Slaying the Vampire Conqueror(109)

One of the reasons the Gilded Suns was the most successful performance troupe in Albion and the only one invited to Elfhame was our fae-worked lights. The manager had paid a pretty penny for them—an investment, she’d called it. And gods, had she been right.

Oil lamps were nothing compared to the pure white glow lighting me now.

I blinked and turned my gaze to my audience. They were just shadows from up here, but each person would swear I was looking right into their eyes. Performance was a seduction, one I was very good at.

Below, the musicians began. A lone cello at first, joined by violins, a double bass, drums, and more as the sound grew.

I kept my lashes low and hinted at a smile before tipping from the hoop. Another gasp, harder this time as I fell for a fleeting second.

One leg extended, back arched, I caught myself and held the pose as the hoop spun slowly.

The music rose and swept. I was part of it, a creature of rhythm and movement. My pulse was its tempo. The rush of my blood was its hymn.

Through the hoop, under it, over it, holding by hand, elbow, the crook of my knee, and for one move, just the nape of my neck. I pushed harder into every single move than I ever had before. I needed the prince to believe this performance, to be captivated by it—to be captivated by me.

I’d heard swallows spent their life on the wing. My performance was like that. Not once did my feet touch the floor as I spun, sometimes fast, sometimes achingly slow, letting my audience get a good view of my body posed for their pleasure.

My sister used to say it was the closest thing to flight. As she’d danced in the air like this, she’d worn a look of pure joy—eyes bright, teeth beaming in a wide smile.

I felt none of that. Not tonight, and not any other night.

But I held her face in my mind, or at least its fragile memory, as my gaze flicked back to the prince upon his throne.

The low light caught on the edge of a straight nose, the curve of a smirk, the glint of an eye.

I didn’t believe in the gods anymore. If I did, I might’ve asked them to make sure that eye was on me.

But of course it was.

That was why I’d blistered and bled on this hoop, that was why my muscles sang through each move, a sweet burn as I pushed harder and harder. It was all for this.

For him.

For her.

Tonight, she would be avenged.





At last, my performance reached its crescendo, and I spun with dizzying speed, held in the hoop by my legs spread in the splits.

Less inhibited than most humans, fae loved that pose, and I always caught many of them staring openly between my thighs.

I didn’t say performance was a subtle seduction.

I let my hoop slow as the music faded and the lads on the weights lowered me. With a flip, I landed and took a bow to rapturous applause.

Back arched, tits and arse sticking out, I turned to each side of the stage, keenly aware it was him I stood before.

He sat back, one ankle crossed over his knee, but I felt his attention. It was a weight, a subtle pressure in the air. If I’d been alone, it might’ve been a tickle at the back of my neck that said danger.

And this was dangerous—his claws or fangs could rip out my throat—but it was a danger I welcomed. One I sought.

At last, I turned my full attention to him and gave one final bow. Just on the edge of the light, his clawed fingers tightened on the arm of his throne.

Perfect.

The lights winked out.

In the darkness, I hurried to the wings. “You were mesmerising, Zita,” the eldest of the Lightning Siblings said, her eyes round and glinting in the low light. “What’s got into you? I think that was your best performance yet.”

“Thanks. Gotta do something special for my swan song.” I scoffed and peeked out through a gap in the curtain, ignoring her confused sound.

The house lights went up. From this angle, I couldn’t see the prince’s face, only his body on its stupid throne. It was a large body, broad-shouldered, thick with muscle. His shirt hung open like he was proud of it.

I looked forward to seeing it at my feet, blood emptying across the floor.

Eric edged along the aisle to him and bent in for the same quiet conversation he had with important folk at the end of every show. I didn’t need to hear his words to know how it went.

“Would Your Highness like a private performance? The artist of your choice.”

The prince leant forward, and I caught glimpse of the edge of a square jaw. He touched his chin, thoughtful. He must’ve asked a question, because Eric nodded and gestured to the stage.

Was he asking for me, though?

For this to work, he had to. I’d saved a year’s wages for this costume with crystals like sunlight. It was meant to be irresistible for him, a son of the Day King.

Eric held still, the lines of his body taut as though he hung on an answer.

I held my breath.

From the audience emerged a horned fae who strode down the aisle, grinning as he swept Eric aside.

“No, you bastard,” I hissed, fingers knotting in the edge of the curtain. He was ruining everything. Ten years of work. All that planning. All that preparation.

The interrupting prick cocked his head, saying something as he leant against the throne.

I’d only ever wanted to kill the prince before this moment, but right now, I’d gladly add him to the list.

Gaze flicking this way, where he knew I’d be watching, Eric took a step back.