She polished the sword until it gleamed. The stone had continued to glow, not as brightly as it had ever flared, but it was definitely not dead. Now, the scrolling silver on its hilt and the steel of its blade also shone.
Bell had sent servants up to the tower with a formal scabbard tooled of red leather and decorated with thorny vines and roses, along with her dress and shoes. It was as if her hooded cloak had been remade into a belt for her sword. The dress had been aired outside and its chiffon held the scent of winter snow. The shoes were white leather ankle boots with solid square heels and sharp pointed toes—artfully designed and also practical. She could appreciate both.
She’d carried her own bathwater this time. The effort dispelled her nerves and kept her busy during a day that might have dragged otherwise. She hadn’t seen Romanov since the dawn. She washed her hair early and dried it by the fire, combing out the long thick strands of pale blond until they were smooth. Then she braided the thick mass into one long plait that began on the left side of her head, curved to the right and ended over her right shoulder midway down her chest. Ringlets of loose curls extended from the bottom of the plait, where she’d bound it with an elastic band. She wanted her hair to be as artful and practical as her shoes.
She belted on her sword and found that her hair was perfect. Her right hand was free to draw from the scabbard that hung on her left side. Only then did she open the wardrobe to use the full-length mirror in its door to check her appearance. She hadn’t packed formal makeup. Bell had loaned her the bare minimum of old-fashioned rouges and kohl. She’d managed to line her eyes and darken her lashes and lips. She hadn’t bothered to contour her cheeks. The last few weeks of power bars and stress had given them natural contours no powdery tricks could match.
Above the soft white feathers on her breast, her skin was porcelain pale. Her sword, lips and eyes stood out vividly against the white. She was surprised how closely her eyes matched the sapphire gem’s glow. She did go back to the tiny glass pots Bell had loaned her then to add a touch of color to her cheeks. The woman reflected in the glass was too pale.
Even with the added rouge, she looked less a warrior than a waif. She was afraid she’d miscalculated. She’d wanted to reclaim the swan princess Grigori had stolen from her, but she was afraid she would only reinforce his desire.
But there was no time to choose another dress.
Besides, she might look graceful and delicate in the swan gown, but the truth could be seen in her eyes. They matched the sapphire in intent as well as color. She was no waif. She would enter the ballroom as a swan, but not as Grigori’s swan. She’d make sure all who attended would see the difference.
The enchanted castle was sprawling. Since she’d arrived, she’d searched and explored through many rooms and levels. But she’d never been to the rooms that made up the grand ballroom and its adjacent withdrawal chambers. The doors had been locked. Bell had assured her there was nothing inside but dusty chandeliers and wide-open spaces.
Tonight, she wound down the tower staircase alone. She walked through dozens of deserted corridors until she arrived at the massive arched double doorways to the ballroom itself.
The sun had set. The Cycle was almost over. Tomorrow Bronwal would return to the Ether and Ivan Romanov and all of his people would disappear one more time.
Unless she could change something tonight.
This time, when Elena tried the doors they pressed open beneath her hands. They swung inward easier than she had expected on a whoosh of displaced air. The expansive space revealed to her eyes made her pause outside the door. Her stomach tightened and her breath caught in her throat. It seemed a million candles illuminated the room, suspended from the ceiling in dozens of elaborate crystal chandeliers. The candlelight bounced off the multifaceted crystal beads, causing the very air to glimmer with reflected light.
The whole room was empty.
Save for the shadowed silhouette of one man.
He turned toward the doors as they opened, and Elena was drawn toward him in spite of his silence. Even the giant, empty room didn’t make him appear smaller. If anything, he seemed even taller and more intimidating as the focal point. The sheen of his tuxedo both absorbed and reflected all of the light until he seemed a living shadow come to life when he stepped to meet her. It was the first time she’d seen him in more modern clothes. The tuxedo was still vintage, only slightly less out of time than the man who wore it, but unlike his cloak, leather and furs, the suit rode his muscles in tailored perfection as he moved.
He hadn’t tamed his hair.
It was a wild mass of black waves all around his face and shoulders. And she was glad. She was also glad when she was close enough to see the emerald of his eyes. He wasn’t a living shadow. He was a living legend. Her legend, whether he was fully ready to accept it or not. It didn’t matter what he wore. He wore it well. And he wore it with the same wild energy she’d been drawn to from the start.
