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MY NERVES ARE ON treble alert as I step into the prince’s feeding parlor, as I’ve come to think of it, that evening.
He’s standing at the window, one fist clasped at his back, looking out over a sky lit with vivid amber trails of the setting sun.
I know he heard me enter.
I know he can hear my heart thudding.
How am I supposed to hide my deception from someone with his uncanny abilities? If he doesn’t taste the guard on me, in my blood, he’ll probably smell the flavor of my fear.
I can’t kill the fear. All I can do is hide it behind my useless anger and contempt for the prince and his world.
“Where is Lorene?”
He turns from the window, regarding me with a hitched brow. “Lorene?”
He seriously doesn’t know our names. “The Silk who left the banquet with the king.”
“Ah, the spring Silk.” He crosses to the cabinet. “Sounds like you already know where she is.”
“With whom, not where.”
“My father resides in the west wing, but he very much prefers to keep to himself, if you were hoping for an introduction.”
“Father? How old was he when he had you? Two?”
“You’re in a feisty mood this evening.” The prince holds up a crystal decanter. “Drink?”
I have no wish to draw this out. I shake my head, no, watching as the prince brings his glass with him and settles on the couch.
“Sit, please.” He pats the spot beside him. “I was hoping we could continue our discussion from the other day. I’m keen to learn more about your Alders’ version of our history.”
“You’re implying our version differs from yours.”
“I’m quite sure it does.”
I’m officially intrigued. And skeptical. I join him on the couch, keeping some distance between us. “Whatever happened back then doesn’t change today. And we’re just Silks. Why would you possibly care about our perception of events?”
“Humor me.”
“Fine,” I sigh, “but what I know is very limited.”
His mouth curls into a half smile. “From your Alder friend.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. Is this more of an attempt to find out who told me rather than what I was told?
“There was a virus,” I start, determined to keep this short and vague and not trip up. “It swept across the globe, causing bloodlust—some kind of rabid disease that turned people violent and gave them a craving for blood.”
“Not a virus,” he says, lifting the glass to sip before he continues. “My father and I are descended from the royal line of Vampyres that dates back to the beginning of time. The king is more than three thousand years old.”
My eyes narrow into his frosted blue gaze. How many of those whiskeys has he already had?
“We are not a disease.”
Okay, sure. “And your father is three thousand years old.”
“You find that hard to accept. After all you’ve seen?”
Well, when you put it that way...but yeah, three thousand years old? “You’re saying you’re a Vampyre? Like an actual Vampyre?”
He inclines his head, a smirk on his mouth as he sips on his whiskey.
“So you’ve lived amongst us all this time without...” This isn’t making any sense. “What about the plague?”
“An unfortunate accident,” he says. “But we’ve adapted.”
My incredibility turns to genuine horror.
Maybe even pity.
This is when I begin to truly believe the prince’s tale. The cavalier disregard for human life, for all life, belongs to the dead. He is dead. He was born from dead parents. He doesn’t know what life is, because he has never been alive.
“The end of our world was an unfortunate accident,” I say numbly.
“If you ask me,” he says. “If you ask my father, he’d say it was a very deliberate accident. I suppose only my mother would know, but we can’t ask her of course.”
I don’t even want to know why not. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“You intrigue and amuse me. And to be honest, I don’t appreciate you thinking of me as a disease.” He throws down the last of his whiskey as he stands to pour another.
“I’ll take one of those now, if you’re still offering.”
He slides me a slow grin that is heart-stopping. He is ice and fire, sinful beauty and cruel charm. A fallen angel with hell running through his veins.
How do we survive him?
I’m not sure we do.
When he hands me a glass, I toss the contents back in one gulp, grimacing at the smooth burn. My nerves need the bolts and braces. “Your kind lived amongst us for millennia without destroying the world and then one day...poof. What happened?”
“My mother happened.” He takes his seat again, watching me as he squares one leg over the other and cradles the glass on his knee. “Our feeding habits have always been meticulous and efficient. We never sire a new Vampyre without intent and careful deliberation.”
“And by sire, you mean turn a human into a Vampyre?” At his nod, my stomach sours. “You killed everyone you fed on.”
“Drained them,” he says. “And as I said, efficient. A full feed sustains us for twenty-eight days.”
“But you don’t do that anymore?”
“A full feed sustains us, but that doesn’t make the other twenty-seven days of fasting pleasant. We enjoy drinking blood and the discovery of Silks such as yourself, immunes, made that possible. Although the king is somewhat of a puritan and prefers to adhere to the old traditions.”
The king drains his Silks. I want to believe this is just a scare tactic, but it’s also a missing piece of the puzzle. Silks from the House of Ell are never destined for the buffet. Our journey stops at the king.
Lorene is dead.
I can barely scrape together an ounce of shock at the news. Some part of me already knew the king doesn’t keep an everlasting, ever-expanding harem of blood Silks, has already accepted she is gone.
“In 1402,” the prince continues, “my father fell in love with my mother, a human. Evelyn Jardine. He sired her and they were wed and lived happily for a couple of centuries, until she became obsessed with the idea of being a mother and eventually he gave in to her.”
“Vampyres can have children?”
“Royal males are extremely fertile. However, carrying a child to full term is a complicated process with dire consequences.” He pauses to sip on his whiskey, his gaze trailing off me. “A Vampyre pregnancy lasts twenty-eight days and required my mother to drink the king’s blood each day. On the twenty-eighth day, the child is born.”
