Scorched

Chapter 8

Ashe Carver scowled as the tall, fair-haired vampire stalked away. Slowly, her eyebrows lifted. The view was noteworthy. She could see why Holly was physically attracted, especially from the rear view. What she didn’t get was how her own sister could be so stupid.

Ashe tore herself away from where she had no business looking and studied Holly instead. She hadn’t been home for over fifteen years, and Holly wasn’t a kid anymore. Ashe had been expecting someone weak, in the thrall of a vampire’s venom. Instead, Holly was a perfect Carver: powerful, smart, and in charge.

Something, truth be told, Ashe was still working on. They were two sides of the family genetic coin. Holly took after their mother: short and dark, with delicate features. Ashe was tall, fair, and athletic, like their father’s family.

Holly would know that mostly from photographs. Ashe remembered her parents all too well. Dad standing right where Holly was now, talking to Mom, who’d be working at the counter, making sandwiches ... the memory sunk into Ashe like the fangs of a steel trap. Or a vampire. For a moment, she wished she’d stayed away.

“You don’t know a thing about Alessandro,” Holly snapped the moment the front door banged shut.

Ashe jerked back to the present. “Fang-boy. What’s there to know?”

“Alessandro’s different.” Holly held up her hand as Ashe drew a breath to protest. “He’s my Chosen. It’s an old legend. When a human loves a vampire completely and with free will, that vampire is freed from the blood thirst.”

Oh, please. “Then what does he eat? Doughnuts?”

“Chosen vampires can feed energetically. From the bond with their human.”

Nausea skewered Ashe. “They feed on hot sex?”

Holly blushed.

“Oh, ick.” For a moment Ashe knew she sounded like the teenager she’d once been. Weird how a person reverted the moment they went back to the family home. “Gah!”

“We’re...” Holly sat down again, clearly struggling for words. “We’re happy. It’s working. Alessandro’s more human than other vampires. Humanish.”

“Do you know how messed up that sounds?”

Holly’s look turned sharp. “I’m trying to explain. You don’t have to like it.”

Ashe had heard enough. “Give your head a shake. Get real. Get rid of him.”

“No.”

“I’m speaking for Mom and Dad.”

Holly stared at her for a long, hard moment. “They’re dead. They don’t get a vote.”

The words were meant to be brutal. “I know,” Ashe said quietly. “I killed them. I owe it to them to make sure you’re all right.”

Holly looked away, backing down. “They died in an accident.”

“I cast an egotistical, idiotic spell to give Mom and Dad car trouble so that they didn’t come home to find out I’d left you alone that night.”

“You were sixteen. You wanted to go to a concert. That’s normal teenage crap.”

Surprise rung through Ashe, clear as the strike of a bell.

Holly had forgiven her. She shouldn’t. Maybe she was too young to really get what I did.

Ashe hammered home her point. “I used powerful magic I had no business touching. I made their car crash. The aftermath nearly destroyed your powers.”

“And it destroyed yours. You took off. I know the story. That’s history. We both have to move on.”

Ashe had been over and over this moment in her head. The one where she tried to make things right. She leaned forward, her mouth dry with the soot of burned-out emotion. “I screwed up back then. I’m sure as hell not going to screw up now. You’re in trouble. I can do something about it.”

The clock ticked. Ashe could hear the small house noises—pings in the radiator, a creak of the floorboards as the cat chased shadows. Those should have been comforting sounds, but they somehow wound the tension in the room even tighter.

“I’m not in trouble,” said Holly. “And I’m not your redemption.”

Ashe took a deep breath. She wanted to snatch Holly from her chair and shake sense into her, but this wasn’t a problem she could solve with force. For starters, Holly was a powerful witch, whereas she was a husk with no active magic.

Ashe changed tactics. “What about a family? Surely you’ll want kids?”

“Who knows?” Holly shrugged.

Oh, Goddess. “Surely you’re not thinking of adopting?”

“Down the road, maybe.”