“They’ll arrive closer to midnight. It’s always been so. Lev and Soren stay out of sight. They would be too tempting a trophy for the Darker Volkhvy. For many Cycles I’ve watched and waited alone,” Romanov said.
“Not tonight,” she said. Unspoken was the promise that he’d never have to wait alone again if he would relent. “I’ll wait with you.”
“Grigori will not stay away. He’ll brave the black wolf to have you,” Romanov warned. He reached to trace the side of her face. His touch was soft; barely the pads of his fingers skimmed her skin. And still she released a quavering sigh as gooseflesh rose and her nipples tightened. “Don’t be emboldened by the sword’s glow. Let me handle Grigori. That’s why you came.”
“I climbed the mountain for help, not for salvation. I didn’t need to be rescued. I needed to be reinforced,” Elena said. “The legend of the Romanov wolves brought me here, but I heard the sword, as well. I answered its call.”
“The Ether can’t have you,” Romanov vowed. He lifted his other hand to join the first. He cupped her face and her chin lifted in response. She met his eyes. She hoped he would see what she’d seen in the mirror—determination and the power of the sword beaming from some place inside of her. “Even if it means I can’t have you either.”
“You will always have me, Ivan Romanov. Because you are mine and I am yours. We belong to each other. And nothing and no one will come between us once we’ve decided to stand together,” Elena said.
He leaned to kiss her then. Not because he agreed. She could feel the tension in his shoulders when she moved to hold him. He kissed her because they didn’t have much time. There was desperation in the flick of his tongue. She wished he believed her. There was so much to overcome—Vasilisa, Grigori, the curse and the Ether. But she believed they could do it because she’d always believed in the stories her grandmother had told her, and her grandmother’s stories always ended well for the legendary wolves.
Music began somewhere in the distance.
Romanov pulled away from her lips and she allowed it, although her heart was breaking. He wouldn’t kiss her again once the night progressed. He would be too preoccupied.
One thing was certain: he couldn’t be allowed to shift to save her.
She had to stop Grigori before Romanov thought the black wolf was needed. He’d said Lev and Soren stayed away from the Gathering because they would be tempting trophies for the Volkhvy that came to the ball. There would be no greater trophy than the black wolf’s head.
Luckily, tonight, the black wolf had a defender.
Romanov broke their kiss, but he didn’t step away. He pulled her into his arms instead. Like his tuxedo, the waltz was after his natural time, but Ivan Romanov had lived through many different ages. Modern life had managed to touch Bronwal every time it appeared. It was only as the curse dragged on that Romanov had become more and more isolated. He hadn’t been truly alone until she’d found him, this Cycle, after all of his loved ones had disappeared.
He waltzed as well as he fought. She wasn’t surprised. He was large, but athletic. He could move with speed and grace. He easily whirled her around the large empty room beneath the chandeliers and she allowed it. The layers of her skirt floated away from her bare legs as she stepped quickly to follow his lead. The downy feathers on her shoulders fluttered as if she’d taken flight.
And that’s how the Light Volkhvy queen found them when she entered the ballroom.
The music stopped.
Romanov continued to circulate around the room until they came to the entrance. He made the queen wait for their audience. He made her watch them fly. And then he effortlessly caught Elena’s momentum and brought them both to a halt directly in front of the queen. Only a powerful partner could have executed such a complete stop without a stumble or stuttering step. Without thinking, completely directed by instinct, Elena dropped into a low curtsy. She balanced on her good leg, but her injured knee screamed. No one watching would have known it. After all, a prima ballerina danced through pain. It was her primary skill.
“Lovely. I’ve never been greeted by a swan princess and her cob,” Vasilisa said drily. But a hint of a smile curved one corner of her perfect lips. She was in purple again. Like Romanov, the clothes she wore never seemed to be static to one time period. Elena had seen her in Victorian. Tonight, she wore a Tudor court gown with an elaborate brocade underdress crafted of silk. It was covered in a velvet gown that split down the front to show off the brocade, in contrasting shades of plum and violet. The violet brocade had a square neck, and the plum velvet had wide bell sleeves embroidered with the perpetual thorns and roses.
On Vasilisa’s head was a Tudor cap with two horns crafted from quilted black satin. The horns rose up from her temples and curved back and around like a ram’s horns until they ended facing forward beside both of her high cheekbones. From the back of the cap, steams of violet silk flowed behind her in a long train.
