by Becca Blake
She swung again, and this time, her ax slammed into the wooden beam supporting the tunnel. The wood splintered and fell in on itself. Rocks crumbled to the ground and landed at her feet.
A low rumbling started deep in the cave, somewhere above, below, and around them all at once. Wooden beams farther down the tunnel splintered with a sickening crack, and rocks and dirt fell to the ground around them.
Panic rose in Miria’s chest, and she could barely hear herself scream that they needed to run.
13
Miria took Girard’s hand and pulled him with her as she sprinted toward the exit, terror fueling every stride. The tunnel rumbled as it collapsed behind them.
They had to escape. She couldn’t let her final conversation with Azalea be an argument. And Zephyr… Miria didn’t want either of them to be stuck with the pain of losing her.
She ran as fast as she could, leading the way through the long tunnel. Girard lagged behind her, his speed limited by his age. She paused to take his hand, to pull him forward with her and force him to match her speed.
“You’re faster without me,” Girard yelled to her over the roar of the shifting rock behind them. “Get out of here. Take care of Azalea.”
“I’m not leaving you behind!”
“I’m going home to Avaline. Go!”
Another wooden beam cracked in front of them.
She didn’t want to abandon him, but she didn’t have time to argue. He didn’t want to be saved.
All Miria could do was run forward, summoning speed she didn’t know she had. One foot in front of the other in long strides, hoping she was fast enough.
Hoping she would live to see another day.
She looked over her shoulder, stealing a final glance at the man who’d raised her as the collapsing earth claimed him. She paused, just long enough to look at his face. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes, and a peaceful smile graced his features.
She turned away from him for the last time and sprinted forward. The tunnel seemed longer than she remembered, stretching on like an endless nightmare, the kind of inescapable dream where her feet felt sluggish and trapped.
But still she ran, refusing to give in until she turned a corner and could finally see the open clearing that led out to the different tunnels.
The toe of her boot caught on a rock that stuck out of the ground at a strange angle, jutting out into the open with a sharp point. Miria flew forward and tumbled into the ground. She rolled into her momentum, ready to continue running forward, but the sounds of rumbling settled behind her.
Miria’s heart pounded as she stared back at the collapsed tunnel that would forever be Girard’s final resting place.
His life had ended in the deep darkness of Terra Nocturne, just as he’d known it would.
A feeling of hopelessness crept up. A fear almost as powerful as she’d felt while sprinting through the tunnel spread through her. Girard was gone—there was nothing she could do about that. All she could do was try her best to live. To try her best to take care of those she cared about.
To help them all escape, no matter what. Girard wanted her to find hope. But escaping was the only hope she’d ever had.
Footsteps barreled through the tunnels.
“What was all that noise?” The vampire guard stepped out from the shadows of the main tunnel that led to the exit to the cavern. His eyes lowered to Miria, narrowing into a glare. “What did you have to do with this?”
She didn’t have the energy or heart to protest that it had been an accident. “The tunnel collapsed, and…Girard didn’t make it.” She choked on the words.
The vampire scowled as he examined what was left of the collapsed tunnel. “That old bastard was on borrowed time anyway.”
Miria glared back at him, hatred seething through her. She longed for the sword she’d left at Zephyr’s, wanted nothing more than to kill the vampire in front of her.
The vampire turned around to face her, as though he could feel the heat of her gaze on his back. “Does that make you angry, girl?”
She held eye contact and raised her chin in defiance but said nothing, not trusting whatever words would come tumbling out of her mouth if she dared to speak.
Rage burned behind the vampire’s amber eyes. He wanted her to give him a reason.
No matter how angry she was about his callous remarks, no matter how much grief she was suppressing from watching Girard die, she couldn’t give this asshole the satisfaction.
She wouldn’t give him an excuse to put her down.
The vampire seemed to realize she wasn’t going to give in to his taunts, and the moment passed. He sighed and waved a hand at the group of elves who now filled the open space. “The lot of you can take the rest of the night off. We’ll return to work tomorrow.”
The workers didn’t need to be told twice. They funneled out of the cave and dropped their axes in the metal rack near the entrance.
Miria followed the rest of the somber crowd back down to the main street of the Third District. Her mind and body pleaded with her to return home and rest, but she couldn’t stand the thought of facing Azalea so soon. Especially not when that would mean telling her Girard was gone. Instead, she turned toward the Silver Leaf.
The pub was empty when she arrived except for Zephyr and Eldrin, who scowled at her as she entered. She hadn’t returned to the Silver Leaf since the night she attacked Aeidan, which meant she hadn’t faced Eldrin since she was reassigned to her new job.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve to show up here again.” Eldrin crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
Miria slumped into a seat at the bar, staring down at the floor. Her face felt slack, expressionless, like even the effort it would take to express her grief was too much for her to manage.
Eldrin’s expression changed to one of concern. “What happened?”
She tried to speak, but no words came out.
“Miria?” Zephyr asked softly.
