A GARDEN RESPITE

Remy was no fool, and it took him less than half a mile to realize his folly. He hadn’t been trained to put up with this shit just to give up because his father had screwed him over for the twelve hundredth time. Remy truly was invested in hunting down the Night Empress and the First Court. He genuinely wanted to exterminate them for the betterment of mankind. More than all that, he wanted to avenge his mother, as any good son should. There was more to this than just his arsehole of a sire. Because if there weren’t, he’d keep running, forever if he could.

He needed to stay close to Delacroix grounds, if only to steel himself for what had to be done. He needed to get his hands on Astonbury’s most recent report on the First Court vampires, and it didn’t matter that he was going to let Giselle put her beautiful, refined hands on him to get it. If his father expected him to kiss Third Court arse like everyone inside was preparing to do, then the old man would have to crawl out of his chair and pucker up himself, because Remy was done. He wasn’t going back inside that ballroom tonight. His fuck-the-bloody-fuck-off limits had reached its quota.

He could have saved Lady Daneira.

It was true that letting her live as a vampire went against every Reaper creed he’d ever been taught, but if he was going to be banned from attending official hunter dræfendgemot anyway because the lord high steward had the mental acumen of an unlicked cub and the pettiness to match, then the rules didn’t matter. He’d broken them before. He’d broken this rule before, with Elke, and had gotten away with it. That he hadn’t thought to do it for Lady Daneira made her death all the more devastating. He could have saved her. He knew he could have.

The rain had eased. He changed directions and wound up at the Astonbury gardens instead. Within the lush, expansive greenery lay a sprawling maze, long considered the most expensively maintained landscape in all of Elouve, and it was hideous. Even here, he could see evidence of Giselle’s desire to assert control, to demand and dominate. There was an attempt to pattern the shrubbery after animal silhouettes, which was why vaguely threatening dead-eyed rabbits and foxes stared him down as he passed. Some of the trees were unnaturally round. Some of the trees were unnaturally cubed. An unfortunate cherub stood at the center of a small slate-colored fountain at the entrance to the labyrinth, gleefully vomiting copious amounts of water out from its gaping mouth. Remy was certain he’d had nightmares about the statue before.

He walked and walked until he was deep enough within the maze that no one could say to any effect that he was even there, and sat down on the first bench to cross his path.

Only then did he allow his breaths to leave him in wheezing, panicked gasps, hands over his head as he bent down, fighting the waves of nausea.

Could he have saved her? She would have been cast out of the ton despite the Duchess of Tennyfair’s tears, despite the ongoing cease-fire with the Third Court. They would have hunted her down all over again. The Reapers considered death a better fate than an undead life. Even she, in her final, sober moments, had asked him to put an end to her misery.

Send me to heaven, Armiger. That was his only comfort, that she might have weighed her options in those minutes and decided that this was, after all, the only way.

Anger soon took the place of panic; it was a much more familiar emotion; one he was quicker to welcome. “Fuck you, old man,” he muttered under his breath. Even after all this, he couldn’t muster the audacity to march home and scream all his frustrations in his father’s face, partly because the man was dying, and also because he was not likely to care. But the mishandled foliage was as good a setting to vent as he was ever going to have. And so he noisily sucked in a lung, prepared to let the trees know what the hell his problem was.

“ ‘Old man’?”

He heard her voice first, her heartbeat second. The former was soft and kind. The latter was unsteady and arrhythmic, rattling against rib cage bone like a dry echo. He sprang to his feet, but there was no one else in sight. His consistent abuse of wakers had given him a nose like a bloodhound; he could smell a light perfume, some mix of roses and cloves. But there was no natural scent of sweat like what humans carried, and his own heart quickened.

Vampire. There was a vampire here.

That didn’t explain the irregular heartbeats. Vampires weren’t known for having one. Two seconds in between pulses, and then one, and then four; human hearts couldn’t maintain intervals like those, either.

He looked up.

A girl stared back down.