“Crap, you’re serious. A vampire baby daddy?”

Holly shrugged again. “Why not?”

Ashe felt a surge of panic, but stomped on it. Vampires couldn’t father children, and no vampire male would tolerate someone else’s young. Holly was tragically deluded. Delusions like that could destroy a woman. He might kill the kid.

“Damn it, Holly! “That was what Ashe hated most about the monsters. They always looked like something familiar, until the mask slipped and showed the evil beneath.

As in the case of a sixteen-year-old girl who murdered her parents with a spell. She saw one of those masks in the mirror every day.

Brooding was an occupational hazard for a creature of the night. Alessandro disliked indulging the vampire stereotype, but there he was. He leaned against the T-Bird, smoked, and scowled into the darkness. At least he was wearing battle leathers and weapons. That gave the moment some cachet.

Ashe was still inside the house, talking to Holly. Sharp though his hearing was, Alessandro could only hear the rise and fall of voices—sometimes angry, sometimes not. A glance at his watch told him that almost an hour had passed.

He took a drag on the cigarette, watching the glow brighten as he inhaled. He’d started smoking to mask the scent of human blood when he walked in crowded places. Now it gave him an excuse to stand outside, staring at the front door Ashe had all but literally slammed in his face.

He was a hunter. He knew how to wait. Alessandro crushed out his cigarette, the sound of his boot on the driveway pavement a loud, gritty scrape. It was a quiet neighborhood this late at night, only the occasional rustle of a raccoon or cat breaking the silence.

At last the front door opened. Ashe clumped down the front steps, red and white helmet under her arm. Alessandro straightened, instinctively shifting his weight so that he could move quickly if needed. The urge to defend his territory burned fever-strong. It didn’t matter that this was Ashe’s house. He had put down emotional roots for the first time in hundreds of years. He would win this battle.

Their gazes locked with an almost audible clash.

Ashe gave a low laugh. “You look like the schoolyard bully, loitering in the dark.” It was eerie how her voice had the same timbre as Holly’s.

“If you leave now, I won’t put that comparison to the test.”

“Oh, I’m leaving—for tonight,” she said coolly. Alessandro remained dead still. Nothing’s ever that easy.

“Don’t rejoice yet. I’m staying in town. My sister and I have a lot of catching up to do.” She yanked the zipper of her jacket closed another inch.

“Leave Holly in peace.”

“I’m not the bloodsucker here.” Ashe flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “Holly fed me a pile of crap about how you never bite her. I’ve heard that line before.”

It was true. Holly’s magic had released him from that burden, but Alessandro said nothing. Ashe would never believe him, so why waste his breath?

She went on, anger thick in her voice. “Last week I took out a nest of fifteen vamps that had kidnapped half the city council’s children. That was Calgary. The week before that it was a horror show in Duluth. A dozen kills: six vamps, six werewolves terrorizing half the city.”

Alessandro narrowed his eyes. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“I could take you out between breakfast and coffee.”

“And I could kill you where you stand, but I’ll take up sunbathing before I ask Holly to choose between her lover and her sister.”

“Who says she gets to choose?”

“Don’t push me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ashe let the helmet dangle from her hand, appearing to relax a degree. Above her, the stars were faint pinpricks, dimmed by the ambient city light. “Clear something up for me. Grandma wrote to me once that she knew you years ago. Is that true?”

“I’ve been in Fairview a long time.”

“Then how come I never saw you around when I was growing up?”

“Vampires make parents and grandparents nervous.”

“Now there’s a shocker.”

“I would never hurt a child. I do what I can to respect families, which is why you’re still breathing.”

Ashe laughed, and it hung in the air like a chemical accident. “Sure. Did you know there’s a family reunion in Hawaii? That’s where Grandma is right now, but Holly’s not there.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because of you. I couldn’t exactly play on the beach knowing my sister was sleeping with the dead.”

“That’s your decision.”