Elena’s dress was simple and natural in comparison, and she was suddenly glad of it. The queen was charmed by her delicate grace, but when she rose from her curtsy she knew the savvy witch could see the glow in her eyes.
“A swan that wears the sapphire sword,” the queen continued. Behind her, a crowd had formed. Elena was certain that they appeared one by one out of the Ether that couldn’t be seen. It existed in and around Bronwal. The better to take the enclave when it was time.
“Will you dance, Your Highness?” Elena asked before Romanov could say that he still rejected her.
Vasilisa seemed taken aback for the first time.
“He’s a graceful partner. And I’ve had plenty to compare,” Elena said with a smile. She was terrified. The crowd behind the queen had swelled into a hundred witches or more. And the Dark Volkhvy hadn’t even begun to arrive. If Grigori came and if she couldn’t defeat him herself, Romanov would shift in a ballroom full of hundreds of witches who wanted him dead.
Was Vasilisa as vengeful as the curse made her seem? Was there any hope she would decide to fight on her black wolf’s side?
Something about the purple garb the queen favored niggled at the edges of Elena’s mind. Until she understood the queen, she couldn’t truly understand where they stood against Grigori.
“And what does the cob say about this invitation?” Vasilisa asked. “He’s never asked me to dance before.”
Elena held her breath. Romanov might well stiffen and walk away. He had many reasons to hate the Light Volkhvy queen. Her curse had cost him everything and doomed him to centuries of struggle. She was the one who had used her enchantments to change the Romanov genes. She had created the wolves without once pausing to consider what the shift would mean to men.
Air released from Elena’s lungs when Romanov extended his hand.
The queen stepped forward. The music began again as invisible musicians followed her unspoken cue. None of her entourage dared to question her decision, although many of them gasped, whispered and stared. They had come with the hopes of a wolf hunt after all. Time and time again they had arrived at the Gathering hoping for Romanov’s fall, led by their queen’s anger to hate the wolves they’d once depended on to keep their Dark brethren in check.
Elena gripped the hilt of her sword and stared them all down, one by one, while the queen and Romanov began to waltz around the empty ballroom floor. As each witch lowered his or her eyes, they melted away to pair up and join their queen in the dance. Soon, they had all flowed away like water released from a dam. Elena watched them dance. The other Volkhvy were also dressed eclectically. Every time period she could imagine was represented, from wide skirts to flapper fringe. The men wore everything from tights, to kilts, to tuxedos in every style, but one thing common in all the men and the women was extravagance.
As Bell had said, the witches tried to outdo each other. In her simple gown, Elena shone like the candlelight that illuminated the ballroom. In the middle of a shifting rainbow of brilliant fabrics, only Elena wore white.
And only she wore one of the queen’s enchanted swords.
She turned to follow the queen and Romanov with her eyes as they whirled around the floor. She doubted if anyone else present would have been strong enough to handle the queen’s heavy skirts, but it was obvious that Romanov’s muscles propelled the witch with ease. Elena had experienced the swoop and swirl herself, moments before. She wasn’t surprised to see the Mona Lisa smile tilt higher on the queen’s face. Even in the midst of pain and loss, there was joy in the dance.
Pain and loss.
Purple, like black, was the color of mourning.
The Light Volkhvy queen was in mourning for someone she had lost.
Elena took two steps toward the dancing couple before she caught herself at the edge of the dance floor. Did Vasilisa mourn Vladimir? That seemed unlikely. He had betrayed her and her affections. Their relationship had been a sham he’d used to try to steal her position.
But if not her Romanov lover, whom did she mourn and why?
As Elena’s mind struggled with this new piece of the puzzle, the music stopped once more. Every couple on the dance floor paused as if their moves had been choreographed. Except Romanov and the queen. He ignored everyone else to whirl the queen around to where they had begun as he’d done with Elena. This was his castle. He was the last Romanov. He ended the dance when he was ready to end the dance and no sooner. Every eye in the ballroom followed their graceful waltz.
Including every eye of the Dark Volkhvy horde that had arrived. Elena had been watching the dance. Its graceful circular motions had almost hypnotized her. When her eyes focused on the horde, she was startled. They had arrived silently because they’d arrived from the Ether. One minute the spot where they appeared was empty marble. The next it was filled with Dark Volkhvy. Others, like Elena, noticed the horde with sudden horror. Gasps and murmurs of dismay rose up around the room, but then hushed as if the guests were afraid vocalizing their fear would only gain the attention of the Dark witches.
