My eyes slide over the two lines of vampires standing along both sides of the war room. They gaze at each other suspiciously, the older ones still as statues, the younger ones flickering like shadows, the whites of their eyes and fangs flashing.
But there’s one young vampire…who’s very still. His eyes are fixed on the ground in front of him, his pale hands clasped in front of him.
Jocelyn. Why does that name suddenly ring a bell?
And why is he the only young vampire…who stands so still?
Slowly, I rise from my throne. Careful to keep my gaze from him, I descend from the raised platform, pacing in front of the two lines of vampires. I can see them resisting the urge to flee, to reach for their stakes. Every one of them knows what I’ll do if I sniff out a traitor. Everyone one of them knows who I am. Every one of them remembers.
I pause in front of him, keeping my tone as measured as I can.
“Jocelyn,” I whisper. “Wasn’t she…yourfavourite donor, Thomas?”
His eyes flicker up to me, just for a second, before settling back on the stone ground.
“Lots of vampires liked Jocelyn, my king,” he mutters.
“Like Cassandra?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “You were fighting over her with Cassandra, weren’t you?”
Silence. Thick,heavy silence.
“And you were Cassandra’s partner. You were the last one to see her before she was staked.”
Silence that screams his guilt.
I have no choice.
And that’s what ignites my fury.
In a fraction of a second, I’ve grabbed the young vampire by the front of shirt, and I’ve hoisted him into the air. It would be his throat, but I need him to talk.
His desperate fingers claw at my wrist. “It wasn’t me! My king, it…Iswearit wasn’t…”
But his whimpering is weak, without heart. His grave is already dug.
“Why did you do it?” I snarl, furious not at what he’s done, but at what I’ll now have to do.
“I…I didn’t…”
I slam him against the stone wall. “It’s too late, Thomas. Now tell me…why did you do it?”
And he stops wiggling, his body going horribly limp. When he opens his eyes, they’re red, down to the irises.
And when he speaks, his voice is impossibly quiet, a spectral whisper. “She…she found out.”
“Found outwhat?”
“That I’d…I’d staked Cassandra.”
My fingers tighten, itching to relieve my anger. “And Eloise? Did you cause her allergic reaction? Take her epipen?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he moans. Then he presses his lips together, realizing how he’s implicated himself.
But there’s no bittersweet satisfaction in my words. No joy in finding the perpetrator. There’s only cold, hard fury. “Were you working for Oana?”
Fear makes his fangs descend, cresting down along his chin. He closes his eyes again, tightly. He knows what this means.
And I could do it. Could throw him in the dungeon, could torture him until he’s completely broken. Vampires exist until they’re staked. Nothing else will destroy them. And I know how to get information.
