“Making conversation again, are you?” He murmured.
“Oh yes. My people call it chit-chatting.”
“It’s a terrible habit.”
“Some day, Count Saklas, you are going to have fun. And it is going to blow your mind.”
“I’d rather keep my mind intact.”
“What exactly happened to the Albian royal family?” I asked.
He frowned, looking at me like I was mad. “I killed them, of course. They would not relinquish their claims to the throne.”
My chest tightened. “But, all of them? Even the children?”
“They were hardly children. Twenty years old, at least.”
“And what about their cousins? The dukes, the duchesses? The viscounts? I don’t know the bloody titles. But they’re all dead?”
“Most are dead, and some languish in island prisons. If any of them become a threat again, they will die.” He sounded completely detached, staring out the window.
“But why are you here? Why are you in Albia? Why can’t you go back where you came from?”
Slowly, his gaze slid to me. And with the full force of his attention on me, I was overcome by a primal instinct to slink away into the shadows. Even cloaked, I felt his face was never meant for mortals to see. “I’m here to conquer. It is what I do.”
Not a satisfying answer. My jaw clenched. “Okay. So tonight, you want me to spy on the Free Men for you?”
“I received some intelligence that they will be at this party, disguising themselves as revelers. Their identities are unknown. Their ideas have infected the Albian aristocracy. Any information you can get me about them would make you valuable. Who they are. What they look like. Everything they’re doing.”
“Why are you afraid of them?”
“Take care what you are suggesting.” A low, dark chuckle. “The idea that I would fear anything is absurd. I simply want them dead. They are a disease, one that could spread across the city if I don’t eradicate it. But when you’re finished spying and going unnoticed, make sure people do notice you. I want them to see you with me. To think that you have affection for me, even if you don’t feel it.”
“Okay.” Even if he possessed the erotic magic of an angel, the idea of getting close to him like that terrified me.
“I can feel your fear.” Silver light glinted in his eyes. Despite everything else I knew about him, his eyes were a marvel—large, mournful, pale light framed by darkness. “You’ll see other women drawn to me, vying for my attention. Try to act like them. Push your true feelings away.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why.”
“No.” He stared out at the winding Dark River, and the boats drifting along its waves.
The image of my sister rose in my mind again. Her hair was a light flaxen blond, like a burst of sunlight in our dingy streets. She always wore a little charm around her neck—the shape of the sun, on a chain made of steel. It was a kid’s trinket, but it suited her. Sunny and steely at the same time.
She’d always been Mum’s favorite. Always been everyone’s favorite.
I cleared my throat. “I had a friend who went missing. People say she might have worked in Castle Hades as a servant. Her name was Alice.”
“I don’t know her.” An immediate answer.
My heart sank. I supposed I was hoping he’d say that he knew her, and she was alive and well and working in the kitchens. Then again, he didn’t seem like the type of person who would learn servants’ names.
While I stewed in my disappointment, we fell into a deep, unnatural silence. The sun slipped down below the horizon, and darkness began to gather.
The train slid to a stop, parallel to the river. When I saw the spindly gold towers of Thorn Island Palace, I had to smile at the beauty. The palace loomed just on the other side of a bridge to my left, spectacular in the moonlight.
Just as I was standing, a man in a dark suit opened our carriage door, and motioned for us to step out.
I crossed out of the train into the cool night air, breathing it in. The river formed a sort of moat around the palace grounds, making it into an island.
While Castle Hades was all cold and gray , this palace was a delicate network of golden stone, of ornate carvings and narrow spires that reached for the skies.
A wooden bridge spanned the moat, and my heels clacked over it as we crossed, side by side. The glorious silk of my dress skimmed over my legs as I walked. A cool breeze rushed off the river, toying with my cloak. And along with it came the masculine scent of the count—iron and woodsmoke.
At the other end of the bridge, a stone path led to wooden doors with elaborate iron filigrees. Already, I could hear the music from inside the palace. Even if I was on a spy mission with my worst enemy, with the Angel of Death himself—I loved parties.