“Yeah, before you blow this off, think a minute. If Holly went, she’d have to explain to the relatives that her main squeeze is an animated corpse. Like that’s going to go down well with a bunch of witches hoping and praying for the next generation of magical babies. We’re a dying people. Children mean a lot to us.”

Alessandro stood silent and expressionless, letting the implication of her words turn him to stone. Holly hadn’t said a thing about the reunion. “She’s in school. She couldn’t go anyway.”

“We’re her family, Caravelli. You say you respect the concept. Try and remember what it means.”

“I would never stop her from going if she wanted to.”

“Yeah, yeah, you love each other, blah blah blah.”

Alessandro pressed his lips together. He wasn’t sure what Ashe had in life besides attitude, but it wasn’t making her a happy person. “Is there a point here besides the stake in your back pocket?”

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing to my sister? She’s a warm-blooded young woman who deserves a real, live man. You leave her in peace.”

Ouch.

Ashe walked toward her bike, cutting across the grass to give him a wide berth. “See you around, fang-boy.”

Impassively, Alessandro watched her put on her helmet and mount the Ducati. The bike pulled away, the motor snarling through the still, dark streets. With a disgusted sigh, he headed up the front steps, trying to shake off the dirty feeling Ashe had left in her wake.

Surely if Holly was unhappy, she’d say something....

So much for my first hunt. I am the most pathetic vampire ever to rise. After Constance’s dismal attempt to bite Conall Macmillan, the Castle might as well crumble around her ears just as Reynard had feared. At least the rubble would hide her shame.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether there was any truth to Reynard’s doomsday rumors, but she had far more immediate things to worry about, like rescuing her son. Keeping her family together. Anything else, however urgent, fell to a distant second.

Constance wandered slowly back toward Atreus’s rooms, looking for Viktor. The beast had wandered off again. Like most canines, he’d come back to the last place he’d considered home. The question was always when.

She’d been searching for the werebeast when she’d seen Bran. She’d followed the guardsman, hoping he’d lead her to Reynard’s headquarters. It was likely that’s where they had taken Sylvius’s box.

Constance stopped, twisting her long hair into a rope, a nervous habit from childhood. Then Conall Macmillan had come along. And didn’t he make a fine mess, knocking Bran unconscious so I couldn’t follow him? On top of that, after she had decided Macmillan would do for her first meal, he went and turned into a cloud of dust. Blast him!

She still felt Macmillan’s touch on her flesh, a brand that marked her as a trusting fool. Men and demons were such expert liars. Then again, she had been planning to bite him. She couldn’t exactly throw stones.

Resuming her path, she threaded her way through the maze of corridors. Her feet fell silently, only the rustle of her skirts marking her passage through the semidarkness. A cold draft told her she was getting close to her destination.

Too bad Macmillan had been so compelling. He had good, capable hands. A deep voice. He had aroused a curiosity she’d all but forgotten, not just as a vampire, but as a woman. If she’d begun to dream of home and family, he’d sharpened that yearning, given it new details. A face with dark eyes and a fleeting smile.

It made her think of so many of her mother’s songs, those ones sung around the table so long ago. Come away, my lassie-o, come away, my bonny / Come away, my dearieo, with rovin’ soldier Johnny...

That, more than anything, was a signal for caution. The last man who made her sing couldn’t wait to put his hand up her skirts and his teeth in her neck.

She passed a large leather glove someone had dropped. One of the guardsmen? A spy of Prince Miru-kai? She stepped carefully around it, reluctant to touch it even with her shoe. It was too big for anything that was, or ever had been, human.

Well, any spies were wasting their time. Sylvius was gone.

Constance reached her destination. Viktor was nowhere in sight, but her master was there. Constance stood in the shadow of the door, trying to see without being seen. Atreus sat in the great, carved chair, but it seemed to engulf him, more a prison than a throne.

