in the sky for barely 3 hours before surrendering to the dark. For my wives, it is the beginning of their true day.
I stand up, pushing away the thoughts of war and politics. I walk to the tall arched window of our shared chambers. Outside the citadel is a world of white and gray. Snow has been falling for 2 days, draping the Gothic spires and black stone gargoyles in heavy coats of pristine snow. The wind howls around the towers, whipping the snow into dancing spirals.
My gaze drops to the western battlement. There is a figure standing there, unmoving against the gale. She is facing the wind, her black armor stark against the white landscape. She doesn't shiver. She doesn't hunch. She stands like a statue carved from obsidian sort.
A soft smile touches my lips. Of course, she is out there. While Landre is likely fussing over decorations and Beatatrix is calibrating the heating vents, Sorreer is doing what she always does, watching for threats that aren't there, guarding a peace we have already won.
I turn back to my desk. Sitting on the corner, wrapped in black velvet paper and tied with a silver cord, is a small rectangular package. I pick it up, feeling the weight of it. I have been nervous about this gift for weeks. What do you give a woman who has outlived you and seen things you could only dream of? A woman who can snap a rifle in half with her bare hands.
I check my reflection in the mirror. I am wearing a heavy wool coat over my tunic, fur-lined boots and gloves. I am human. I am fragile. And I am freezing just looking out the window. But she is waiting.
I leave the warmth of the tower and descend the spiral stairs. The air grows colder with every step. By the time I push open the heavy oak door to the battlements, the wind strikes me, blowing my hair in seemingly every direction, biting at my exposed cheeks. I trudge through the snow, my boots crunching loudly. Sorcher doesn't turn around. She knows my step. She knows my heartbeat.
I come to a stop beside her. The drop on the other side of the wall is dizzying, a sheer cliff disappearing into a white void of mist and snow. "You'll catch your death out here, Sorche," I say, shouting slightly to be heard over the wind.
Sorche turns her head slowly. Her golden eyes are bright. The pupils blown wide in the dim light. Snowflakes are caught in her long, dark lashes and tangled in her hair, but they don't melt. Her skin is as pale and cold as the marble beneath our feet.
"I am already dead, little mouse," she rumbles, her voice a low purr that vibrates in my chest. "And the dead do not feel the cold as they once did."
"Well, the living do," I say, shivering as a particularly icy gust cuts through my coat. "And your wife is very much alive."
Sortter's expression softens instantly. The stoic sentry vanishes, replaced by the woman who holds me at night. "Then you are foolish for coming out here," she scolds, though there is no heat in it. "Go back inside, Eva. Sit by the fire. I will join you when my watch is done."
"Your watch is done when I say it is," I tease. "I'm the war master, remember?"
Sort snorts, turning her body to block the wind for me. "You are a tiny thing with thin skin. Why are you here?"
I look up at her. She is terrifying and beautiful. A woman who looks at me with such tender devotion. It still takes my breath away. I hold out the black velvet package. "Happy solstice," I say.
Sorcher blinks. She looks at the package, then at me. Her brow furrows in confusion. "A gift?" she asks.
"That is how the tradition works," I say. "Go on, open it."
She hesitates. Sorcher is used to taking things, not used to being given things. She reaches out with her gloved hand. She pulls the silver cord with surprising gentleness. The paper falls away. Resting in her palm is a dagger. It is not a brute weapon of war like her claymore. It is a piece of art. The blade is forged from dragon steel, dark, rippled, and razor sharp. The hilt is carved from black weirwood, inlaid with silver filigree that forms the dragon crest of House Valyriius. The pommel is a single uncut ruby that catches the meager light.
Sorce stares at it. She lifts it, testing the balance. She flips it effortlessly in her hand, the blade slicing the air with a quiet hiss. "It is light," she murmurs. "Fast."
"It's for close quarters," I explain, suddenly nervous, "for when the claymore is too big. I designed the balance myself."
"And the crest," she looks at me. Her eyes are burning. "It is beautiful," she says softly.
She sheathes the dagger in her belt next to her heavy sword. Then she steps closer, closing the small distance between us, "but not as beautiful as you." She reaches up and unclasps the heavy cloak of white wolf fur she wears over her armor. It is massive, heavy enough to crush a lesser woman, but she handles it like silk. She swings it around me. The weight settles on my shoulders, engulfing me in warmth and the scent of her. She pulls the edges tight, cocooning me.