“Girard is gone,” she whispered. “And it was my fault.”
Azalea slumped in the wooden chair and flung her charcoal pencil at the wall, exasperated by the uncooperative sketch in front of her.
The past few days since her fight with Miria had been lonely for her. She hadn’t seen Miria at all since then, which meant she had probably been spending her nights with Zephyr. What Azalea had said to Miria had hurt her badly. It pained her to know that her friend couldn’t even tolerate being home if it meant being around her.
Worse, Miria hadn’t even bothered to tell her that Girard had died in the mines. She’d had to find out from others around town, old friends of Girard’s who wanted to check on her. They were shocked she hadn’t heard the news—especially since Miria had been there when it happened. She’d been forced to mourn his loss alone. She knew he’d been ready to find Avaline in the After, but she wasn’t ready to let him go. She tried to remind herself that he was free, that he was exactly where he wanted to be.
But that didn’t do much to dull her grief. And she had nothing to distract herself from the heartache.
Miria was right to be angry with her. She’d hidden things from her. Lied.
And now, she had nothing to show for it.
Miria would be happy to learn that Azalea hadn’t returned to Nero’s at all, though that wasn’t for lack of desire on her part. The days had driven her mad with longing for another trip to the First District, but she hadn’t been welcomed back. Nero said he would send for her when he wanted her to return. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in her after all. She’d been stupid to hope he was.
He hadn’t taken her that night—not her blood, and not her body.
She was tired of not being good enough for anyone—not for Nero, not for Miria.
Not good enough for herself.
She couldn’t bring herself to return to the Blood De
n. She had only two days before she’d be expected to return to Madam Leone’s, and she didn’t have another plan.
The soft sound of knocking caught her attention. She turned around in the chair, waiting to be sure she’d heard correctly. The knock came again, louder and more insistent this time.
Azalea leaped out of her chair and swung the door open, expecting to see Miria, but was greeted instead by a short elven girl in a tight-fitted purple dress.
“Irena,” Azalea said, greeting her with a smile.
“This is from Lord Nero.” She held out a sealed letter.
Azalea’s heart fluttered at the sound of his name as she unfolded the parchment within.
My Flower,
I’m writing to request your presence at the castle this evening. Should you choose to join me, I will make no further promises about refusing your vein.
Lord Nero Cineris
She stared down at his name, signed with an extravagant flourish in a deep brown ink. His handwriting was elegant and beautiful, as ancient and otherworldly as him. She ran a finger over it, wondering if it had been written in the leftover blood he’d taken from her to finish the drawing.
“He really wants me to come back?”
Irena shrugged. “He said he wants you to decide.”
Azalea wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and toed on her shoes. She followed Irena up to the gate and into the Second District. The guards seemed to recognize Irena and let her through without any of the trouble they’d given Azalea every time she tried to move between districts.
“I thought Lord Nero had forgotten about me,” Azalea said as they walked.
“He left the city on important business for a few days,” Irena said.
“Where?”
Irena shrugged. “He doesn’t really tell us where he goes or when he’ll be back, but from what I’ve overheard, he goes to Viridi fairly often.”
The guards to the First District also let them through, and they proceeded through the First District without a vampire guard accompanying them. Excitement and longing burned within her as Irena led her into the castle, leaving the fear of her first visit a distant memory.
Inside, Azalea stopped and looked at the wall between the two staircases that led to opposite wings of the manor. Hung prominently in a beautiful, ornate frame was her drawing of Lord Nero. She had never expected to see her work in such a place of honor or framed so beautifully, like it was a fine piece in a museum.
“Do you like it?” Nero descended the staircase on the left, his eyes locked on her.
“It’s an honor that you hold my work in such high regard, my lord.” Azalea dipped into a curtsy.
“I’m pleased you chose to return.” Nero met her at the bottom of the staircase.
“I had begun to think you weren’t going to invite me back.”
“And you did read my note, correct? You understand that there will be no promises such as the one I made at our last meeting?” He brushed her hair behind her shoulder and planted a soft kiss at the base of her neck.
“Yes, my lord,” Azalea breathed out, shuddering with anticipation at his touch.
“Good,” he said, hooking his arm in hers.
He led her up the stairs and down a hallway that mirrored the one Eryn had taken her through the last time she was at the castle. They passed by Nero’s study and continued to the end of the hallway, where a large stone door opened into what appeared to be a bedchamber, though the word wasn’t nearly adequate to describe the size and extravagance of the room.
The room was at least four times larger than the apartment Azalea shared with Miria. At the center was a bed so large it could fit an entire harem. It was partially obscured by thick curtains that draped from the bedposts and down the sides, forming a canopy. The two glimmering chandeliers on the ceiling were lit with leyline crystals that glowed a brilliant red.
The ceiling was painted with illustrations of what were unmistakably the four elven gods: four strong, beautiful women depicted in such intricate detail that they rivaled the illustrations Azalea remembered seeing in Viridi’s palace chapel as a child. There were no elven temples in Terra Nocturne, not even in the Third District, and seeing her goddesses after so many years brought tears to her eyes.