An unnatural hush fell. The atmosphere vibrated with expectant tension.
Romanov and the queen seemed to have no care. Other than the music ending, which must have been silently ordered by the queen, there was no other indication by the couple that they’d seen the Dark Volkhvy arrive.
When they stopped in front of the man leading the horde of Dark witches, Elena held her breath. Romanov was a man, not a wolf, but the black wolf gleamed darkly from his eyes.
“Well, this is a surprise. The doomed man dances with the one who has doomed him. Surely you would rather rip out her throat?” the man said. His voice was charming but oily. It seemed to ooze against Elena’s skin in the same way that Grigori’s oozed. His syllables seemed to reach out and touch the listener in intimate ways without permission.
She shuddered. Romanov and the queen simply stood. Romanov didn’t drop the queen’s hand. In fact, Elena thought he might have held on tighter to keep from attacking the man who spoke of their centuries-old conflict as if it had been staged for his entertainment.
“King Josef. We all come to dance while Bronwal stands. Each Cycle might be its last. There is no better waltz than a poignant one, I find. And there’s never been a better partner for that than Ivan Romanov,” the queen said.
Romanov stood proudly beside her. He hadn’t dropped her hand. She was the one who let him go. He brought his released hand up to join his other behind his back. Only Elena saw the white-knuckled grip she knew so well as he held himself in check.
“Better than Vladimir?” The man laughed, and the horde laughed with him. It was an exaggerated show of deference that told her the man must be the Dark Volkhvy king.
Elena looked at the king who had fathered her darkest nightmare. He tormented a man quadruple his worth.
“Be careful, Josef. Don’t test the limits of my hospitality,” the queen replied.
Elena’s hand had inadvertently pulled on the hilt of her sword. She’d partially brought it from its scarlet scabbard. The movement and noise in the silent room drew attention. Every eye, including the king’s, moved her way.
And then the light in the sapphire died.
Her fingers went numb before she noticed the slight blue glow was gone. She froze. The Dark Volkhvy horde seemed to draw in a collective breath. Unlike the numbness in her hand, the numbness that claimed her body wasn’t caused by the loss of magic. She looked down at the dull, dead stone and then she immediately sought Romanov’s face.
He still stood tall and straight beside the queen.
He refused to meet her eyes.
Her stomach fell in one sudden swoop, but it found no bottom to the pit that sucked it down. Dizziness claimed her and she ground her teeth against it. She braced her legs even though the move pained her knee. She stiffened her spine.
This was the ultimate rejection in front of their worst enemies. He had severed their burgeoning connection with a force of will that staggered her with its finality. It didn’t matter that he’d done it to protect her. The loss was sharp, then devastatingly hollow. She accepted that she was meant to be a warrior and now that choice was taken from her. By the man she loved. He’d also made a decision. The dead sapphire gave him away. He was going to shift if Grigori came to the Gathering. He was going to sacrifice everything to try to save her rather than allow her to risk the Ether to save herself.
“Queen Vasilisa, the Dark Volkhvy have never depended on the Light’s invitation to this Gathering,” the words came from a silky voice that caused Elena’s numbness to jolt away. The witchblood prince stepped from behind his father’s retinue. “We come to dance at our pleasure. And, you must know, we come to watch and wait for greater pleasures.”
She’d dreaded the moment when Grigori would arrive, but he’d already been here all along.
Grigori met her horrified gaze. A smile like she’d never seen curved his lips. It was feral. At complete odds with his quiet, civilized appearance. He wore a tailored black suit that was ruthlessly cut to his lean masculine shape. His shirt and tie were also unrelieved black, as were the onyx gems in the lobes of his ears. His sleek black hair fell straight to his shoulders. Its oily sheen reflected the candlelight when he moved with liquid grace to his father’s side. His obsidian eyes matched his smile. Those eyes took in her appearance with the ease of possession. He skimmed from her head to her toes, and his gaze seemed to leave a smudge on her skin that sank to her soul.
That’s when she saw the feathers.
The queen had called Romanov her cob, but it was obvious that Grigori had stolen that designation without her permission. Black feathers protruded jaggedly from his neck in a shiny ruff. More feathers protruded from the back of each hand, making them look like wing tips when he gestured as he spoke.