"Better?" she asks.
"Much," I breathe.
She doesn't step back. Instead, she presses her body against mine through the layers of wool and fur. I can feel the solid, unyielding hardness of her armor. But her movements are fluid. She reaches up. Her cold leather-clad hand brushes the snow from my shoulder. She traces the line of my jaw, her thumb resting on my chin. She tilts my head back.
"You should be inside," she whispers, leaning down. "But I am selfish. I want you here."
"I want to be here," I answer.
She kisses me. It starts slow, a meeting of cold lips and warm breath. Her mouth is freezing. But the fire she ignites in my belly is instantaneous. She groans low in her throat, a possessive sound, and the kiss deepens. Her lips part mine, demanding entry. Her tongue slides against mine, cool and slick. I melt into her, my hands finding purchase on her breastplate. Her free hand leaves my face and slides down. It traces the curve of my neck, the swell of my chest beneath the heavy coats, down over my waist and hip, pulling me harder against her. For a moment on the frozen wall, with the wind howling around us, the world narrows down to just this: the heat of her desire, the cold of her skin, and the overwhelming terrifying love of a woman who would burn the world to keep me warm.
The great hall is vibrant with the sound of music and the rich, heavy scent of blood wine. The crimson solstice celebration is in full swing. Vampires, usually so reserved and predatory in their grace, have allowed themselves a rare night of revelry. The chandeliers are draped in red silk, casting a warm, bloody glow over the dancers.
I am standing near a pillar, a goblet of a normal vintage red in my hand, but I barely get a chance to drink it. Sorcher is pressed against my back, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, her chin resting on my shoulder. She has shed her armor for the evening, wearing a tunic of black velvet that leaves her scarred arms bare.
"Your smell is intoxicating," she murmurs into my ear, nipping at the sensitive skin of my neck. "If only I could have my way with you here."
"And you smell of trouble," I tease, leaning back into her solid warmth.
Sort hums a low vibration that rattles my chest. She spins me around, pinning me against the stone pillar. Her golden eyes are dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with the feast laid out on the tables. She kisses me. It isn't the tender kiss on the battlements. This is a public claim. Her mouth is hot and demanding, tasting of the blood wine. Her hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against her. The noise of the party fades into a dull roar, drowned out by the pounding of my own heart. I melt into her, my fingers tangling in her dark hair. It would be so easy to stay here, to let her drag me away to our chambers and lose myself to her desires.
"Sorche," I gasp, breaking the kiss. I am breathless, my lips swollen.
"Wait, why?" she growls, leaning in to kiss my throat. "The night is long, Eva. Let us make use of it."
"Because," I say, placing a hand on her chest to hold her back, though my resolve is crumbling, "I have three other wives, and I haven't seen Beatatrix in hours."
Such a size. A dramatic, disgruntled sound. She rests her forehead against mine. "The scholar," she mutters. "She's likely hiding in her books. She forgets to drink blood. She forgets to sleep."
"Which is why I need to go find her," I say before she turns into a statue. I start to pull away, but Sorche catches my hand. She kisses my knuckles, her eyes softening.
"You will find her in the library," Sorcher predicts. "She has been tinkering with another infernal machine all day."
"I know," I smile. "I'll catch up with you later."
Sorche grins, sharp and wicked. "You will." And bring the bookish princess. She needs to get out of her head and into other things.
I slip out of the great hall and into the quiet corridors. The silence descends instantly, a welcome relief from the sensory overload of the party. I make a detour to our shared chambers. I go to the heavy oak wardrobe and retrieve a package hidden beneath my winter cloaks. It is wrapped in thick brown parchment and tied with twine. It smells of dust and history.
Gift in hand, I head for the royal library. The double doors are ajar. A warm golden light spills out into the hallway along with the faint smell of old paper. I step inside. The library is a cathedral of knowledge. Spiral staircases wind up to dizzying heights, and shelves upon shelves of books line the walls. A massive fireplace crackles on the far wall, keeping the room toasty.
And there she is, Princess Beatatrix sits at a sprawling workt in the center of the room. She is surrounded by open tomes, loose gears, springs, and sketches. She looks stunning. She is dressed for the solstice, though she clearly hasn't made it to the party yet. She wears a gown of deep emerald green that compliments her pale skin perfectly. The bodice is low cut, showcasing the ample creamy curve of her chest being pushed up. Beatatrix is bent over a delicate brass mechanism, wearing her magnifying spectacles. Her brow is furrowed in intense concentration, her lips moving silently.
