In the hushed silence of the Ram’s entrance, Arthie heard Flick’s gasp and then the single word she whispered, ringing as loud as the crack of a whip. Mother. It took Arthie a moment to understand that Flick wasn’t looking at her mother, but the Ram.
Lady Linden was the Ram.
That was when Arthie knew her plan had gone horribly wrong. Because the Ram didn’t know about the press. Lady Linden did.
The Ram was supposed to be ambushed, but Lady Linden knew what was really going to happen. They had no element of surprise on their side. They’d told her exactly what they’d be doing here, and she had come prepared. The Ram knew they had learned the truth about the ledger and the vampires since Flick had first visited her mother.
Arthie’s plan had failed.
“Do not blame yourself. There’s still nothing she can do,” Penn said at Arthie’s side. “The press will report any and all of it.”
This wasn’t a frightened official or some flustered lord. This was the Ram. Arthie shook her head. “Not if they’re dead.”
There were four sets of doors in the Athereum’s meeting hall. Four escape points.
“Get to the doors!” she yelled over the hushed whispers. “Everyone out!”
But she should have known it was futile. This was the Ram—not only the ruler of Ettenia, but the embodiment of everything Arthie hated. She was head of the East Jeevant Company that had raided her homeland, the woman who had taken her humanity, the tyrant who had struck the match that destroyed Spindrift.
“Get ready,” Arthie told Jin and the others.
The doors flung open before anyone could reach them. Men flooded inside, dressed from head to toe in black, masks pulled over their faces. They weren’t from the Horned Guard, but they were armed. To the teeth.
The Athereum hall, with its luxurious decadence, erupted in outright chaos.
Knives flashed in the brilliant light of the chandeliers. People screamed, fell. Blood splattered and pooled on the alabaster tiles. It was a massacre.
“The Ram doesn’t intend for anyone to leave the hall alive,” Arthie shouted.
Matteo looked sick to his stomach, but stepped in to defend a trio of women, narrowly missing a machete that swung straight for his arm. Jin was using his umbrella off to her right, and to her left, Penn was lifting his arms, and it took Arthie a moment to realize: his power.
The Ram’s men screamed, some trying to fling away invisible parasites, others curling into balls. Arthie had known Penn was powerful, but seeing the way he brought those men to their knees with nothing but a wave of his hands made her feel a little afraid herself.
She needed to help them. She spotted Flick in the fray and shoved the ledger into her hands. “Protect it.” Flick was barely breathing. “Flick! Now is not the time. We’ve come this far—you’ve come this far.”
“Right, yes,” Flick whispered. She held it tight.
Arthie ran and helped someone to their feet. She picked up a waiter’s tray and slammed it against one of the Ram’s men, plucking his knife and stabbing him through the throat. He fell with a gurgle. There were too many fallen reporters, but with Penn’s help, they could turn this around.
“You see, Arthie?” a voice asked from behind her.
Arthie felt the blood in her veins go cold.
Laith.
“People in power will never care for those like us.” He sounded detached. Far-off. He spoke of the Ram killing her own people. He spoke of the hilya the Ram had promised him. The one he was inching toward Arthie to steal.
“No,” she said, taking a step back, “they don’t. We established as much.”
She took another step back. There was too much happening at once. Too many foes and too little time.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, and then he lunged too quickly for her to move out of the way. He snatched the pistol out of the folds of her sari, and took aim.
At her.
They stared at each other, the two of them against the world. Abandoned souls bound by the restless anger in their veins.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.
He hesitated, giving her the second she needed, and she leaped at him, the end of her sari a whisper against her throat. They collided, grappled for the pistol. His hands brushed hers, and her focus shifted. They were back in that room, his lips on hers. Her fangs were sinking into his neck, his hand gripping her thigh.
Arthie rammed her shoulder into his chest, but he was bigger, and she was still in shock.
He threw her off him and as Arthie stared down the barrel of the gun, she thought, perhaps, that Laith might not shoot her. She saw it on his face: They were back at that abandoned warehouse again, where she had saved his life before he had saved hers.
But then, around her, the fighting and screams began anew. The men weren’t curling up in pain anymore. Penn was there, here, shielding her and going for Laith’s throat in the same instant.