She sat on a lower tree branch above him. She was clearly dressed for the ball, and the hem of her gown rode up to reveal smooth, creamy pale skin, the barest hint of thighs. Her sleeves were far too long for what Elouvian fashion expected, and they flowed down either side of her, hiding her hands from sight. It was not the type of dress common in Aluria, though Remy was familiar enough with the styles in the outer kingdoms to recognize them.

A spattering of freckles stretched across her nose, dusting her cheekbones. Her dark hair was curled into long ringlets, caught in the wind as she herself swung back and forth with deliberate slowness, watching him curiously with a silver-gray gaze, lids slightly lifted at the corners. She had eyes of a soft, unvarying hue, the color of mist if it could be smoothed down like icing over cake. They were also sharp and intelligent. She had the unearthly exquisiteness of feature that often comprised a vampire’s repertoire.

She looked sympathetic. That was the worst part.

“You’re in a tree,” Remy finally said, rather unnecessarily.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She flashed him a wide, pretty smile, and he could hear her heart going thump, ba-da-thump, ba-thump, ba-da-da-da-thump. “I’d rather not go inside just yet.”

He was too tired for this. “You’re a vampire.”

“And you are very likely a vampire hunter.” She shot the Breaker behind him a knowing glance. “Are you going to stake me?”

“Do I have reason to?” She must be part of the contingent of Third Court vampires due to appear at Giselle’s party.

“I hope not. You don’t look like you’d enjoy it, even if you did.”

“The fuck’s wrong with your heart?”

“Nĭ hĕn cūlŭ,” the girl said severely, in what sounded like Qing-yen.

“What?”

“I said, you’re very rude.”

“Sorry. The fuck’s wrong with your heart, madam?”

She laughed. “How did you know?”

“I can hear it.”

She studied him. “You have a surprisingly good sense of hearing. Does that come naturally to you, or is it because of the poison you hunters ingest to keep up with us?”

“The latter.”

“Those will break you in the long term, you know.”

“Helps keep us alive long enough for there to be a long term.”

“Fair. Mind if I sit down next to you?”

He nodded, and she let go of the branch, somersaulting in the air and landing lightly beside him despite the bulkiness of her dress. If she was expecting him to jerk away from her sudden closeness, Remy endeavored to disappoint. He’d been right; her sleeves were even longer than she was tall, but she’d folded them up underneath her arms to keep them off the ground.

“You’re not frightened,” she noted.

“I’m not. Thought becoming a vampire would’ve fixed your heart.”

“I’m a very different kind of vampire. Who’s the old man you were angry at?”

Remy frowned. “That’s none of your business.”

“Undoubtedly. Want to talk about it anyway? I won’t tell.”

He stared at her again. “I’m a Reaper.”

She smiled back. “I already guessed.”

“I had to… kill someone. As it turns out, based on erroneous information. It might not have been necessary after all, and I was… am… angry.”

“A freshly turned vampire?”

Remy nodded, eyeing her warily.

She didn’t seem bothered by the admission. “Good vampire? Bad?”

The question startled him.

“Don’t you ever refer to other humans as either good or bad?”

She had a point. “She was kind, before she’d succumbed to the frenzy.”

“And you thought she could have survived that.”

“Yes.”

“Only a third of those turned do. Perhaps you’re being unduly hard on yourself, milord.”

“Armiger,” Remy said, before he could stop himself. “Not milord.”

“Armiger. That means ‘arms-bearer,’ doesn’t it? But why choose that?”

“It suits me better.” He didn’t want to have to explain why. He wasn’t sure he knew himself. “It has none of the expectations that Lord or Lady require, and I… like that.”

The girl nodded. “Very well, Armiger. I’m sure the majority of vampires you’ve encountered likely deserve it, but I don’t make it a habit to kill every human I come across. I like humans. The general idea of them, at least. I’ve even struck up a friendship with a select few. There’s always a way for us to coexist. That’s primarily why I’m here.” She cocked her head to one side. “Somehow, I don’t think this is the first casual conversation you’ve ever had with a vampire. You’ve done this before?”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“You’re not the first human I’ve dealt with, either. But you’re perhaps eighty-five percent kinder than most.”