His hungry black eyes echoed the hollow in her stomach. She was still falling. She would never stop. There was no sword to catch her. No partner in this fight. Romanov’s sacrifice wasn’t a salvation. It only dug the pit of her despair deeper than it had to be.
“My swan,” Grigori purred. There was no softness in the endearment. It was as slickly used as a sharpened knife against her skin, and he intended it to cut. He wanted to draw blood.
Elena forced her hand to release the sword. She trembled. The numbness had fled. In its place was an adrenaline rush with no outlet. She stood, helpless, as Grigori smiled.
“You’re mistaken if you think the curse is evidence of my weakness,” Vasilisa replied. “You have no idea what I’m capable of doing for the ones I love.”
“Be still. You distract me from my moment of triumph,” Grigori said. It was a sharp shout that rang throughout the ballroom and echoed off the distant ceiling and walls. Elena jerked, startled.
But the rest of the room, including the flickering flames in the candles, went perfectly still. Only she moved when Grigori approached. She took one single step away only to come up against the Light Volkhvy dancers who had paused when the Dark horde had arrived, but now stood frozen midstep because of Grigori’s shouted spell.
She’d known he was a powerful witch. But seeing his control of all other witches in the room caused her heart to race. She couldn’t help it. She looked to the one man who might be able to save her. She didn’t court his sacrifice, but instinctive terror caused her to seek him out.
Romanov was frozen too. He stood like a statue beside the queen. And for a split second she was struck again by his stature and his legend. Neither seemed to intimidate Grigori as he ignored everyone else in the room to zero his entire focus on her.
She pressed back against the dancers behind her, but there was no escape from Grigori’s advance. She’d meant to boldly reclaim the swan as her own. But Grigori’s lascivious gaze negated her efforts. In his eyes, she was his, and her dress was only a preview of the dark pleasures that were to come. With his black feathers, he made them into partners. He stepped into the spot Romanov had vacated by her side.
In the same room was too close. By the time he’d slowly walked to face her, she could barely take in enough oxygen to survive. She risked hyperventilation because the quick intake and exhale of her panicked respiration didn’t fuel her lungs. When he suddenly leaned to speak against the vulnerable pulse point behind her left ear, her breath held without her permission. “I’ve waited for this moment for too long. I hardly know where to begin,” Grigori said. The rush of his whisper against her skin caused gooseflesh to rise. She swayed as her oxygen-deprived system caused her head to go light.
Grigori saw her distress. He straightened. His smile tilted higher. He liked her fear. He courted her pain. But he was a connoisseur. There was no rush in his movements as he reached to pull her into his arms. The music had stopped when the queen had stopped dancing. Grigori began to hum as he pulled her into mimicry of the waltz he had witnessed between Romanov and the queen. His moves were more savage. He jerked and pulled. She struggled to keep up. His fingers dug into her skin.
She still had the sword. It wasn’t glowing with power, but it could still stab and slash. She wasn’t sure what good it would do to try to attack him if he could simply freeze her as he’d frozen the whole room of witches, but she would try. She would never be too afraid to fight him.
But, as she decided to spill his black blood, their dance became something more dizzying and horrible. A frigid atmosphere enveloped her with an unrelenting vacuum so that she was forced to hold on to the man she despised rather than be sucked away. Her vision faded to gray and her body seemed to disintegrate like a vapor into the freezing air.
And then she was back to herself once again as Grigori laughed maniacally.
He continued to spin her around the ballroom, weaving in and out of the other couples who were frozen in place.
“Others fear the Ether. I dance in its shadows. Come, dance with me, pet. Tread on forbidden pathways. Dwell with me on the edges of oblivion,” Grigori taunted.
The Ether.
The cold vacuum claimed her again and again. Her tormentor forced her to desperately hang on to his arm and neck in order to survive. He played with the Ether that Romanov had rejected her to help her avoid. Only now did she begin to know what Romanov had done.
She hadn’t understood.
The Ether was the absence of everything and it was always hungry for more.
Each time Grigori teased her into the nothingness, she cried out, but her screams were lost as the sound waves were eaten away. Each time they rematerialized, Grigori laughed at her frantic grip.