I stand there for a moment just watching her. She is so beautiful in her focus, so brilliant. The way her mind works is a marvel to me. A labyrinth I am happily lost in. I walk quietly across the rug. She doesn't hear me. She is in her own world. I step up behind her. I place the parchment package on the corner of the table. Then I reach out. I slide my hands under the heavy mass of her dark hair, lifting it off her neck.
Beatatrix stiffens for a split second, then melts as my thumbs find the knots of tension in her shoulders. "Variable pressure," she murmurs, her voice distracted and husky. "Force applied to the M. That's the spot. Highly effective."
"You're tense because," I whisper, working my thumbs into the muscle, "you've been hunched over this table for hours."
She sighs, dropping the small screwdriver she was holding. She leans back into my touch, her head lolling back against my stomach. "The gear ratio was off," she complains softly. "I couldn't leave it."
I chuckle, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. "Only you would miss a party because of a gear." I stop the massage. Beatatrix blinks, sitting up and glancing over her shoulder at me. Her dark eyes are huge behind her spectacles. "Why did you stop?" she asks, sounding genuinely disappointed.
I grin. I pick up the package from the table and hold it out to her. "Because it's solstice," I say, "And I have something for you."
Beatric stares at the package. She looks stunned, as if the concept of a gift is a variable she hadn't accounted for in her equations. "For me?" she asks.
"Yes, open it." She wipes her greasy hands on a rag before taking the package. She handles it with reverence. She unties the twine slowly, peeling back the paper. When she sees the cover of the book, her breath hitches. It is a heavy leather-bound tome. The leather is cracked with age and the title is embossed in faded gold leaf. "The Ether and the Void: A Study of Pre-Calamity Magics."
"Evangeline," she breathes. Her hands tremble as she touches the cover. "This is... this is a first edition. This text was thought to be lost in the great fire 500 years ago."
"I called in a few favors at the archive with an old friend I know," I admit. "I know you prefer science, but you said once that magic is just science we don't understand yet. I thought you might like to look over it."
Beatrix looks up at me. Her eyes are shining with tears. "I love it," she whispers. "The potential, the historical significance. Thank you, Eva." She stands up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. She rushes around the table. "I have something for you," she says, rushing to a pile of books and pulling out a small wooden box. She comes back to me, holding it out shyly. "It is not... it is not historical. I made it in the workshop."
I take the box. It is smooth, polished walnut. I open the lid. Inside sits a pocket watch, but it is not ordinary. The casing is bronze, etched with intricate vines. I press the release catch. The lid pops open. There is no clock face inside. Instead, there is a miniature image, incredibly detailed. On the right, it shows four women standing together in the snow. Sort looking fierce. Landra smiling, Beatatrix looking at a book, and me in the center looking at them. The image on the left is that of the Queen Valyriana, beautiful, elegant, and at times dominant.
"It is a locator," Beatatrix explains hurriedly, wringing her hands. "But I modified the movement to track the one I placed on my necklace. That way, no matter where you are, you'll always find your way back to me." She stops, seeing my face. "Do you like it?" she asks, her voice small. "Is it efficient?"
"Bea," I say, my voice thick with emotion. I run my thumb over the image. "It is perfect. I love it and I love you." I snap it closed and slip it into my pocket. I reach out and grab her by the waist. She squeaks in surprise as I pull her flush against me.
"Eva," she stammers.
"You are too smart for your own good," I murmur, looking down into her wide eyes. "And too beautiful."
"I... um... the possible outcomes," she mumbles, not meeting my gaze.
I sit down on the edge of her workt, pushing aside a stack of schematics. I pull her forward, guiding her until she is standing between my legs. "Forget the possibilities," I whisper. I hook my hands behind her thighs and lift. Beatatrix gasps, instinctively, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I settle her on my lap. She is heavy and soft, a stark contrast to Sorch's hard armor.
"Eva," she breathes. Her chest inches from my face. I look up at her. She is biting her lip, looking at me with a mixture of shyness and intense curiosity.
"Sorche is waiting for us at the celebration," I say, my hands resting on her hips. I squeeze gently.
Beatatrix shudders. "Sorche is impatient."
"She is," I agree. I lean forward, pressing a kiss on her neck. "But I think she can wait a little longer."