Clovian guards stood on either side of the door. Torchlight danced over the palace’s ornate carvings and gargoyles. Behind the guards stood two gargantuan statues—monstrous-looking stone carvings with hulking muscles and grimaces.
When we got to the doors, I read the names carved into them: Ohyah and Hahyah. Nodding at the count, the guards pulled the doors open. The music hit me first—low, sensual horns and rhythmic drum beats. A woman was singing about the Fallen.
You’d better watch out for the Fallen
Castle Hades is calling
The lions are gone, the ravens are dead
The king and queen have lost their heads …
Then, as we stepped inside, I took in the splendor around me. The ceiling rose two stories above us, with high windows depicting images of serpents and stars, trees and orchards. Around the perimeter of the great hall were statues of nude women in various ecstatic poses, mouths open with pleasure. One statue appeared to show a woman having an erotic experience with a snake coiled around her thighs.
Everywhere I looked, men and women were dancing, kissing, enjoying themselves. I took comfort in some of the raven tattoos I saw. Mortal Albians like me. But they weren’t the kind of women I grew up around. These women glowed like stars, with jewels threaded through their hair. Their skin shimmered like pearls. Not of the immediate royal family, since they were all dead, but distant cousins or relatives.
But as soon as they realized the count had entered the hall, all eyes were on him.
A hush fell over the room. Even in his dark cloak, the count commanded attention.
Two bejeweled women sidled up to him, blushing as they drew closer.
I was practically invisible. And that was a wonderful thing if I was going to spy. If I drifted away from him, it would be painfully easy to go unnoticed here. As I slipped into the crowd, I plucked a champagne flute off a passing tray.
But now, I had to decide what information I really wanted to give the count. On the one hand, if the Free Men were trying to stop murders in my city, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. On the other, if I failed to deliver, the count would throw me out on my arse. Money gone, left to the Rough Boys. And I’d never find out the truth about Alice.
Ernald would tell me to look out for myself first—not to trust the Free Men either. The aristocrats like them had never done anything for East Dovren or the slums. Not before the war, nor after. They hoarded the wealth and left nothing for us. And annoying as he was, sometimes Ernald had a point.
I felt a long way from the music hall now. In a palace, among the swirls of glittering dancers in their gems and fine silks, I was in a new world.
My heart beat in time with the rhythm of the drum, and bodies brushed against mine as they spun. When I turned, I saw that the crowd seemed to be gravitating toward the count. I slipped further in, scanning people’s faces. Maybe I’d see someone who looked too alert, too watchful.
Along with the band, I heard low singing over the music, coming from within the crowd. It was an ancient Albian folk song—one about ravens at the Dark River, and the Blessed Raven King. A song for Albia. For Patriots.
I moved toward the sound.
I took a sip
of my drink, trying to look relaxed.
But something was distracting me: the rich thrum of a fallen angel’s cursed magic over the back of my skin, the scent of sandalwood.
I turned to see the angel behind me, the crowd parting for him. He towered over the mortals around him. His hair was long and gold, and he wore a cape of deep blue. His dark eyes pinned me.
“Are you not enjoying yourself in my home?” he asked.
How did he know that? I was sure my expression had looked serene. “Lord Armaros. It’s a lovely home. Beautiful, really.”
“Who did you arrive with?”
The silence rolled out for a minute, then I answered quietly. “The count.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that right? Count Saklas? With you?”
Not sure I liked the disdainful tone, but admittedly we were a weird pairing. “I’m his new ama—his secretary. He just hired me.”
A woman with bright red hair and pale skin sidled up to Lord Armaros and wrapped her arms around him. Mortal, like me, with the raven tattoo. “Come play with me.”
He hardly looked at her, holding up a finger instead. “In a moment.”
She pouted and skulked away.
He took a step closer to me, purring, “Why don’t you tell me what you really want to ask me?”
“How do you know I have a question?”
“You have as many questions as I have wives.”
