Slaying the Vampire Conqueror(34)

His head snapped up and his eyes went wide when he saw us approaching. For a moment he lifted the dagger with trembling hands, like he was considering using it as a weapon.

Fool.

I didn’t realize I’d laughed until Atrius glanced at me, like the sound made him see something he’d missed before.

And perhaps it made Aaves realize how foolish he was, too, because he then turned the blade on himself, pressing it to his own throat.

“Vampire scum,” he spat, though his voice wavered ever so slightly. “You don’t get the satisfaction of my death.”

I knew when the blade broke his skin, opening a trickle of blood down his wrinkled throat, what a mistake he’d just made.

Atrius scoffed. He raised his hand, his long stride unfaltering, and Aaves flung away the dagger as his limbs went rigid.

Behind us, Erekkus and the others had slowly filed into the room, exhausted and blood-drenched. They were all perfectly silent, their attention fixed on Atrius as he held Aaves in place.

I couldn’t look away, either.

“You think your death is a satisfaction?” he sneered.

A flick of his fingers, and Aaves’s body reeled toward Atrius as if dragged by an invisible grip. He was terrified, every muscle trembling, his mouth gaping but making no sound.

Atrius caught him at the entryway to the balcony, grabbing him by the neck and hoisting him to his feet. His eyes had turned red—deep, violent red, as if his soul was drowning in bloodlust.

“I’ve killed demigods,” he snarled. “Your death means nothing to me.”

And I didn’t so much as breathe as Atrius’s teeth closed around Aaves’s throat, ripping it out in one brutal movement, the blood spraying like flower petals over the marble floor.

Aaves let out one final agonized gurgle. Atrius spat a chunk of bloody flesh over the balcony into the sea, grabbed the diadem from Aaves’s head, and, in one more swift movement, pushed the body over the rail.

The room was full now with Atrius’s warriors. They were stoic, as if witnessing something religious.

Atrius turned to them and raised the diadem. Perhaps one might have expected this to be met with wild applause or cheers. It wasn’t. It wasn’t a celebration or a gloat. It was a gesture of acknowledgement: We have won.

Atrius shouted a command, and just as silently as they had filed into the room, his warriors turned and began to leave it.

For a long moment, Atrius stayed like that, the diadem raised, breath coming hard, watching his warriors depart.

Then he let the crown fall to the floor with a clatter, unsheathed his sword, and pointed it at my throat.





17





I raised my hands and backed up. I hadn’t yet caught my own breath—the adrenaline of the battle still pounded in my veins. And yet, there was something about having a sword shoved in your face by the most efficient killer you’ve ever met that immediately sobered a person.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I said.

“You lied to me.”

Atrius’s presence was impossible to read even at the best of times. Now, with my magic thoroughly exhausted, it was no use to even try.

“You got your victory,” I said.

“At a steep cost. This was not the right time to make this move.”

Ah, shit.

I forced down a strange tightness in my chest—nervousness, yes, but also an unexpectedly strong wave of guilt.

“You made it clear to me that you understood seering to be unpredictable,” I said. “Perhaps you avoided a greater bloodshed, or an all-out defeat, by acting when you did.”

“Tell me,” he said, “was the entire vision a fabrication, or just parts of it?”

“I risked my life to save your men. Would I do that if I was trying to sabotage you?”

He seemed unfazed. “If you were smart, then yes.”

Weaver damn him.

“I have no interest in working for a man who doesn’t understand the nature of seering,” I scoffed. “To think I actually started to believe that you were more enlightened than the others. You’re just another self-absorbed king who wants to be told what he wants to hear.”

I had watched Atrius kill enough times by now to recognize the way he coiled, like a snake preparing to strike.

Weaver, I was going to die here if I didn’t come up with something, and fast. But then, he also hadn’t killed me yet. If he’d really been fully convinced of my dishonesty, he wouldn’t have bothered to allow me to talk.

He needed me. He knew it. He wanted me to give him something that would make him believe me.

Desperate, I reached for the threads, the sudden push greeting me with a stab of pain to the back of my head. Atrius’s presence was a wall, as always, but I followed the threads to him and pushed—pushed—

Give me something, Weaver. Anything.

With enough force, sometimes an Arachessen could snag bits and pieces from a person’s past or future, like a difficult, highly-abridged, even-less-useful version of seering. Usually, it provided nothing useful. But I was desperate.

I pushed against Atrius’s presence and was greeted with a barrage of fragmented images and emotions.

Mountaintop night sky cold cold cold the prince isn’t moving blood on a blade wipe it with cloth the prophecy was a lie a sea of ash a sky of mist and—