“What my mother only learnt later, though, is that consuming Vampyre blood is poison to other Vampyres. Every day she drank from my father, I grew stronger in her womb and she became weaker.”
“She died?” I presume with little sympathy. Sue me.
“Twelve days into her pregnancy, she fled,” he says. “By then, my father had grown enamored by the idea of an heir and he refused to let it go. For the next three centuries, he chased her around the world.”
“But you were still born.”
“I hibernated in her womb until the pregnancy was resumed when my father finally caught up to her. My mother didn’t survive my birth. Your world ended the day I was born.”
I can’t decide if this is a tragic tale or a horror story. “Let me guess, your father went nuclear when his beloved passed away and the rest is history.”
“Not exactly,” he says. “While my mother was on the run, she established nests wherever she had a chance to settle before my father chased her onward again. Over the centuries, she sired thousands of Vampyres on every continent. When she died, the bond between her and her fledglings was severed and they lost control.”
“They went on a rampage of bloodthirst and anarchy.”
“The sire bond is a powerful connection. The loss stripped them to the essence of their nature,” he says. “My father believes she established those nests as a form of revenge on this earth and him if she were ever caught and forced to bear me. I think she was just lonely.”
Mommy issues. “Maybe she was building herself an army.”
He shrugs.
“How did you eventually bring them back under control?”
“We didn’t. Once they ran out of a blood source, they’d have desiccated. The Vampyres that remain today were sired by my father’s bloodline and mine. We cleaned up our country and left the world outside to rot.”
“Regular heroes.”
“It’s not the first time this world has re-started.”
“Except the world hasn’t restarted, it’s just crippled and hobbling along.”
“Depends on your perspective,” he says. “We’re no longer forced to walk in shadows and hide our true nature. We’re gods and this world is now our kingdom.” He leans in, tipping my chin with his knuckles to look me in the eye. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
His frosted stare is so intense, it’s practically hypnotic. I can’t seem to pull myself out of it. “I hate you and everything you stand for.”
“Do you trust me?”
I have to think about that. “I trust in what you are. I’d never trust you with my well-being.”
“And you believe I’ve given you an accurate account of our history.”
“You have no reason to lie.”
“Excellent.” His knuckles fall away, but his gaze still pierces me. “I didn’t share my history with you because you intrigue me. You certainly don’t amuse me. You are nothing but a warm vein to me. Unfortunately, immunes are notoriously resistant to compulsion. Not impossible, it just requires some effort. I’ve been building a bridge of trust to your mind and now that it’s open to me, I can compel the truths I need from you.”
I try to tear my eyes from him so I can think, but it’s impossible. I can’t move. I’m completely immobile—mesmerized.
“You and your friends ended one of my Elite Guard. How?”
“Gabe shot him with an arrow.”
“An arrow made from the wood of a rowan tree.”
“If you say so.”
“The only way to end a Royal Vampyre is by poison. Silver or the wood from a rowan tree. Silver and wooden stakes have worked their way into folklore, but an arrow made from the wood of a rowan tree is rather specific. Who told you about that?”
Figure it out yourself. That’s what I mean to say, but there’s a desperate desire on my tongue to be completely honest with him. “No one, I swear. We didn’t even know you were immortal. Any arrow would have done. How on earth could we possibly have known about the rowan tree? If it’s so poisonous to you, why is there one growing in the garden at the House of Ell?”
“I like to live dangerously,” he says lightly. Pauses. His eyes drilling into mine. “Am I supposed to believe you fumbled your way into ending Birken? That it was pure coincidence and bad luck?”
Or good luck, depending on your point of view.
“What about the Alder you were friendly with in Ironcross,” he presses. “Did he tell you about the rowan tree?”
“No.”
“Why were you sent here from Ironcross?”
“I was Tithed.”
“Why were you Tithed?”
As much as this ridiculous interrogation grinds on my teeth, I can’t seem to stop answering with the truth. “Because apparently my heart is too stubborn for its own good.”
“Were you sent here to test our vulnerabilities?”
“I wasn’t sent here. I was Tithed,” I mutter. “I’m an offering to honor our treaty with the wall. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to send me back!”
“What about your companions from the hunt?” he says. “Have they ever done or said anything to indicate they may know more of Vampyres than they’ve shared with you?”
“Right now, they know less than me. They still think you’re just infected humans that a virus has rewired with supernatural abilities.”
The seconds drag as he searches my eyes, searches for my secrets. I pray he doesn’t find them. I have a feeling if he asks me about Kane and why he was sent here, I’ll blurt it all out.
“Very well,” he says at last. “You will forget this conversation.”
Relief kicks behind my knees. “With pleasure.”
“Actually, let’s have some fun with this.” There’s a sardonic smile in his voice. “You will forget everything we discussed except what I’ve told you about my heritage and Royal Vampyres. You will remember I am not a disease. You will remember this world belonged to us first. But you’ll never tell a soul. You’ll never share it with anyone. Every time you think you want to, you’ll find a reason to keep it to yourself.”
“Yeah, sure.” That doesn’t sound crazy, not at all. “Whatever.”
“You’re released.”
He stands back and finally—thank you, God—I’m able to tear my eyes from that intense stare.
His gaze drags down my throat. “All this talk has made me hungry.”
Every nerve in my body screams as he snaps his jaw and slowly, slowly brings his mouth in.
The prince is not a disease.
He is an ancient monster.
His birth imploded our world and any moment now he will drink from me. He’ll flood me with royal pheromones and my mind will drown in ecstasy at his hands, at his will, and no matter how much it sickens me, I don’t know how to fight it.