Beatrix moans. A soft, involuntary sound. Her fingers tangle in my hair. "The probability of... of us being late is increasing," she whispers.
"Let it increase," I growl. I reach up and gently take the spectacles from her face. I fold them and set them on the table beside the ancient book. Without the glass between us, her eyes are dark pools of desire. "Kiss me, Bea," I command softly.
She leans down. Her lips meet mine. Tentative at first, then longing. She kisses like she studies thoroughly, exploring every angle, every sensation. I groan, my hands moving from her hips to the laces at the back of her dress. "A calculated risk," I murmur against her mouth. I pull the laces. The tension releases. The emerald gown loosens, sliding down her shoulders. Beatatrix pulls back slightly, looking down as her dress pulls at her waist, revealing the pale expanse of her skin. I lean forward, kiss down her neck to her collarbone. Beatatrix lets out a shaky exhale, arching her back. She presses my head down lower, holding me there.
"Oh," she sighs. "This is no longer avoidable."
"Happy solstice, Beatatrix," I murmur into her skin between kisses.
"Happy solstice, Eva," she gasps.
We return to the great hall, a little more disheveled than when I left it. Beatatrix walks beside me, attempting to look composed, but her hair is pinned back in a slightly chaotic fashion, and her lips are swollen. She keeps adjusting the bodice of her emerald dress, as if convinced everyone knows exactly whose hands were inside it 10 minutes ago. I feel a smug satisfaction radiating in my chest.
As we descend the stairs, Sora pushes off the pillar where she has been holding court. She crosses her arms, her black velvet tunic straining against her biceps, and looks us up and down with a predatory grin. "Well," Sorche drawls, her eyes lingering on the mark I left on Beatrix's neck. "It looks like the fun has already started."
"We were reviewing data," Beatric stammers, pushing her glasses up her nose. "The gift Eva gave me... required calibration."
"I bet it did," Sorche laughs. She reaches out and ruffles Beatrix's hair, destroying her attempt at order. "Go get some wine, princess. You look thirsty."
Beatrix flees toward the refreshment table with impressive speed. Sorche turns her golden gaze to me. "You work fast, little mouse," she purrs. "I leave you alone for an hour and you corrupt the innocent."
"She isn't that innocent," I whisper, leaning in to kiss Sorch's cheek. "She just needed the right encouragement."
"And now?" Sorche asks, nodding toward the center of the room.
I follow her gaze. Landre is holding court in the center of the dance floor. She is radiant. While Sorche is dark velvet and Beatatrix is deep emerald, Landre is pure starlight. She wears a gown of shimmering silver silk that clings to her petite frame. The sleeves are sheer gossamer, drifting around her arms as she moves. Her dark ringlets are piled high, adorned with diamond pins that catch the candle light.
She spots me. Her face lights up, a genuine blinding smile that makes the rest of the room fade away. She excuses herself from a group of vampire nobles and glides toward us, her massive diamond earrings swaying as she hurries.
"There you are," she exclaims, taking my hands in hers. Her skin is cool and soft, her touch light as a feather. "I thought the library had swallowed you whole or that Sorcerer had kidnapped you to the armory and given you a pounding."
"I was waylaid," I admit, squeezing her hands. "But I'm here now."
"Good," Lisandra says. The music shifts, the orchestra swelling into a slow, sweeping waltz. "Because this is my song and you are my wife." She tugs on my hands. "Dance with me, Eva."
"I have two left feet, Landra," I warn her. "I'm a soldier, not a courtier."
"Then I will lead," she says, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Come."
I can't refuse her. I don't want to refuse her. She pulls me onto the floor. She steps into my space, placing one hand on my shoulder and taking my other hand in hers. She is small, looking up at me through her lashes. But her presence is immense. We begin to move. I expect to stumble, but Landre makes it impossible. She guides me with subtle pressure, anticipating my movements before I make them. We spin through the crowd. A blur of silver and blue.
I look down at her. She is stunning. The cut of her dress reveals the porcelain slope of her shoulders and the delicate hollow of her throat. "You look stunning," I whisper, pulling her a fraction closer.
Lisandra beams. "I dressed for you. Do you like the silver? I thought it looked good on me."
"You look good in everything, but I love it," I say.
She giggles. A bright sound that vibrates against my chest. "You are a flatterer, Captain Moore."
"You're in luck," I say. "I just so happen to love you."
