Evelaena’s eyes fell to me, then the sword in her hands. And then back to me again.
They shone with lust. Evelaena was a creature driven wild with starvation—for blood, for power, for love, for validation. The only reason I was alive right now was because she had so gorged herself the night before, but the hint of blood lust still visible in her face right now was due to a much deeper hunger, one that had been following her, I suspected, for two hundred years.
She didn’t even know what she wanted to do with me. Love me, hate me, eat me, fuck me, kill me. Hell, all of those things, maybe.
This seemed like a revelation.
I’d spent my entire life fixated on all the ways vampires were different than me. I’d been so certain that all my confusion and frustration was because of my fragile human nature.
But Raihn was right. Vampires were every bit as fucked up.
I didn’t even need to be that good of an actress. Evelaena was desperate to believe me.
“You can’t wield it now,” I said, “because it’s mine. It belongs to the Hiaj Heir.”
I nodded down—to my chest, and the tattoo pulsing across it.
“But,” I said. “I could transfer ownership to you.”
“I’m not foolish enough to let you hold that blade.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Just let me touch it. That’s all. And it’s yours.”
She went still—that unnatural vampire still. I could see the calculation behind her eyes.
She’d kill me anyway, of course. That was what she was thinking. She wanted it all—the companionship, the Heir Mark, the sword, the crown, my blood. She wasn’t willing to give up any of those things after centuries of constant sacrifice.
“Fine,” she said.
She brought the sword closer to me, holding it out, while maintaining a strong grip on it over the cloth.
“I need my hands,” I said.
Her mouth thinned. Still, she nodded to one of her children. The little girl, the one who had been watching me so warily, approached me with a little dagger. Her abrupt slice through the binding cut my wrist, too.
Hands free. That was something. Not enough. But something.
I gave her a weak smile and gingerly pulled back the cloth wrapped around the blade. The red glow seemed much stronger than usual now, warming my face and reflecting in Evelaena’s eyes, which were wide and unblinking.
I stared at it. My father’s blade, supposedly carrying a piece of his heart. Just being this close to it again made me feel as if Vincent was standing just over my shoulder, forever out of sight.
If you are, I thought, you’d better help me here. You owe me that.
That’s a rude way to speak to your father, Vincent replied, and I almost scoffed aloud.
I took a deep breath and opened my palms over the blade, just an inch or two from the surface. I closed my eyes and tried to look very, very serious.
I was bullshitting so fucking hard.
Use this moment, Vincent commanded in my ear. This may be an act, but it might be the only time you get to prepare yourself.
He had a good point. I used this moment to connect to the forces around me, feeling the room.
Feeling the Nightfire.
I was probably too weak to generate it myself right now, or at the very least too inconsistent to be certain I could, but… I could feel it pulsing in those torches, the energy familiar, if weak and distant.
I could work with that.
All I needed was a few seconds of distraction.
I opened my eyes to meet Evelaena’s.
“It’s done,” I said. “Try it.”
She looked wary. “Are you sure it worked?”
“This is powerful magic. It knew you were blood.”
Telling her what she so desperately wanted to believe. The flare of desire in her eyes showed me she’d bought it.
The little girl was still giving me that wary stare, and she tugged on Evelaena’s skirt, as if in silent protest.
Evelaena ignored her as she unwrapped the sword.
“Take its hilt,” I said. “It’s ready to accept you.”
She was definitely going to see through this. How could she not?
But hope was a strange, potent drug, and Evelaena was at its mercy. She took the hilt and drew the sword.
For a moment, nothing happened. The room was utterly silent. A slow smile of glee spread over her lips.
She started, “It’s—”
—And then she let out a shriek of pain.
The steady glow of the blade flickered in erratic spurts. The scent of burnt flesh filled the room. The sound Evelaena was making rose from a moan to a scream, but she wouldn’t release the sword—or maybe the sword refused to release her. Several of the children ran to her side, pulling at her in panic. The rest hugged the walls, watching wide-eyed.