Most prominent among them was Nyxa, though if not for the other three faithfully illustrated gods alongside her, Azalea would have never recognized her as her people’s god of death. In this depiction, she wore a slim, black gown, torn and frayed at the edges. Her skin was pale as the grave, tinged with blues and purples, and her eyes were a solid black. Blood dripped from her mouth, making her more reminiscent of a vampire than the wise, elegant woman she was usually shown as.
Azalea lowered her gaze away from the bastardization of the goddess. “I didn’t take you for a believer in our gods,” she murmured. Nero had been human before being turned. It made sense for humans to view Nyxa as ugly and twisted, much like they saw death itself. Perhaps she would feel the same way if death came for her kind so early in life. Still, this vision of Nyxa made her stomach churn.
“I’m not a believer, I’m sorry to say.” Nero glanced up at the ceiling as though he’d never noticed it before. “Though many of my people believe Nyxa is the one who created our kind. Vampires worship her alone among your gods.”
“That creature above us is not Nyxa.” Azalea shuddered.
Nero tilted his head to the side, evaluating the painting before turning his gaze back to Azalea. “I am sorry it displeases you.”
“Why have our gods painted on the ceiling of your bedchamber if you don’t believe in them?”
Nero shrugged. “The painting was done long before my time in this castle, and I thought the art was too beautiful to destroy.”
“Someone else owned this castle before you?”
“A long time ago, yes.” Nero’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. Before she could ask who the previous lord was or how Nero came to take control of the city, he took her by the hand. “Someday, perhaps, you can help me restore the artwork to show a more faithful portrayal of your deities. For now, however…”
Nero unbuttoned his coat and tossed it on a leather chair across the room, then sat on the bed.
If he were a client of hers at the brothel, this was when she would climb atop him and show him everything he wanted and more. But she wasn’t here for him to take her body—only her blood.
“What would you have me do, my lord?” she asked.
“Will you come to me?”
There was a heat in his cool, grey eyes, but not in the predatory, possessive way Darien had looked at her. She’d seen this look in a man’s eyes often enough to know that Nero desired her. But despite the yearning in his gaze, this was a question—a request, not a demand. She could say no to a request.
But she didn’t want to deny him.
Her legs carried her forward until she was on the bed next to him, hands folded tightly in her lap. Gods, she hadn’t been this nervous about being with a man since her first time.
Still, she wanted him—she longed for the feel of his body felt like against hers. And more than anything, she wanted to know if she could tempt him into taking more from her.
She allowed herself a moment to gather confidence, then climbed atop him and straddled her legs on either side of him. She reached for the collar of his shirt, seeking the buttons that held it together. He took her hands and gently pulled them away, brushing a soft kiss on her fingertips.
“That is not why I brought you here,” he whispered. “I want to taste you.”
Azalea shuddered into him with a soft moan, wishing he meant more than her blood.
Nero ran his fingers along her collarbone, sending a chill down her spine. “You are so strong.”
She trembled beneath his touch, but did not respond.
“A beautiful warrior,” h
e continued, kissing lower until he reached the curve between her breasts. “Do you still want this?”
“Please.” Azalea tilted her neck to the side, baring more of her skin for him.
Nero’s fangs punctured her neck in a sudden pinch. She drooped helplessly into his arms as the euphoria took her. Nero lowered her gently onto the bed, cradling her in his arms. She wrapped her arm around his neck, letting his shoulders support the weight she couldn’t support on her own.
His hands wandered along her body, exploring her in soft caresses as he drank from her vein. When he finished, he sealed the wound on her throat and pulled her closer to his chest. As her body recovered from the feeding, he ran his hands through her hair, whispering gentle reassurances she could barely hear or understand. The tone of his voice, soft and soothing, was all the reassurance she needed. He said nothing more until she regained enough strength in her arms to push herself upright.
“When you return to your residence in the Third District tonight, pack your belongings. I’d like you to move into the castle. I have some business to attend to tonight, and after that, I can escort you to your new home. Here.”
Azalea pulled away from him and pulled the blanket up over her chest. “I…”
“Is that not what you want?”
She didn’t know the answer to that. It had only been a week since her first trip to the Blood Den. She’d been to the castle only twice. But then, she supposed Nero wasn’t used to waiting. As a king, he could demand whatever he wanted.
And it seemed that now she was what he wanted.
But unless she could somehow convince Nero to take Miria in as well, moving into the castle would mean leaving her behind. After their last fight, convincing Miria to come along didn’t seem like it would be an option even if Nero would allow it.
This was a better opportunity than she could have ever hoped for when she’d first set out for the Blood Den. A ticket out of the Third District was exactly what she’d given everything for.
So why did the thought of saying yes feel so wrong?
When her answer finally escaped her lips, the word was nothing more than a whisper full of fear…and betrayal.