“Your tears are as delicious as I knew they would be.” He suddenly stopped in the center of the room. Elena held on to keep from falling to the floor. Her knee throbbed. The very atoms of her body seemed disjointed and slightly loosened, as if she would never recover from the disembodiment he’d forced her to endure again and again. Grigori viciously pulled her against his chest and he leaned down. She recognized the blackness in his eyes now. The Ether is inside of him. He’d toyed with its power for too long. It had eaten his soul. The entire orb of his eye had gone black as he played. Elena shuddered in revulsion as he slowly extended his tongue and licked the salty moisture from her cheek.
But her revulsion wasn’t his only reward.
* * *
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He thought that even his heart had stopped midbeat. But his love for Elena couldn’t be halted by Dark Volkhvy magic. He’d tried to deny it. He’d tried to protect her from the Romanov curse and from the savagery the black wolf brought to his nature.
To no avail.
The sapphire blade had known him better than he knew himself.
He’d been made into an enchanted champion by Vasilisa while he’d still been in his mother’s womb, but it wasn’t Vasilisa’s enchantments that had caused him to fall in love with the woman Grigori currently tormented around and around the dance floor.
She’d fascinated him from the first moment he’d seen her determined limp up the icy mountain pass and his fascination had grown into something much more binding since then.
She didn’t need protecting from a wolf who loved her. She didn’t need shielding from a curse they could face together.
The sword simply recognized a soul-to-soul connection that would have been forged if she’d been a baker with a warrior’s heart and he’d been a chimney sweep with a wolf’s teeth.
It was that savage love that finally broke through his last reservations about claiming their connection. Not a timid one. Not a gentle one. But a love that accepted and freed the part of him he’d always thought he needed to deny.
As he stood frozen in place by Grigori’s power, the alpha wolf inside of him no longer threatened to consume his humanity. When the witch held her close and licked the tears from her cheek, there was only one man the black wolf intended to consume.
* * *
The floor began to shake beneath their feet. It was Grigori’s turn to hold on. He gripped her tightly and looked around to ascertain who had so rudely interrupted his gross celebration. Elena thought she knew. She wasn’t distracted by the Volkhvy who had begun to move around them as if they slowly woke from a trance. Her eyes were drawn to only one place in the cavernous ballroom.
The last Romanov had been the first to break from Grigori’s powerful spell.
He had somehow managed to begin the shift while she was flickering in and out of the Ether. The chandeliers swayed now. Wax rained down in hot, fragrant spatters and the candlelight jumped crazily all over the walls. Romanov had completed the shift while she endured the slick brush of Grigori’s tongue.
She’d glimpsed the final moments of his transformation, but it wasn’t horrible to her. The change from human to wolf was beautiful compared to the sucking emptiness of Ether in Grigori’s eyes.
The black wolf was surrounded by hundreds of Volkhvy who were eager to kill him. But the roar of his first howl violently shattered thousands of crystals above their heads. Broken glass tinkled down like a sudden ice storm. Elena shielded her eyes against the dangerous dust as others ran and screamed.
It was one thing to fantasize about killing a legend. It was another to suddenly face him.
“You’re going to die,” Elena said. She whispered the words. They weren’t for the black wolf.
Because the sapphire stone had blazed into glorious life.
The candlelight had been mostly snuffed out by the chandeliers’ destruction. A few flames still flickered here and there. The bright blue glow from the gem in her sword was vivid against the shadows. Even more so when she jerked away from her captor and freed the blade. The Romanov sword. Her sword. Because she was the black wolf’s mate. The sword had called her and she’d been brave enough to claim it.
And now the legendary shifter claimed her in return.
Her sword had never blazed so brightly. Grigori backed away from her. His hands were held up defensively as she advanced. But she was momentarily distracted by the Light Volkhvy queen. Vasilisa stood behind the black wolf as he met attack after attack. Her back was to his tail, and Elena recognized the defensive strategy she’d been taught. The queen was helping Romanov against Dark Volkhvy as they came for his head. Energy shone from her hands and her lips moved with words Elena couldn’t hear.
Grigori tried to take advantage of her distraction. He stepped forward as if he would grab her again. She knew it would be a mistake to allow his touch. He was too connected to the Ether. He’d learned to use it even as it ate away at him inside. He’d been too greedy for power and for the pain of others.
He’d danced at the edge of the Ether, but now it could have all of him, with her compliments.
Elena pressed the tip of her blade to Grigori’s throat and he froze. She didn’t need a magic spell to make him freeze. She had a warrior’s heart. Another howl ripped through the air and Elena saw the Dark Volkhvy king go down under the black wolf’s attack in a torrent of black blood. A few of the Light Volkhvy had fallen before they realized the intent of their queen. Now, they fought against the Dark witches rather than the black wolf. With the king’s death and Grigori’s capture, the Dark Volkhvy began to disband.
