Page 92 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Emillie fought back the curl of disgust from her lips, though they could not know that Madan was their half-brother. She and Ariadne had only just learned it themselves and had no intention of telling anyone. So instead, she said, “I do not believe she is ready to explore the offerings of the Season again so soon.”

“A pity,” said a familiar voice that chilled Emillie’s blood. “I had hoped otherwise upon her return.”

Dierdre and Belina swept into smooth curtsies as Emillie turned to face General Loren Gard. She did not give him the same courtesy as the other Caersans, much to their pleasure. The two women chittered behind their hands as she faced off with the General.

“Bold of you after all you have done,” Emillie said. She looked at the three of them and bowed her head as she said, “Please excuse me.”

Before anyone could say more, she rushed from the sitting room. She needed to find a friendly face. Quickly. If she was cornered by Loren, she might just cause a scene that would light up the Season with more gossip than he was worth. As if her words would not spark enough of a controversy.

The sitting room exited to a balcony overlooking the Praads’ ballroom and twin stairs that swept down on either side. Caersans milled up and down the steps, the music below a perfect match to the lavender and cream backdrop. Emillie stopped at the balcony rail and leaned over the edge, scanning the crowd for any sign of Alek. She needed to find him before—

“Miss Harlow.” Loren’s voice was loud enough to draw the attention of others, so she could not escape.

Gritting her teeth, Emillie released the rail and turned to give him a shallow curtsy to avoid whispers about her impropriety. “General Gard.”

Several Caersans paused their strides to eavesdrop, no doubt seeking some glimmer of truth amongst the chaos that lay between the Harlows and Gards. Emillie hated that they would likely walk away with exactly what they wanted. Or, at the very least, a delicious new morsel of gossip.

“I had been hoping to speak with you.” Loren stepped closer, fully aware of the eyes on them both. He seemed to revel in it. “First, I am grateful for the invitation to your wedding to Lord Governor Nightingale.”

“Of course, General.” Emillie glanced around, praying for a way to escape. “You are quite welcome.”

Loren smiled, and for a moment, Emillie could see what Ariadne had at the beginning of the Season. He was handsome, as Caersan men go, and could seem just as charming. Unfortunately for him, his crystal blue eyes and smooth speech held no sway over her.

“Will your sister be in attendance?” He searched her face as though seeking any hints to her answer.

But Emillie only slid a pleasant look into place, doing her best to mimic Ariadne’s vacant look, and said, “No. She remains in mourning.”

A quick glance to the listening Caersans told her that had been what they expected. She would have breathed a sigh of relief if it would not give her away.

Something darkened in Loren’s gaze. His jaw tightened, and his fists flexed. “Is that so?”

“I am certain of it.” She tilted her head, her patience waning. He wanted information she would not give him willingly. He would not dare do to her what he did to Madan.

“Miss Harlow.” He dropped his voice so low, others would have to strain, even with their vampire ears. Leaning forward, he hissed through his teeth, “I know perfectly well your sister is not in Monsumbra mourning. Now be a good girl, and tell me the truth.”

Emillie drew herself up, heart thundering and breath hitching. When she spoke, she did so loudly enough to draw more attention. “General Gard, your accusations are an affront. I would never debase myself to lies to someone such as yourself in particular. My sister—nay, my family—have mourned the loss of the late Lord Governor, and for you to imply otherwise is outrageous.”

For a moment, Loren appeared stricken. He gaped at her, having clearly not expected such a response, before taking another step closer. His voice remained quiet. Deadly. “You are lying. I know damn well she has been missing, that you have not been writing to her, and you were one of the last to see her aside from that sham of a stablehand.”

Her heart sank like a stone. Thom. Thom had been killed for what she had convinced him to do. His death was on her hands, and it made her sick.

But who, then, had told Loren?

She knew the answer before the question finished forming in her mind. Sul. Her own personal guard was Loren’s personal spy. Nothing she did was private. Every single movement she made would be reported back to Loren.

He smirked as the blood drained from her face. “I will take from you everything you hold dear if you do not give me what I want: your sister. Even that pretty little redhead from the Bistro.”

“Loren,” she breathed, her manners slipping as she scrambled to catch back up to where he was with the information. Gods, how did he know about Kyra? He had his claws dug in deep everywhere. “Please, I have no idea what you speak of or where my sister is. Why do you still want her so badly?”

Loren’s eyes glittered with malice. “She tried to make a fool of me. She will right her wrongs and solidify my claim as your father’s heir.”

“All of this,” she whispered, “to become the Princeps?”

“All of this,” he repeated, “to become the most powerful Caersan in Valenul. I will have her, for she is the key to convincing the lords of my power, and she will love me as intended.”

Emillie was going to be sick. Still, she choked out, “She will never love you.”

His lip lifted in a snarl, then disappeared as, for the second time that night, a smooth, dark voice behind her said, “Is there a problem with my fiancée, General?”

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