At this point, I can only hope Verant doesn’t plan to turn me and torment me as a bloodthrall for the rest of my days. I’d much prefer dying with my humanity intact—or whatever semblance is left of it—than as a blood-craving monster.
The story I have relayed to Kleora does not speak well to any lasting “humanity” I may have.
“Impressed, Madame Kleora?” I quip, tilting my head. “Pray tell, what about my story impresses you?”
The beating of the moth on the other side of the compound’s window is an incessant, annoying sound starting to drive me mad. Yet my heartbeat is much calmer, almost too calm considering the dire straits I’m in.
She takes a small sip from her chalice, licks away a spot of blood from her lips.
As if on cue, my stomach sours and burbles from Taclo’s blood she recently forced me to imbibe. I glance over at my empty goblet, wincing. At least there is a new bottle of Cordoi Red sitting there now, brought to us by Kleora’s manservant.
That had been an unexpected and wholly unpleasant twist in the proceedings: Taclo, the former Diplomat, hauled up here bythe manservant Bregsitch. Hanged upside down from the rafters and bled dry from his neck.
Not so much different than my final meeting with Baylen Sallow, now I think of it.
Propped against the wall to my left, her right, is Taclo’s inert, slumped body. His skin is ashen and his eyes and mouth are facing me, still open in an eternal scream—a reminder of what’s happened here and what I have to look forward to.
“You call my kind monsters,” Kleora begins, “yet exhibit so many of the same ruthless qualities you attribute to us.” A demure smile passes across her lifeless lavender lips. “Some may call you sadistic for what you did to Baylen Sallow, a man you once called a friend. Riding him and slitting his throat?” She tsks.
The cold bitch is absolutely loving this.
I control my temper and return a knowing nod. She’s not wrong.
It has taken years of practice, but the explosive temperament and recklessness I inhibited as a younger woman and child is more manageable these days. There’s a compartment in my mind I can stuff the intrusive thoughts into, where they will stay until I need to call upon them.
This is not one of those times.
Kleora glances over at Taclo’s corpse and gives me a smug smile. “You killed your childhood friend.”
“He deserved it.” I don’t have to convince myself of that truth anymore. The days of doubt are gone, and my voice comes out harsh with conviction.
“I don’t doubt it.” She sighs and shrugs her bony shoulders. “All humans deserve that and worse. But doyoustill believe that, even after knowing he only followed you to try and . . . what was it?” She leans over her parchment, sifting through some pages, and points toward the bottom. “Ah, yes. ‘Bring her backto the light.’” Kleora chortles at the ridiculousness of the claim before looking up with an expectant glint to her red eyes.
“If it wasn’t for Baylen’s initial betrayal, I would not be here.” I gesture at my ornate prison. “None of this would have happened. Truehearts flog me, I may have been a vowager of the House of the Broken by now.”
Her fangs shine when she smiles. “You don’t truly believe that.”
“Baylen Sallow was the catalyst, far as I’m concerned.”
“Yes, yes, hisoriginal sin.” Kleora takes another sip from her glass. She is in no hurry to continue my tale, evidently, and enjoys these little breaks to torment me.
She stares straight into my soul. “As you said, Lady Lock, if it weren’t for Baylen Sallow, you would have never become a prized fighter in the Firehold. You would have never become an underground legend among your disgusting race. You would have never met, well . . . theothers.”
My jaw clamps tight as her words trail off. There isn’t anymore room in my mental hideaway to stuff my anger down. Not when she’s talking about the “others” so blithely.
Saying nothing, I try to keep it together—to strike any notion of anger, resentment, or fear from my face.
I know I’m not as good of a liar as this vicious creature is, but I try my best.
She tilts her head, giving me one last smile and nod as if she knows she has me. She knows she’s right.
Baylen led to my suffering . . . and he also led to my salvation.
I spit through clenched teeth, “He was the catalyst. I was beginning to learn a valuable lesson during this tumultuous time, chronicler.”
She swirls her drink. “And what lesson would that be?”
“That there is no room for love in this dark, bleak world.”
