Page 3 of Vows Forged in Blood

Peace.

Etienne Montclare offered peace, after so many years of unrest and death. The human king of Braxhelm at the time agreed. He knew that the humans would eventually fall completely, whether to the vampires or the Revenants, and the sacrifice of some was outweighed by the survival of the many.

And so, the Blood Peace came to be.

To much surprise, itworked. The Montclares, their army bolstered by the newly turned humans, began to overtake the Revenants, to drive them farther and farther north. The humans provided blood slaves to sustain the vampires and, as promised, all attacks stopped. It was a tenuous truce at first, of course, but it grew in strength and soon they were true allies, the blood slaves being looked at as glorious martyrs and treated with great dignity. It was anhonorto be chosen to serve and sacrifice, many humans volunteering for the duty to bring glory to theirfamily names. The two species grew to respect and care for each other, great friendships and even romances evolving over time.

It was even a team of human and vampire alchemists, working together, who discovered how to replicate human blood, all but removing the need for the blood slaves at all—but the human nobles and Etienne Montclare had other ideas.

That is when the Choosing came to be. Instead of blood slaves giving blood to the entire Clan, a single Consort would be given only to each prince (why the princesses didn’t get to be a part of the fun, I don’t know, but this is the way it has always been). A Consort would be chosen from among only the noble human families, as a continued symbol of the alliance between the vampires and the humans of Braxhelm. The Consort’s blood was only given directly to their prince, and it was expected that the prince would only have his Consort’s blood, no replications and no others. When a Consort died, another Choosing ceremony was held for that prince to find a replacement.

It's a stupid, ridiculous custom that only makes the rich even richer since the Consort’s family is given a hefty dowry in exchange for their service, and I’ve always hated the entire notion of it. I never dreamed I’d ever be a part of it, let alone a chosen Consort, it’s so asinine and?—

“Your wrist,” Alaric hisses in a low, gruff whisper, startling me from my thoughts. I glance up and from the expectant look on the Magister’s face, I realize that he’s asked for my hand already, probably more than once.

“Fuck,” I mutter quietly and the Magister’s eyes widen in surprise. I bite my lip, forgetting myself as usual. Noble girls don’t curse. Or drink. Or dance on the bar tops in taverns. Or do anything fun, from what I can tell, honestly. I think I see Alaric’s lips twitch ever so slightly, as if amused, but his stoic look is back in place again so quickly, that I decide I must have imagined it. I take a deep breath and raise my hand, and almost quicker thanI can track, the Magister slices my wrist with a beautiful dagger, the blade inlaid with golden script in a language that I can’t read, and the hilt bejeweled with rubies, their color only a few shades darker than the blood welling from the cut on my skin. I gasp, more from surprise than pain really, and the Magister tilts my hand so that the blood drips into a small crystal goblet. He hands it to an attendant and Alaric proffers his own wrist.

My stomach churns as the Magister repeats the process, slicing Alaric’s wrist and capturing the blood in an identical goblet, though Alaric shows no reaction whatsoever. I’d nearly forgotten this part of the ceremony. Admittedly, I hadn’t paid all that much attention to the particulars when I’d been forced to learn the etiquette and what was to be expected of me during the Choosing. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d actually be selected. There was no need to know what happened after the Consort was chosen—it would never be me.

But now, as the Magister hands me the goblet of Alaric’s blood, and him the goblet of mine, I remember: we are to exchange blood, this one time, to bind us together. The thought of drinking blood makes bile rise in my throat, but I force it away. It won’t do well to toss my breakfast all over the Magister’s fine robes—though it may be fairly comical, I have to admit.

“And now, with the exchanging of blood, the prince and his chosen Consort shall be bound, now until one shall perish.”

I hesitate. I stare at the glass, the liquid within so dark it’s nearly black.Just do it. Just get it over with.I inhale deeply and then bring the goblet to my lips. I toss the contents back, like I might a bit of whisky, and squeeze my eyes shut, expecting it to be horrid. It’s salty and metallic, but something else stirs beneath that, something that slams into me like a fist to the chest. Power. Strength. Endless knowledge and life eternal. I gasp quietly as it surges through my veins like fire, but it isn’t a fire that consumes and destroys. It’s a fire that tempersand forges something new, something better and stronger and dangerous. I feel almost drunk with the flare of power, nearly toppling. It ebbs finally, but I can feel the shadows of the fire still thrumming through my veins, like the smoldering coals left after the flames have died out.

When I pry my eyes open once more, Alaric is pulling his gaze away from me and handing his now-empty goblet back to the Magister. His body looks as if it’s been carved from stone, every muscle tight and rigid, his jaw clenched so hard I think it might shatter at any moment, but his eyes seem to beburning, the irises churning like liquid gold.

“Alaric Montclare, you have Chosen. Dahlia Clayburn, you have been Chosen. You are bound.”

With that, every vampire in the gallery above bows their heads, a sign of acceptance of me as one of their own, as a member of the Montclare Clan, as a Lady of the Coven of the Wolf.

As Alaric’s Consort.

Fuck.

Chapter 3

ALARIC

I’m not quite sure what to make of all that has transpired this day. It hasn’t turned out at all as I’d been expecting. Or dreading, rather, I suppose. I still can’t believe that I’d actually been forced to take part in the ridiculous ceremony at all, after two hundred years of avoiding it, but what had happened during it was…interesting to say the least.

The entire palace had been a flurry of activity since the moment I arrived, and I immediately felt as if I were suffocating. I missed the crisp, biting air of the mountains, I missed the rolling hills and the roar of the river and the smell of the snow far in the distance. It had been good to see my siblings—most of them, anyway—but if I were congratulated one more time for “finally becoming a real Montclare” I was going to start cutting off limbs. Ahmed especially seemed to delight in my misfortune, grinning like a snake behind his wine glass and reminding me all over again why he’s my least favorite brother.

I’d been forced into formal attire (which I hate), been told to leave my weapons in my chambers (which I despise), and one of my sisters had been chasing me around all morning hellbent on taming my hair (which is entirely impossible). Ever the brilliantmilitary tactician, I’d evaded her, of course, but when Fiona gets something in her head, she’s a determined little devil. The two of us are only a few months apart in age, but she constantly likes to remind me that she’s older. I love her more than most anything else in this world, but I refuse to be treated like a doll. So, I’d ducked into a hidden corridor in an attempt to escape the madness and, admittedly, hide until the cursed ceremony began.

I walked along the hallway, trailing my fingers along the cold, rough stone, smiling faintly at the remnants of the places where I painted on the walls when I’d found this hiding place as a child. Voices flitted to my ears and I ground my teeth in annoyance, realizing too late that this corridor ran behind the smaller ballroom that was used as the preparation area for the Potentials.

“Fucking perfect,” I’d groaned as I continued on, listening to the inane chatter.

“You must be chosen, Halda. Your father’s gambling…well, you justmust.”

“Lace your corset tighter. That’s it.”

“Is this truly hisfirstbride?”

“Drink this. The glendine root brings the blood to the surface. It will attract his attention.”

I rolled my eyes and my fangs slid out in irritation. I hurried along the corridor, wanting to get away from these humans as quickly as possible. They were all vapid and spoiled, trained to be Consorts since birth and look down their noses at nearly everyone—and I can’t stand the lot of them. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve chosen the life I have. I prefer blood and battle over…well, pretty much everything else, but definitely over high society bullshit. I’d hated having to attend balls and soirees as a child, even then hating how the Consorts acted to everyone around them, hating the idea of someday having to take one of my own.

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