My heart hammered against my ribs.
Two minutes later, the door to the jail opened.
I inhaled sharply—
As Rirth marched past me, unhurried, covered in blood I assumed wasn’t his own.
“Yes!” I cheered, punching a fist into my palm. “Thank the True.”
His sword clanked on the ground once he was back in his cell and locked in. I heard him sliding down, back against a wall, sighing.
The acolytes who put him in his cage remained standing in front of mine and Garroway’s cells.
“Don’t be so pleased, Seph,” Rirth said, his voice morose and tired. “You’re next.”
It was all I could do to keep myself from being distracted by the glory of Manor Manquin. Standing in the makeshift arena in the center of the room, I gawked at the surroundings.
Garroway and I stood on opposite ends of a circular divot about three feet below the surface. Floorboards had been pulled back to reveal the fighting pit. We stood on latticed groundwork that led to the prison room below.
Above the ring, an audience of well-dressed, masked vampires looked down at us as if we were tasty morsels. They stood at expensive-looking oak tables. Golden tablecloths adorned the tables, shimmering silver-and-gold tapestries stretched across the rafters and along the walls with a family crest I didn’t recognize. Chandeliers of crystal hung from the ceiling. Magicked torches were alight with dim reds and blues and yellow lights, keeping the ballroom well-lit.
Raised from the surface level was a stage where Lord Skartovius Ashfen sat on a throne-like chair. He wore a mask of burnished gold across his face, hiding his features. He was very tall, very imposing, and had dark auburn hair that swept past his shoulders. His garb—a gold-hemmed robe mired in black, with curved shoulder pads that struck a fierce relief—spoke of immense wealth as he lazily looked down at his entertainment, his fighters, with his chin on his fist and his elbow on the armrest of his chair.
And this was apettylord? Only petty, in my mind, with how he boasted his extravagance. If this was a minor nobleman of Olhav, I couldn’t even imagine what atruelord possessed.
Next to Lord Ashfen were six chairs with various men seated on them. The men, vampires all by the tone of their pale hands, long nails, and graceful physiques, wore masks. Everyone who attended, everyone of import—lord, lady, thrall alike—treated the shadowgala like a masquerade.
The Grimsons girls moseyed around the seated men, perhaps deemed more important than the ones standing at the tables surrounding the fighting pit.
Jinneth sat on a large man’s lap, toying with his hair. Her shirt was lowered, the man examining her pert breasts quite closely. Across the room, Aelin eyed Jinneth and the seated man while she lightly chatted with a couple standing near the pit. She paid them little attention, her glaring eyes fixed on Jinneth and her host. Helget had been completely disrobed, and the plump nude woman was being teased between two bloodsuckers who peppered her with kisses and spoke sweet nothings into her ears on either side. Helget was giggling and smiling, seemingly loving the attention.
It was a completely carousing affair. Other vampire ladies doted on their paramours with arms draped over shoulders and bodies. Low murmurs carried between attendees. A strange scent I couldn’t immediately place circled through the room.
Things had changed from the refined nature I’d listened to below as the first two fights took place. Now, the heated tension and stuffiness in the room spoke of an orgiastic affair about to take place.
I took a glance at Garroway and sniffed harder. A memory flared—the cloying aroma reminded me of something I’d smelled in the alleyway with Garroway those years ago. Something he’d told me that night which I had disregarded and forgotten about.
Garroway had said, “The redcloud makes me docile. You needn’t fear me.”
When I’d asked what redcloud was, he told me it was a substance made from powdered blood. A drug causing euphoria and complacency in vampires when inhaled. He had not offered me any redcloud. I had also been thirteen at the time, so . . . probably for the best.
Now, that same scent circled the air and masked something sharper and more pungent behind it. The redcloud wouldexplain the desirous expressions on the vampires’ faces, yet that other smell, so familiar—
My breath caught in my throat as I scanned the room past other vampires near a table off to the side.
Truehearts save me.Strewn lengthwise across the table was Kemini’s corpse, torn open at his chest and neck. His thick blood was draining into cups that lined the floor and table around him like some sort of macabre ritual. White-robed servants passed the table, picked up chalices of blood, and brought them to guests.
Lukain’s voice rose above the low murmurs. I couldn’t see where he spoke from amongst the crowd. “Lord Ashfen, I bring you something special tonight. The firstwarrioressof the Grimsons—a Grimdaughter, if you will.”
A light smattering of chuckles swept through.
“She is my fiercest pupil, trained to entertain andwin. She has locked our hearts together, as I’m sure she will with yours, my lord. I give you . . . Sephania Lock.”
I’d never had a surname before. Far as I knew, Lukain Pierken created it on the spot to jive with his “locked our hearts together” comment.
Garroway’s handler—a vampire from the far side of the room—strode through and introduced Garroway as a half-blooded sullyman who was fighting for atonement for being born.
That’s rather harsh.Especially considering the praise Lukain had just heaped on me. I couldn’t get the sight of Kemini’s gutted, ripped-apart body out of my mind.These fucking savages. Lacking any semblance of humanity. They are pure monsters!