Atreus rocked back and forth, his face in his hands. She could guess what that meant. The strain of Reynard’s visit had left his mind worse off than before. His slowly gathering madness took so many forms: Grandiose dreams. Forgetfulness. Hallucinations. Now, he had added violence and betrayal to his repertoire.

Did he grieve for Sylvius? She wondered whether he even remembered who Sylvius was.

Should I go to him? Instead, she lingered in the doorway, rubbing Sylvius’s pendant between her thumb and fingers. In the past, she had reached out to Atreus, a flower tracking the light. She had hungered for his regard, his protection. Now, even her anger toward him felt muffled, wrapped in dull, colorless grief. What could she do for him? It wasn’t a question of loyalty. It was a question of fact. She had nursed him for years, but he had nearly killed her and had given away her son.

Reynard had promised that his men would visit this part of the Castle daily to ensure all was well and to sup-ply whatever goods might be needed. He would keep that promise. She need have no fears for Atreus’s physical care.

For the moment, the only thing she could truly do for her master was to fix the damage he had done.

Constance crept along the edge of the room, hugging the wall. She turned when she got to a passageway on the right. It was a short hall that branched into individual bedrooms. Atreus had the largest. That door, a pointed arch of dark, polished wood, was to her right.

Atreus forbade anyone to set foot inside his chambers, always locking the door tight. That had always been quite line with Constance. She had no wish to invade a sorcerer’s private space—until now.

Anxiety shrilled with the urgency of an animal in an iron trap.

This had better be worth the risk.

It was a testament to Atreus’s befuddled state that he’d begun to neglect his secrets. The door to his room was slightly ajar, just enough to see the faint glow of a lamp within. Cautiously, she gave a push, letting the door drift open with a faint creak.

The chamber was large, with a bed covered in dark furs. A terra-cotta oil lamp hung on chains from the ceiling. The far corner held a high table draped in black silk and littered with the accouterments of a sorcerer. At the foot of the bed was a trunk. Nothing looked actively threatening.

So far, so good. But with sorcerers, one could never tell.

She had heard that vampires could not enter where they were not invited. That didn’t seem to apply within the Castle. Atreus’s magic was another matter. It might do more than stop her. It might destroy her.

Her scalp prickling with nerves, she cautiously waved a hand in the archway of the chamber door, half expecting it to be blown off in a whoosh of flame.

Nothing.

She slid one foot inside the room like a swimmer testing the temperature of a pond. Nothing.

With her heart in her mouth, she drifted inside Atreus’s rooms like a guilty ghost, tiptoeing across the flagstones, every sense on the highest alert. What she wanted was in the trunk. At least, she was fairly sure it was. She might never have set foot inside this room, but that did not mean she had never spied on her master from time to time.

Constance nervously watched the table where Atreus did his magic. While the Castle interfered with so many supernatural energies, it had never stopped him from weaving spells. She had no idea what wild spirits lingered among his books and wands, ready to jump out at the unwary.

The guilty. Justified or not, what she was doing was wrong. She didn’t like herself at all, but that didn’t slow her down one bit. Sylvius needed her.

She knelt beside the trunk. At the height of Atreus’s power, they had lived in splendor. Now all that wealth was gone, the remains of his kingdom whittled down to just the contents of the trunk. It was old and strapped in greening brass, the lid heavy as a coffin’s. There was a padlock, but it was ancient. Constance broke it in seconds. The lid rose with a crackle of old leather hinges, releasing the scent of aromatic woods. Clothes, books, and a bundle of scrolls lay neatly piled inside—but she was looking for something else.

The jewel chest sat in one corner. She lifted it out and set it on the cold, gray stone of the floor. The chest was a cube of tooled leather the shade of old, dried blood. The handles on either side were ornate silver gone black with age, but there was no lock. No hasps. No hinges.

She turned the cube over and over, but couldn’t figure out where the lid was fastened. Only the handles gave a clue as to which side of the cube was the top.

It was sealed by a spell. Damnation.

