Page 23 of The Dead Saint

The Wolf stopped beside an arched set of double doors.

Adrian, she reminded herself. Hearing his name in the throne room, saying it to herself now, felt strange and unnatural. This was the man who had toppled her city, had been the driving force behind her friends and family?—

Stop it. We’re not thinking about that right now.

“In here,” he said, gesturing to the closed door.

“What’s in there?”

“The Mapmaker.”

Sorcha buried her fingers in the dress, taking up big fistfuls of the luxurious skirts—soft, warm, and delicate all at once. How much would she have to remove? How much would she have to reveal? How much would Adrian see?

“How many people are in there?”

Nudity had never bothered her. Life in the temple had been open, with shared time in the hot springs, getting ready for feasts together, and sharing clothes. But she’d never been nude in front of strangers, never in front of someone whom she would have preferred to have been clothed in their presence.

“The Mapmaker.”

“And?” she pressed, knowing there was more.

“Me,” he replied.

“Why are you coming?”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Don’t tell me you actually care about my safety?” Sorcha shook her head.

He sounded so matter-of-fact. A muscle jumped in the Wolf’s jaw, his gaze focused farther down the hall.

He spoke softly, reaching around her to open the door they’d stopped in front of.“The prince cares, so I care.”

“I don’t want you in there,” Sorcha said, crossing her arms.

“Would you rather be left alone with the vampire?”

Before she could respond, he pushed the door open. More light filled the corridor, and Sorcha had to shade her eyes. The room beyond was huge, lined with shelves, the center lit but the perimeter shadowed.

She hesitated on the threshold, the room seemingly empty, and Adrian gestured for her to go forward.

“Are you the map?”

The speaker was unseen, the voice dry, the question posed without inflection.

“Yes,” Sorcha whispered.

“I am the Mapmaker.”

A man stepped out of the shadows with a rattle. Sorcha’s eyes were immediately drawn to the delicate silver chain attached to his ankle with a manacle. He wore a simple set of clothes, a deep green—the color of spruce in winter—and his feet were bare and so pale they were almost white. His hands were the same pale shade, his fingers long, and his hair bright and lustrous as a pearl. His beauty was monochrome, parched for color.

Sorcha opened her mouth and then closed it, not wanting to be rude—if he might feel that it was being rude—and ask.

“Yes,” the man said, acknowledging her unspoken question.

Vampire.

She’d never met one and wasn’t sure they even existed anymore. There had been stories, there were always stories, but no one like that had ever come to visit the Golden Citadel and King Roi.

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