From outside the ballroom, Elena heard more screams and growls. Reinforcements had arrived. Her endless fall had stopped, but her insides were still hollow. Lev probably wasn’t fit to fight and Soren wasn’t as big and strong as his alpha brother. He was quick and clever. Much faster and brighter than the brightest natural wolf. But he risked his life to fight on her behalf.
“If Queen Vasilisa hadn’t decided to stand with the black wolf, you wouldn’t have stood a chance,” Grigori hissed. As he spoke, his throat moved an infinitesimal amount, but ribbons of black blood trickled down his feathered neck as a result of the unrelenting pressure from her sword. She didn’t waver. His eyes were still completely black. She was certain he couldn’t change that. The Ether dance had taken him over an edge he’d skirted for too long.
“I don’t stand with the black wolf. I stand with my warriors. I always have,” the queen said as she approached. She was covered in steaming blood too black to be her own. It sullied her perfect gown, but she was regal still.
“If you stand with me, then you stand with my mate. You can’t separate us in your affections,” Elena said.
The queen paused, brought up short by the intensity of Elena’s declaration. Then she resumed her steps.
“It wasn’t until the sword called you that I began to understand my mistake,” Vasilisa said. “I’ll never forgive Vladimir for his savagery, but he and I are the only ones to blame.”
“Too late. Far too late. You hurt the ones who loved you the most,” Elena said. “Madeline and the baby...”
“All is not as it seems,” Vasilisa replied. “But there’ll be time for explanations after we deal with this Dark prince.”
Grigori had lowered his hands. He stood with them fisted at his sides as his blood continued to soak into his shirt and coat. He didn’t cringe when the black wolf reappeared from the corridor where he had chased after the escaping horde. The arched double doors were barely big enough to allow him to enter without ducking his head. To Elena’s relief, he was followed by a red shadow and then a white. His brothers flanked him on either side as he stalked into the room.
And a smaller figure in green.
“Bell,” Elena breathed. She tightened her grip on the sword when Grigori attempted to turn.
The other woman was wearing the green gown. It fitted to her curves and revealed that her petite size was no indication of her age or maturity. Elena had been right. Bell had loved the dress that had been made for her long ago. She must have decided to wear it to the Gathering in hopes of waking the man in the red wolf she loved. Elena’s heart squeezed when she realized the dress was stained with black blood. Bell hadn’t arrived in time to dance before the fight. Now, she would never have the chance.
“Oh, I see. The red wolf has also inspired someone to stand for him,” Vasilisa said. She turned from the wolves to face Elena once more. “Vladimir was an aberration. He didn’t deserve the powers he was given. He abused them. I allowed his actions to blind me to the truth. I must stand with my wolves and the women who love them. We all must continue to stand against the Dark.”
“Together,” Elena said. She said it to the approaching wolves and to Bell, who had paused halfway across the room as if she didn’t deserve to approach the queen. There was no fear in her face. Only resignation. Elena didn’t know what had become of the third sword, and it wasn’t her place to determine which woman it would call to stand with Soren.
But she did know who had been standing with him for centuries. The resourceful orphan stood now as if at a loss on how to proceed. She was more used to devoted service than fighting witches, but she’d been fighting the Ether all along. Bell was a survivor and more importantly she helped others survive. There was no finer quality in a warrior than that.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t linger,” Grigori suddenly interrupted. “I have no interest in meeting your black wolf. Goodbye, my swan. I’ll see you in your dreams.” Elena thrust with her sword, but it was too late. The man with Ether in his eyes had slipped easily into the vacuum. His body disintegrated from the head down, and her move met nothing but particles of dried blood left to float away in the air.
But the black wolf was more practiced with the Ether than she was. He knew to pounce for the witchblood prince’s feet. Elena shouted a warning, but it didn’t stop Romanov from clamping his teeth down over Grigori’s boots before they, too, began to disappear.
Elena’s horrified gaze met a familiar pair of emerald eyes. Her lover, her Romanov, had leaped to grab the prince before he could escape into the Ether. Had he known he would be taken into the vacuum Grigori manipulated at will? As the mighty wolf’s black body disintegrated into the air and disappeared, Elena screamed.