Frustrated, she ran her fingers over the surface of the box, seeking any means of prying it open by sheer force. Her long nails found the crease where the lid closed and dug in, grabbing the silver handle with her other hand. She pulled, gritting her teeth and giving every ounce of anger to the task. Her fingers began to ache, the nails bending away from her flesh.

The only thing that gave was her grip on the handle. She slipped, cutting herself on the tarnished metal.

“Bollocks!”

Blood welled from her finger and dripped onto the tooled leather surface of the box. Constance hastily swiped it away, but left a dark smudge across the lid. As if I needed to leave more evidence of my crime!

The box made a noise like the pop of a latch. Startled, she pulled her hands away and it slithered from her lap to the floor, landing with a bump. Grabbing it again, she barely stopped it from tumbling over.

The top of the box sprang open in a corona of light. The only thing missing was a fanfare of trumpets.

Bloody hell!

Literally. The sacrifice of blood had opened it. What’s the point of that?

Then she was distracted.

Rubies glinted in bracelets of beaten gold. Pearls snaked in endless ropes, winding in and around a glittering confusion of brooches, rings, and the crowns of long-forgotten kings. After years of the gray, drab monotony of the Castle, the glitter of light and color nearly burned her eyes.

She picked at the top of the pile, rattling the riches with impatient fingertips. And then she found it. There. That’s what she was after: a circle of patterned gold no bigger than a cherry. She might have mistaken it for a coin. It was worth more than money.

A key.

Atreus had said there had only ever been nine, and four had been destroyed. One had been bound into a book of demon magic that was now lost. There were only four left, and Josef had already stolen one of those. He’d used it to escape to the outside world before he could succumb to his beast, like his brother, Viktor.

She’d never learned how he’d managed to steal it, but then, Josef was a daring warrior. She was a plain milkmaid. She had been used to enduring, keeping her head down, not thinking up grandiose and daring schemes, not risking her master’s wrath—especially not once she had Sylvius to care for. Daring only came once Atreus had hurt someone she loved.

Well, she had it now.

She picked up the key. It looked exactly like the one Josef had shown her, a rich gold that held streaks of some darker, tawny metal. The design looked like a ragged sun.

Josef had said the keys would find a way out. Anyone could use them—but how?

A key will take me to the outside world, where there are many, many humans. I can hunt there. I can have my full vampire powers. Then she would come back strong, transformed, and rescue Sylvius.

For the first time since I was a girl, I will breathe free air.

A wave of dizziness overtook her.

Freedom.

A glove of ice fisted her heart. She hadn’t walked outside the Castle for so long. Josef had helped her figure it out: she’d been here for two and a half centuries. The outside world had changed. She would be lost. Exposed. Confused.

She wanted to go. She needed to go, but the open skies would feel like the top of her skull was being lifted away. Fear of all that open space, of all those people ...

A thick quiet sifted like dust in the Castle’s shadows. I’ve been here too long.

Don’t think about it. Surely it’s not so bad.

Constance dropped the key down the front of her tightly laced bodice. It slid, rough and cold, down the hollow between her breasts. The key was going to poke at her, a constant reminder of what she’d done. Just like her conscience. Thief!

Closing the jewel chest, Constance set it back in the trunk. Perhaps it would have been wise to take other jewels to sell or trade, but she wasn’t going to compound the error of her ways. All the years spent in the Castle, in the violent courts of a sorcerer-king, hadn’t clouded her sense of right and wrong. She’d fought to defend herself, but she’d never killed. She’d enjoyed luxuries, but never stolen. Until now.

She’d grown up poor, and had grown poor again as Atreus’s power withered. She understood that when a person had very little, it mattered if someone took it away. For that reason, she never wanted anything she didn’t have a right to. But then she did take a knife, sliding it into her sheath. She needed to replace the one Reynard had confiscated. Surely that was justified?

After she closed the lid of the trunk, Constance crept from the room, the key a hope held tight above her still heart.

She knew where there was a door.