He snorted. “Eighty-five percent? This is the best behavior you’re likely to get from me.” He was relaxing more than he ought to around her. He couldn’t help it.

“You can try harder. Night’s still young. For instance, you haven’t even once complimented me on my gown even though it took me two hours to shove myself inside it.”

Remy took a quick glance at her waist, hugged and perfectly cinched with a corset in keeping with the Alurian fashion, at the elaborate curls in her hair that must have taken hours to arrange and rearrange, only slightly mussed from her adventures on the tree branch.

She was flirting. Strange, given that she was of the species he made a living off killing. But after having to murder one vampire, spending a nonthreatening evening with another was just as good as giving everyone else inside Astonbury Manor the finger. It didn’t feel like she was here simply to charm the Alurian nobility. It felt like she could be dressed in rags and barefoot besides, with all the hair shorn off her head and covered in mud, and she would still treat him the same way.

She wanted him to flirt back, but that was just another of the numerous skills he was expected to master and was nonetheless shit at, so he opted for blunt honesty.

“The dress becomes you, but it also encumbers you,” he said. “You are in unknown, potentially hostile territory, surrounded by Reapers, yet you chose to make yourself vulnerable because you are placing your trust in them despite their lack of the same in you. And that to me, is much more breathtaking than any gown you could wear.”

The girl’s breath caught. “Are you at least eighty-five percent as kind to other vampires as you are to me?”

“Despite everything I’ve seen,” Remy said quietly, “and everything I’ve done, I try my best to see people as people.”

“You’re quite clever.”

“I’m not. Politics goes over my head. I don’t even know why the Third Court would want an alliance with us.”

“Maybe because we’re not the bloodthirsty demons humans think we are. Or because we see people as people, too.” She leaned forward. “You know, I’m not on good terms with my sire, either.”

“I’d assumed that vampires were always on bad terms with their sires.”

“Ah-ha. A prejudice.”

It was. “My apologies.”

“Do you know what does make me feel better whenever I’m frustrated, though? I climb up the highest tower I can find and scream into the wind.”

“I was prepared to do something similar before you showed up.”

“You’d need somewhere higher. It’s much more satisfying that way. It’s like you’re yelling at the world, and they can’t yell back and drown you out.” She looked around. “Still want to do it? I’m the only one within range to hear you.”

“What would you even shout?”

“Something naughty. Like…” She took a deep breath, belted out, “You… you lumpless wombat! You…” She stopped, because Remy was already laughing. It felt good.

“Lumpless wombat? That’s what you consider an insult?”

She sulked. “It’s a very terrible insult in Qing-yen. It’s not my fault Alurian doesn’t have the right semantics for it. What would you say?”

Remy proceeded, without missing a beat, into a steady stream of profanities. She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I suppose those are good, too,” she conceded when he finished.

“Even more satisfying to say. Pick one and shout.”

“Ah.” He could practically hear her mind cycling through the words, trying to find the least reprehensible of the lot. “Ah… twat?”

“Was that a question?”

“Twat.” She took a deep breath. “You twat!” She shouted at the trees, “You abominable twat!”

“Fucking arse,” Remy encouraged her. “Swag-bellied cockchafer!”

“Fucking ass!” She was pronouncing each word with a slow, delighted relish. “Fucking. Cockchafer!”

“Yeast-infested quimswiller!”

“Yeast-infested quimswiller!”

“Foddle-swapped coxcomb!”

“Foddle-swapped coxcomb!” And then again, at his urging, “… scum-sucking… cuntrabbit!”

“A what?” Remy choked.

She fell back, laughing. “I’m saving that one for a special occasion!”

She turned to him, her face all aglow, eyes dancing with pleasure, and Remy forgot the next vulgarity he was about to encourage her to say.

Light, she really was beautiful.