We dance for what feels like hours. The room spins around us. A kaleidoscope of red banners, flickering candles, and the pale faces of the court. The heat of the room, combined with the wine and the movement, begins to get to me. My head swims pleasantly. I stumble slightly on a turn. Landre catches me instantly, her grip surprisingly strong. "Steady there, honey," she murmurs.
I think I say, blinking against the dizziness, "that I need to freshen up... the heat."
"Of course," Landra says immediately. She stops dancing, guiding me toward the side doors. "Let us retire. The crowd is too loud anyway."
We leave the great hall hand in hand. The corridor leading to our chambers is quiet and cool. The silence is a balm. Lysandra hums the waltz melody under her breath as we walk, swinging our joined hands. We enter our shared suite. The fire in the hearth has burned down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the room.
"Sit," Landre commands gently, pushing me toward the velvet chaise lounge near the fire. "I will get you some water." She moves to the sideboard, pouring a glass from a crystal pitcher. She brings it to me, watching as I drink.
"Better?" she asks, brushing a stray hair from my forehead.
"Much," I say. I set the glass down. "Actually, Landra, I'm glad we're alone."
She tilts her head, her expression curious. "Oh," I say, "I have something for you." I reach into the pocket of my coat, which I had discarded on the chair earlier. I pull out a small square box wrapped in shimmering silver paper that matched her dress and tied with a blue satin ribbon. I hold it out to her. "Happy solstice, Landra."
Her eyes go wide. She looks at the box like it contains a kingdom. "A gift," she whispers. "For me?"
"Open it." She takes it, her fingers trembling slightly. She unties the ribbon with agonizing slowness, savoring the anticipation, she peels back the paper. It is a music box, but not a simple toy. It is a masterpiece of Dominion craftsmanship. The lid is engraved with a cluster of stars.
"Eva," she breathes.
"Turn the key," I urge her. She winds the small key on the bottom and lifts the lid. A tiny clockwork dancer rises from the center. A figure in a silver dress. The mechanism begins to play. It is a waltz, haunting and sweet. The notes clear as crystal bells in the quiet room.
Landre stares at it. Tears prick the corners of her eyes. "It plays the Moonlight Waltz," she whispers. "How did you know?"
"I heard you playing it on your harp weeks ago," I say. "You said it was the song you wished you could dance to forever."
She looks up at me. Her expression is so full of love. It almost knocks the wind out of me. "You listened," she says softly. "You remembered. You listened."
"I always listened to you," I say. She sets the music box carefully on the small table beside the chaise. The music continues to play, filling the room with its delicate melody. Landra stands up. She takes a step back, putting some distance between us. She looks at me, a sudden playful heat entering her dark eyes. "This calls for a celebration," she purrs.
"I ask," my breath hitching.
She smiles. A slow, sultry curve of her lips that is entirely different from her sweet public smile. She begins to move to the music. It is not a waltz. It is slower. She sways her hips, the silver silk rippling. Her eyes never leave mine. She reaches for the diamond pins in her hair. One by one, she pulls them out, dropping them onto the carpet. Her dark ringlets tumble down, washing over her shoulders and down her back. She reaches behind her. The sound of a zipper sliding down interrupts the music. She shrugs one shoulder. The silver sleeve slips down. She shrugs the other. The dress pulls at her waist, held up only by the curve of her hips. She reveals a corset of pale lace that matches her eyes, cinching her waist. Her skin is flawless, glowing in the firelight.
I grip the arms of the chaise, my knuckles turning white. "Lysandra," I breathe.
She shimies. The dress falls to the floor. She steps out of it, kicking it aside with a pointed toe. She walks toward me. The predator is back, but this time she is the seductress. She stops between my knees. She takes my hands and places them on her waist. Her skin is cool and smooth as glass. "Do you like your gift, Eva?" She whispers, leaning down until her lips brush my ear.
"The dance," I rasp.
"No," she giggles, nibbling my earlobe. "Me?"
"I love you," I say, my voice wrecked.
"You are stunning," she pulls away, taking my hand. "Come to bed."
I let her lead me. I would follow her anywhere. We reach the massive four-poster bed. She pushes me down onto the mattress. I sit on the edge, looking up at her. She steps between my legs again. Her nimble fingers go to the laces of my tunic. "My turn," she whispers. She undoes the knots with ease. She pushes the heavy wool from my shoulders. She unbuttons my shirt, exposing me to the cool air. She leans down and kisses my sternum. She peels back the layers, pausing to kiss every inch of skin she uncovers. My shoulder, the scar on my ribs, my stomach. When she finishes, I reach for her and pull her down onto the bed with me.