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. But I had so many questions: Where was Alice? Why are they murdering women?
I had to keep it simple, of course. Not betray too much. And on my mind right now was the question of which of these bastards had signed his name on the wall, next to the body of a woman with her lungs ripped out.
I smiled at him. “Which one of your friends is called Samael?”
Lord Armaros leaned down and brushed my hair off my neck, his fingers curling around the back of my throat. “Little dove. I think you already know who he is. And you’d better be careful. Samael is terror incarnate. If you ever happen to see his true face, your sanity would never recover.”
15
Lila
That warning rippled cold up my spine.
Lord Armaros pulled away from me, straightening to his full height. “Try to enjoy yourself, little dove.”
I took a sip of my champagne, blending unnoticed into the crowd once more. I couldn’t drink too fast. I had to stay sharp here. If I failed to get the information that the count wanted, I’d be well and truly buggered.
The music had changed to a jaunty tune, and the crowd broke into a dance called the Salton—a wild quadrille of shifting partners, with hands and legs swinging in the air. In most circumstances, it was fun as hell.
And perhaps I could use it. It wouldn’t be a bad way to move from one person to another, while still looking like I was enjoying myself.
I dropped the champagne off on a passing waiter’s tray, then caught the eye of a blond man—an Albian bloke with the raven tattoo on his neck. I held out my hand. In the next moment, I was smiling at him, my feet moving fast over the dance floor. Now, my laughter was nearly genuine, and the music compelled me to move.
He spun me around, and I found myself with the next partner, a dark-haired man in a silky shirt. Despite the dancing, I was staying sharp, scanning the crowd for anyone who seemed amiss.
I needed to see a sign, someone who looked nervous, perhaps. Someone lurking around the edges. When my partner spun me on to the next dancer, I quickly ascertained he was too drunk to be useful, swaying, the sweat pouring down his temples. But beyond him—
The man sipping his gin gimlet by the wall looked far too alert for the occasion. His dark hair was slicked back, his shirt perfectly pressed. Although he was trying to look casual, leaning on a mahogany cabinet, his jaw was rigid.
Laughing, I spun away from the dance, in his direction. He was so intent on the crowd around me, he hardly looked at me. And he was pulling one of my tricks—dress in the most boring, dark clothes possible so no one would notice you.
But my keen thief’s eye caught a glint of something important: a gleaming silver cufflink. I’d seen that before.
Smiling like an idiot drunk, I let one shoulder of my dress fall down. Maybe I wasn’t as stunning as all the glittering women around me, but I had boobs. And boobs could get nearly anyone’s attention.
So I let my cleavage show, and I pressed against him, smiling. “Why hello, darling. You all right?”
He smiled down at me, but the look in his eyes was disdainful. “Are you enjoying yourself?” His voice was crisp and aristocratic.
I had no doubt he’d gone to the finest boarding schools Albia had to offer. And something in his tone definitely suggested that I shouldn’t be enjoying myself at all.
Immediately, he reminded me of my ex, Cassius—the posh wanker who never wanted me to meet his family. I didn’t like the look of this man, the faint judgment in his eyes. But I forced myself to grin at him like I was wholly besotted with him.
I gripped him by the wrists, giggling like a halfwit, wiggling his arms. “Don’t you want to dance, you grumpy Gus? It is a party, and everyone’s doing the Salton. Don’t you know how? I can show you.”
His jaw clenched tighter, eyes darting around the room. He was definitely on edge, and he wanted to get the hell away from me. He jerked his wrists out of my grip, but by the time he pulled away, I had what I wanted: one of his cufflinks. As soon as he’d slipped away through the crowd, I peered down at it.
Just like the man who’d been executed, the cufflink featured a tiny gold lightning bolt. Now that was information the count would value.
I shoved the cufflink into my bra, then turned to see if I could catch sight of the man again. I wove through the crowd until I spotted him—dark hair slicked back, the crisp black shirt.