He wanted to say it was a reflex. That this was the only way he’d ever interacted with a woman, and that he didn’t know any better. His mouth paused half a beat away from hers, struggling not to close the distance. Her eyes had grown wide again, studying his. Her smile faded. She didn’t lean closer, but she didn’t pull away, either.

Beyond their unexpected, easy camaraderie, he knew she liked him. More than that, she wanted him. He was at least experienced in knowing what that looked like on a female. Her lips were so very red.

“I fear,” she said softly, “that I am about to enter a complication neither of us is looking for.”

“Xiaodan?” The voice rang through the gardens with authority. Before either of them could get in another word, a man blurred into being beside the lady, only to step back because Remy was already attacking, Breaker in his hands, and trap fucking trap shit shit, this was a fucking trap running a marathon through his head.

The man was quick to block his attacks, eyes flaring with a dark golden hue, but before long he was lashing out with his own punches, knuckles hitting silver.

There was a grating sound as Remy’s scythe blades slid into view. A smart jab with it caught against the man’s lapel, slicing it part of the way through.

“Stop!” The girl was between them both before either could mount another assault. Her sleeves had been pulled back again, and one hand was wrapped against the man’s wrist, stopping the blow from falling on Remy. The other gripped at the handle of Remy’s Breaker, and try as he might, he couldn’t budge it an inch. Her eyes were bright with anger, like sparks glinting off silver. Never had anyone who looked so pissed off, still looked so lovely.

“Zidan,” she said with a rigid calm that suggested she had done this to the man many times in the past. “Let us not make it a habit of starting fights in the places the humans have invited us to. It will not improve our standing with them.”

“If you recall,” the man said, “he instigated it.”

They were the same dark eyes; once the golden glow in them faded, it left those familiar flecks of yellow. It was the same arrogant tilt to his nose. His hair was no longer loosely tied, instead falling past his shoulders, carefully combed. He was clean-shaven this time, but Remy knew him. “You,” he snarled. “You’re Zidan Malekh?”

The Summer Lord flashed the same mocking grin he’d worn several days ago when he’d fought Remy in the woods. “Reaper.”

Zidan Malekh. The vampire noble who led the Third Court. The one who could’ve killed him in the woods. He itched to whack him with Breaker. He wanted a rematch now that he was rested and furious and pumped with bloodwakers, but the girl’s grip on his weapon remained unrelenting. Remy pushed, trying to force her to relinquish her hold. He could see Malekh doing the same on his side.

Breaker was on the ground before he realized it. The woman’s hand was now on his face—a light touch, almost affectionate, but Remy could feel the prick of her nails against his cheek and knew she could rip out his whole jawbone if she were in the mood for it.

Her other hand was also on Zidan Malekh’s face. She wasn’t playing favorites.

“My dears,” she said softly.

Remy didn’t register that she’d shoved him after that, just felt the impact from the blow. It sent him skidding several feet backward, keeping his balance only out of trained reflex. The vampire lord was more graceful, gliding back instead of stumbling, but he wore the same expression of surprise.

It crossed Remy’s mind that, fuck, she was strong. A lot stronger than she looked, even with her wobbly heart and gentle disposition.

“While I know you have ample reason to carve the smile off my fiancé’s face with your impressive scythes, Armiger—” the girl began amiably.

“Xiao—” Malekh began to object, but she was quick to cut him off.

“—it would nonetheless set back the burgeoning friendship between the vampires and the humans in Aluria by several months, if not years. Tell me I didn’t staple this dress on for nothing, Zidan. It’s not like you to have so little control of your temper.”

This time Remy did step back, of his own accord. “ ‘Fiancé,’ ” he repeated. Zidan Malekh was this woman’s fiancé. Which meant that she was—

She smiled apologetically at him. “We never got around to introducing ourselves, did we? I am Song Xiaodan, a daughter of the Fourth Court. Your queen was kind enough to invite us to Aluria, and the Duchess of Astonbury graceful enough to extend that to her ball, though this isn’t quite the introduction we intended.”