It had appeared about a year ago after a great battle. It was clearly no ordinary door, for it was locked so securely that the guardsmen had never bothered to post a watch. Just the occasional patrol passed by it.

Still, its presence baffled Constance. Despite the keys, despite the odd portal that flickered open when a demon was summoned, the Castle was meant to be air-tight. A prison. So why was there suddenly a door? Perhaps Reynard is right and the Castle’s magic is falling to pieces. Like Atreus.

She slowed her steps. The door was now within sight. Still walking, Constance took out the coin-shaped key. Unfortunately, Josef had neglected to mention how the wretched things worked.

She glanced over her shoulder, giving way to an involuntary shudder. A patrol could come, and she’d seen what they’d done to the last poor fool who’d earned their wrath. Bran had a taste for skinning his victims alive.

At a trot, she crossed the last few feet to the door and pressed her hand against the rough surface. Her fingers looked frail against the wood, except for the long, sharp nails. The possibility of liberty was delicious, but it was terrifying, too. She could taste fear on her tongue, bitter as a new penny.

Pay no attention. Keep moving. This is for Sylvius. “Constance.”

She gasped, wheeling. Then she recognized him. Lore!

“Where the bloody hell did you come from? What are you doing here?” she asked, every hair on her body tingling with shock. “I thought you’d gone. Escaped. You and your whole pack.”

It was all she could do not to slap him for scaring her clear to her second death.

It had been a year since she had seen Sylvius’s childhood friend, but Lore looked the same. His dark hair was still long and shaggy, his face still gypsy-dark, the prominent bones giving him the same rough-hewn look as all the hellhounds. The young alpha looked fit and healthy, his slim, tightly muscled body moving with vigor. His clothes were different, cleaner and better mended than she remembered.

He leaned against the wall, bending his tall frame so he could see her face. “Why are you waiting by the door, Grandmother?”

She grimaced at the name. It was a title of extreme respect, one he knew she hated. At her disgusted expression, a rare grin split his long face. Hellhounds, like any dog, were not above teasing those they liked.

“How did you get back in here?” She dropped her voice to a whisper, just in case.

“When we escaped the Castle, we regained our magic.” He spoke slowly, his words slightly accented. The hounds had their own tongue, and rarely spoke with other species. “One of those talents is unlocking doors. As long as I do not stay long enough for the Castle’s magic to affect my powers, I can come and go.”

“Why by Saint Margaret’s toenails would you want to come back?”

He gave her a long look, the torchlight deepening the hollows in his face.

She folded her arms, hugging herself. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

One never asked a hellhound too many questions. Unlike almost every other species in creation, they could not lie. It was even hard for them to evade a direct question.

“I don’t like standing here in the open,” she added.

He cupped her elbow and drew her around the corner and into the shadows. “You should not have asked me why I’m here.”

She wasn’t in the mood for more guilt. “I can keep your secret.”

“Atreus—”

“Atreus is losing his mind. He grows worse each day, each hour.”

Lore’s face grew tense. “Even so—”

“Bloody hell, Lore, you know me. You were like Sylvius’s big brother.”

He licked his lips. She could see the moment he decided to trust her. “Most of my pack escaped, but some were left behind. They are slaves or soldiers for the warlords and sorcerers. One by one, I’ve been bartering for their freedom.”

“Bartering?”

“You wear oil of roses. Where do you think it comes from?”

“Josef gave it to me before he left.”

“And where did he get it?”

Constance blinked, putting the pieces together. Doors. Keys. “It came from the outside world.”

“Like others before me, I’ve discovered the Castle residents have a taste for luxury goods.”

“Smuggling!”

Lore gave a low laugh. “Clothes and books and tobacco. Goods are cheap and plentiful out there.” He nodded toward the door. “So far, I’ve traded for a half dozen of my people. Shoes are popular. Cross-trainers.”

Cross what? “And no one sees you come and go?”

“Bribery works. It is more the outside of the Castle that is a problem.”

“Why?”