I followed him a few paces behind, feigning drunkenness. He was walking to another part of the hall. When I peered around his shoulder, I saw a banquet table.
He was heading for a table set with strawberry tarts and a fountain of champagne. When he reached it, I stayed out of his sights, slipping behind the table while he leaned against it, sipping a glass of champagne.
I plucked a tart from a tray—all part of blending in, of course. I bit into layers of flaky pastry with custard and berries. Bloody hell, was this how rich people ate all the time?
But despite my delight with the pastry, I was staying sharp—watching as another man sidled up next to him. A blond in dark clothes.
They weren’t speaking. The dark-haired one slipped a folded piece of paper behind his back, and the blond snatched it, shoving it into his pocket. Casually, he plucked a glass of champagne from the table. With a sip of his drink, he sauntered off.
I dropped my pastry on the table—which I regretted deeply— and slipped through the dancers after the blond.
I’d been pickpocketing since I was a kid, and it would give me no trouble at all to pinch something in a crowd. It was all about the subtle arts of distraction and sleight of hand.
I picked up my speed, walking past him so I could head him off. When I’d passed in front of him, I turned and stumbled into him.
“Oh dear!” I let that strap slide down from my dress again, and one of my hands was in and out of his pockets before he noticed.
He grabbed me by the shoulders, his lip curling a little bit. “Do be careful,” he cautioned in a plummy accent. He smoothed back his hair, then pushed past me.
I shoved the little bit of paper into my cleavage. I’d procured something valuable, which meant I’d done the first part of my task.
That left the second, more terrifying task—affection for the Angel of Death. This was altogether different than flirting with the man in the black shirt. The count felt much more dangerous, like a lethal addiction. I could still feel that faint brush of his fingertips against my skin, like it was branded into me.
I found him still by the entrance, still wearing that cowl. Women surrounde
d him, blushing, eyeing him. A beautiful brunette stared at him, twirling her hair around her fingertips. She crossed to him and tried to wrap her arms around his neck, but he simply plucked them off again, letting them drop.
With a jolt, I realized his eyes were locked on me—a truly mesmerizing metallic gray. And now that the women could see what he was looking at, their eyes slid to me, too. I felt them seething.
I hated being the center of attention. But slowly, I stopped thinking about everyone else in the room—just the count and me. Even with his cloak on, he seemed to radiate heating magic so intensely, it was like the rest of the room went dark.
He took a step closer to me, his pale eyes beaming.
Up close, I could see into his hood—a little bit of high, sculpted cheekbones, a sharp jawline. I moved up close, and his aphrodisiac power swept around me, sinking into my muscles and making my pulse race. I felt like he was pulling me into him, like the moon pulls the waves. I was just inches from him now, peering up at him.
Just like I’d seen the other woman do, I wrapped my arms around him, slipping them under his cloak and around his neck. And I felt it, every point where our bare skin made contact, my forearms against his neck. A sensual heat kissed my body, making me shiver with pleasure. I felt like I was glowing along with him.
He slid a hand around the back of my neck, and the movement sent my heart racing. Heat spread out from his palm, radiating down the bare skin on my back. He was seductive power personified, and never before had I encountered anyone more deadly.
Even knowing what he was, I wanted to pull his cloak off and feel his skin against mine. And this was why angels were dangerous, must be kept at arm’s length.
Something was shifting in his gray eyes, getting darker, warmer. A deep red. Flames. A look of carnal intensity. Something that looked like a gold tattoo swept over one of his cheekbones.
One of his fingertips moved slowly up and down the arch of my back. And at that touch, molten warmth arced through me, pooling at the apex of my thighs.
His other hand moved from my neck, fingers threading into my hair. Gently, he pulled back my head, exposing my throat. For a moment, he seemed transfixed by it, and I wondered what he would do. Kiss it? Bite it? I only knew I was completely vulnerable to him, wrapped in his powerful arms. That he could kill me in an instant if he suspected I was double crossing him.
The Fallen (Hades Castle Trilogy Book 1) Page 8