Page 46 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

The finery had been insisted upon—we would hold a feast tonight in Fog Hollow, one of the northernmost villages in the Rift, and all the Rift-kin had been invited to come meet their lady.

The spectacle was not only for the sake of the Rift-kin seeing that the Accords had been met, that no upheaval lay in their future; it was because of their intense superstitions. No wedding in the Rift went unaccompanied by a chair braided with the ancient deterrents of the Fae—garlands of primrose and holly—nor a touch of cold iron to the bride’s brow. She would be served wine from a glass with a crusted salt rim, and watched carefully until she’d drunk every last drop.

The Rift-kin wouldn’t accept her unless they’d seen with their own eyes that she was no Fae-bred creature. Tonight was not only a celebration, but an alleviation of their nerves.

“The things I do for my people.” I tugged at the clasp holding a heavy, black velvet cloak over my shoulders; not even the finest tailors Wyn could dredge up were capable of designing a coat that fit this body.

There was nothing to be done for any other part of me; I decided this was the best it was going to get, and prowled from my chambers.

The night before, I had feared she would be ashamed to be seen with me. But by morning light, hoping against hope that my plans would work, she had once again knocked me head over heels, upending my world.

How could a woman who would run from my chambers look at me with such… suchintent?All through the day, moving from task to task throughout the keep, the same question had circled my head until I could think of nothing else: what did it allmean?

She ran, but she smiled. She feared the bedroom, but she touched my hand.

She had let mekissit.

Andwhatdid thatmean?

I cleared my throat, feeling the intense thirst of several days without a proper meal. Dry as dust, a painful, fiery parching… she clearly did not want to be fed upon, even if that was desired. Expected, even.

But I would have to feed at some point, and soon. If ever I found myself in a position to have my lips at her throat again, it might prove impossible to hold myself back.

Bad enough to have frightened her while in full control of myself, but to lose my thoughts to thirst while I held her in my arms… there wouldn't be so much as a smile then. If that happened, I might as well procure the poppy syrup for her myself.

If Cirrien continued to reject my advances, I would ask Wyn to quietly arrange a victim. Someone already destined for the gallows—I would give the gift of a quicker, cleaner death.

But the silver lining, so to speak, was that the lack of blood meant the fiendish changes I’d forced on myself would fade quicker. Soon I would be exactly as she’d met me.

With these gloomy thoughts in mind as I descended the stairs, I almost didn’t notice Wyn standing right at the front doors to the keep. But she moved aside, revealing the brilliant gleam of Cirrien’s crimson hair.

My wife’s eyes went straight to me, and my back straightened, ears quivering upright to catch the faintest hitch of her breath.

And then she smiled. Of course she did; it was like she knew exactly how to disarm me, destabilizing the ground beneath my feet.

She signed something with tentative, almost shy motions; I tried and failed to read the words she’d formed. One was almost familiar, like a thought on the tip of the tongue that faded into nothing when considered too intensely, but her meaning was opaque.

“You look beautiful.” I couldn’t keep the growl out of my voice, but she didn’t shrink away. “Of course, you always do.”

Her hair hung loose down her back in soft waves that my fingers itched to stroke, to wrap them around my hand like a leash of fire… or blood. Tonight the soft curves of her body teased me from a cocoon of hugging velvet instead of silk; it would grow chilly in the Rift after sunfall this far into autumn.

“You two will take the carriage. I’ll ride with Visca and keep an eye on the wagons.” Wyn handed Cirrien a leather bag, large enough to hold a cloak, but there was something hard-edged pushing its form out of shape. “The usual precautions have already been made, Bane.”

I nodded, knowing she had been delving deep into the art of sanguimancy as of late; Wyn had drawn more blood sigils in the last week than she had in the entire previous year, all for Cirrien’s sake.

Cirrien herself clutched the bag tightly, and sidled a little closer. I offered her my arm, gratified when she took it without a second of hesitation.

The carriage we’d used to transport her from Argent was waiting in the courtyard, freshly cleaned, with new blood sigils glowing with their faint light on the windows.

“Beauty before beastly,” I said, opening the door for her. Cirrien shot me a sharp look, then her eyes softened when she saw my own smile, and she signed something rapidly, no longer quite as shy.

She took my hand to help her in, settling herself on one of the long benches with the bag cradled in her lap. I felt her touch, still branded against my palm, as I climbed in after her and pulled the iron bar down, locking us in.

Instead of sitting next to my wife, as I craved, I sat opposite her. Perhaps it was close quarters that bothered her, being locked in with a fiend. She would want breathing room.

Cirrien stared at me in the darkness of the carriage, and as we lurched into motion, she rummaged in the bag, tugging at the hard-edged shape, and pulled out… a slate and a piece of chalk.

A frisson of anticipation ran down my spine. My ears twitched once, the only motion to give away my sudden eagerness.

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