“Naturally enough, not everyone wants those in the Castle to escape, but I’ve arranged it so that my hounds guard the door. At certain times they leave. They can honestly say they haven’t seen me go in with gifts and come out with another hound.” He gave a sardonic smile. “It seems we are compelled to tell the truth in the outside world, the same as we must here.”

Constance hugged herself, considering what he’d said, and what she needed. “Lore,” she said, picking her words carefully. “Something has happened.”

He put his big hands on her shoulders, solid and comforting. “What?”

“The guardsmen have taken Sylvius.”

Shock blanched the hellhound’s face. He swore, spitting something in the hounds’ own tongue. Not sparing a single detail, Constance told him what had happened. Lore crouched to the floor, as if her news had robbed him of the strength to stand.

Constance knelt beside him. “I need your help.”

Lore closed his eyes. “Constance, no one can help Sylvius now. I wouldn’t pit my whole pack against Reynard and his men. They’re as strong as the most powerful demons.”

“I don’t need your hounds. I’ll do this myself. I just need your help leaving the Castle. Show me what to do when I get to the outside world. I’m sure it’s changed since I saw it last.”

Lore didn’t answer.

Constance searched his face. “Will you take me with you when you go?”

He looked away. “No.”

For a moment, she didn’t comprehend his words. It was the opposite of what her ears wanted to hear. She stared at him, astonished. “Why not? It’s such a little thing. A tiny favor!”

He shook his head. She gripped his arm until he turned back to her. “Why not?” He stood, backing away.

She rose as well, refusing to let him avoid her. “Tell me.”

He made a frustrated gesture. “Right now, you’re still as much a human as a vampire. Would you throw that away?”

“If I have to.”

His eyes grew dark with sorrow. “Didn’t you say that you were captured as soon as you rose from the grave? That you never fed?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m so weak.”

“Did none of the other vampires talk to you about this?”

Constance flinched. “I’m not one of them. They call me a mistake and won’t have anything to do with me. You know that.”

Lore hung onto the words a long moment, but he finally, reluctantly let them go. “If you cross the threshold, the bloodlust will overtake you. There’re humans everywhere out there.”

Constance shrugged, doing her best not to picture the moment. “So I will feed. That’s what vampires do, isn’t it?”

“The newly Turned don’t simply feed. They kill. They go mad with hunger. I’ve seen it. You’ll attack someone. You’ll tear them to shreds.”

“No.” Shaking her head, Constance struck him in the chest. The blow thumped, making Lore stagger back. “No, I won’t. You don’t understand. I have to get out.”

“You’ll be executed if you leave!”

“It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be a prisoner. I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m not a monster!”

But hadn’t becoming a monster been her plan? Constance trembled, angry and confused.

Lore took her hands in his. “It’s against the law to harm a human. The punishment is death. And that doesn’t even touch on how you will feel about what you’ve done.”

“You mean I’m trapped in here forever?”

“Could you kill someone? Not a guardsman. Not some-one intent on doing you harm. Just an ordinary person living their ordinary life. Could you do it?”

Doubt pooled in her gut. “I never thought I would kill them. I thought I would simply take some of their blood.”

“You’re such an innocent, Constance. And Atreus kept you that way. That was both good and bad.”

“I’m on my own now. I have to learn to fight for myself. I need to finish Turning.”

“Your life has been blameless, Constance. Would you give that up? The cost of power is always more than we expect. We pay with what’s closest to our hearts.”

She paused, turning over his words. “But I’m trying to save the one I love most.”

“Be careful how you bargain with destiny. You risk destroying the good it brings.”

“Spare me your cryptic hellhound prophecies!”

“It’s not a prophecy. It’s truth.”

“But if I were free ...”

“Freedom costs.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I barter for my people every chance I get. Someday I’ll pay with my life.”

Constance sank to the floor, sitting down before her legs gave out. She felt suddenly hollow, an eggshell with nothing inside.

Freedom cost. Hope came at a high price, too. She was really tired of being poor.