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 migh
t 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.
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