"You are mine," she whispers fiercely. "Tonight, you dance to my rhythm." I reach up, tracing the line of her thigh, feeling the silk of her stockings and the smooth, cool skin.
"I am all yours, wife," I say. She smiles and then silences the world with a kiss.
The world is soft and smells of jasmine. I am floating in a haze of sleep. My body heavy and satisfied. Lysandra is curled against my side, her head resting on my shoulder, her arm thrown across my waist. Her breathing is a steady rhythmic lullaby that pulls me deeper into the warmth of the furs.
Then a shadow falls over me. It is not a demonic shadow, but a sensual one that prickles the hair on my arms. A kiss stirs me. It is not Landre's gentle butterfly touch. It is firm, demanding, and tastes of too much wine. My eyes flutter open. Sorche is there. She is on her hands and knees looming directly above me. Her long black hair creating a curtain that shuts out the rest of the room. Her golden eyes are glowing in the darkness. Pupils blown wide.
"Sorcha," I whisper, my voice thick with sleep.
She doesn't answer. She leans down and kisses me again, fiercer this time. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me, waking every nerve ending that had just begun to settle. She pulls back, a wicked smirk curling her lips. Her gaze drops.
"You're already undressed," she purrs, her voice a low rumble. "How practical." She grips the edge of the heavy fur blanket. Slowly, she pulls it down. The cool air hits my skin, followed immediately by the heat of her gaze. She marvels at every inch she uncovers. She bites her lip, her eyes darkening as they flick back up to meet mine. "Beautiful," she growls.
Beside me, Lisandre stirs. She makes a soft, contented noise and shifts, pressing closer to my side. Her hand slides lazily across my stomach, her fingers trailing fire. She kisses the sensitive spot just below my ear.
"Is it morning?" Landre murmurs sleepily.
"No," Sorche says, though she leans down to nip at my jawline. "And that is the tragedy." She sighs, a heavy, dramatic sound, and sits back on her heels. "I am afraid you are going to have to get dressed, little mouse," Sorche says, looking regretful. "The queen summons you to her study. Now."
"Now?" I ask, blinking.
"It is the solstice," Sorche says. "The night is when we live the most, and Valyriana does not wait." She leans down for one last kiss. It is a promise, heavy with intent. I reach up, tangling my hands in her hair, trying to pull her down to keep her there. Landra hums against my neck, her lips moving to my collarbone. For a moment, I am trapped in the most perfect prison imaginable. Between them, Sorche breaks the kiss. She catches my wrists and pins them gently to the mattress. "Do not tempt me, Eva," she warns. "If you start now, I will not be able to stop until the sun rises, and the queen will give me a proper scolding. Go. We will be here when you return." She rolls off, landing cat-like on the floor.
I groan, sitting up. The loss of their touch pains me. I look at Lysandra, who is looking up at me with sleepy, half-lidded eyes, blowing me a kiss. "Hurry back," she whispers. I dress quickly, pulling on a fresh tunic and trousers, fastening my champion's cloak around my shoulders. I check my reflection, my hair wild and cheeks flushed. I look exactly like a woman who was dragged out of bed. I kiss them both on the forehead. Sora, who is already sharpening her dagger by the fire, and Lysandra, who is burrowing back into the pillows, and slip out the door.
The corridors of the citadel are quiet now. The revelry has died down. The guests retired to their chambers or the guest wings. The castle feels ancient and watchful. I reach the queen's private wing. The guards, centuries in full plate, snap to attention as I approach. They open the double doors without a word. I step inside.
The queen's study is a masterpiece of Gothic elegance. Walls lined with books older than the Dominion. A massive fireplace roaring with flames and a balcony that overlooks the entire snowswept valley. Queen Valerriana stands by the balcony doors. She is elegance, dominance, and seduction all wrapped in one. She has changed from her formal ceremonial gown into a robe of deep crimson velvet that pools on the floor around her. Her white hair is loose, flowing down her back. She turns as I enter. Her eyes lock onto mine.
"Evangeline," she says. "Come in. Close the door."
I do as commanded. "Your majesty. You summoned me."
"I did," she says. She walks to her desk, her movements fluid and silent. She picks up a piece of paper. "I received a raven from Iron Forge an hour ago," she says, her tone shifting to Monarch. "From Chancellor Lain."
My stomach drops. "I received a similar letter this morning."
"I assumed as much," Valeriana says. She taps the paper with a long fingernail. "He invokes the alliance treaty. He claims a Lykan horde threatens the Dominion. He demands I send the vampire division led by my champion." She looks at me, gauging my reaction. "We will send the aid," she declares. "If there are lychans, we will fight them. If there is treachery, we will fight that too, but we will do it with honor."
She moves away from the desk, walking toward me. The heavy political air evaporates, replaced by something far more potent. "But let us not speak of war tonight," she says softly. "Tonight is the solstice, the turning of the dark." She stops in front of me. She is tall, towering over me, even without her heels. She smells of dried roses, ancient dust, and power.
"I watched the lights from the balcony," she says. "The aurora, it was magnificent. Did you see it?"
"I... I watched it with Sorche. It was quite beautiful," I admit, feeling a blush creep up my neck.
Valeriana smiles, a knowing, wicked curve of her lips. "I am aware. Sorcher has very loud thoughts." I clear my throat, reaching into my pocket. It is empty. "Majesty," I say, looking down. "I... I must apologize. I gave Sora a dagger. I gave Beatatrix a book. I gave Lysandra a music box. But I do not have a gift for you."
I look up, expecting disappointment. Instead, Valyriana laughs softly. She reaches out, her cold hands cupping my face, tilting my chin up so I cannot look away. "Oh, my sweet champion," she purrs. "Do you truly think I need trinkets? I have vaults filled with gold. I have libraries filled with lost knowledge. I have lived for 600 years." She strokes my cheek with her thumb. "You are gift enough," she whispers.
My breath hitches. "Every day you are here," she continues, her eyes searching mine, "every moment you spend in this cold castle, bringing your warmth, your fire, your short, brilliant human life to us. It brings me more joy than I have experienced in decades." She brushes a loose strand of hair from my forehead, tucking it behind my ear. Her touch is reverence.
"I watch you with them," she says softly. "I see how Sorche softens for you. How Beatatrix lights up when you enter the room. How Landra finds her courage in your shadow. You are the heart of this coven. Evangeline."
"I love them," I whisper. "I love you."
"I know," Valeriana says. Her expression shifts. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a deep, ancient sorrow mixed with a terrifying hope. "But you are human," she says. "You are fragile. You age. Every winter will leave a new line on your face. Every battle. I fear it will be the one that takes you from us." She steps closer, her body pressing against mine. "I cannot bear the thought of watching you with her, Evangelene. I cannot bear the thought of a world without you in it." She leans down, her forehead resting against mine. "I want to spend eternity with you," she whispers. "I know how much you love your wives, and I know how much they love you. They would tear the stars down to keep you." She pulls back slightly, looking deep into my soul. "I offer you a gift, Evangelene. The only gift that truly matters. I offer you time, endless time, to love them, to fight beside them, to rule with us." She pauses, her voice trembling slightly. "Do you wish to join us in eternity? Will you let me make you like us?"
I stare at her. I think of the letter from Vain. I think of the wars to come. I think of growing old while Sorche stays young. Of being too weak to dance with Landra. Of my mind failing while Beatatrix remains sharp. I think of the love that fills this castle. I cannot imagine a life without them. And I do not want to imagine a death that separates us.
"Yes," I breathe. "Yes, Valyriana. I want to be with you forever."
Relief floods Valeriana's face, making her look radiant. "Then tonight," she says, "we begin." She kisses me. It is a kiss of possession. It is deep, passionate, and overwhelming. Her hands slide down my back, pulling me into the crimson velvet of her robe. I cling to her, my anchor in the storm. Her kisses trail from my mouth to my jawline. She hums a low sound of approval against my skin. She tilts my head to the side, exposing the column of my throat. Her cool breath ghosts over my pulse, which is hammering a frantic rhythm against my skin. "My champion," she whispers against the vein. "My love for eternity." She opens her mouth. I feel the sharp, precise points of her fangs graze my skin. I gasp, my hands gripping her shoulders. "Do it," I whisper.
She bites. It is a sharp, sudden pinch followed instantly by a rush of ice and fire. I let out a soft moan, my knees buckling, but she holds me up. She holds me close as the world begins to spin and the colors of the room bleed into a brilliant, eternal crimson. The last thing I feel is her arms around me. And the last thing I know is that I am now bound to them for eternity.