Page 43 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
“The castle is warded.”
“Yes. I cannot shadow jump in and out. Like this castle, there are spells guarding against it. And, well, you are betraying your uncle. If things go sideways, I want to be prepared.”
Her stomach twisted. “In case I die, you want to know how to get out.”
A slow, evil smile graced his lips. He shoved the crystal ball closer. “Show me.”
He might betray her, take the scepter, and leave her to die. But this was her bargain. She’d sworn to help him retrieve the scepter to the best of her ability, and this counted as helping. If she refused, she’d be breaking the bargain and die anyway.
With a low growl, she strode to the table and pressed her palm against the icy surface of the crystal ball.
The world dissolved and reformed around them. She and Zarathos stood before a massive gray-stone castle, its jagged spires and sweeping flying buttresses lending it a grim, ancient grandeur.Only a handful of narrow, elongated windows pierced the fortress’s cold façade.
“Vampires. So ostentatious,” Zarathos muttered.
She snorted. “Is that what you think of me?”
“Most decidedly not,” he said thoughtfully. “You are a finely honed blade, precise and unrelenting, striking straight at the heart of your enemies.”
Aryana wasn’t sure how to interpret that. She glanced over at him. His dark expression studying the castle. “What kind of demon are you?”
He cast her a startled glance. “I’m abaddon, like my father.”
“I see those features, but there is something else, something that is… different and your blood tastes—”
“Watch your tongue.” His snarl was soft and his eyes sparked dangerously. “If you know what is good for you, Vampress, you will not say things so wholly false. I am abaddon and nothing else.”
She understood this playbook. Her uncle had used it on her so many times. “Threats won’t stop me from asking. It’s only going to make me think you have a secret to hide.”
“What do you understand about demons, little vampire princess?” Zarathos’s voice was gruff and condescending. “You’ve spent your entire life in a castle among your own kind. What makes you presume you can claim expertise in an area you’re so painfully naïve about? Even the most ignorant demon would look on with contempt at your presumption.”
She flinched, but she took a slow breath. “Making me feel dumb and embarrassed also isn’t going to work. From what yourfather—”
“Drop it, Aryana.” His eyes flashed with fury, and a spark of worry filled her. What was she doing? He may need her now, but after retrieving the scepter, she was still bound to him. Pushing him might only make him decide she was too much of a liability later and conclude that she needed to go.
She nodded and turned toward the doors. At her thought, they burst open, revealing a stone hallway, carpeted in velvet.
Zarathos looked pleased he’d gotten his way. “Show me the path you will take when you return, then to the scepter, and then the fastest route to exit.”
Her heart sank. The fastest route to leave her behind.
They stepped into the palace’s hallway, its arched ceilings soaring several stories high, casting an air of grandeur over the entrance. Blood-red velvet rugs lined the floor, leading to a sweeping staircase flanked by large carved gargoyles. Standing candelabras, bristling with glowing candles, cast flickering light into the natural gloom, while extended, heavy black curtains were drawn tight across every window.
As she moved forward, her breaths grew shallow. Once, a long time ago, this place felt like home, but for years lately, it had been nothing but a prison.
“First, I’ll be taken to see my uncle, who most likely will be in the throne room.” She led him up the staircase to a pair of large doors carved in deep reds and golds. With a push, they creaked open, and she watched as Zarathos stepped inside without hesitation. Blood stained the floor in several places, left that way on purpose. Alongthe far wall hung her uncle’s maps, surrounded by a twisted shrine of impaled dolls.
She paused in the doorway, gaze fixed on the empty throne. A high-backed ebony chair stood before them, cruel spikes lining its top edge, and a large carved lion’s head with ruby eyes glaring out in silent menace. Her uncle’s throne.
The one that was meant to be hers, but had always truly belonged to Raydin.
And yet, she was bound to Zarathos now. He settled into the throne, looking a little too comfortable, and gazed around the spacious room. With a start, she realized that, with or without the scepter, their Bloodbinding had given him a claim to the vampire crown.
There was an arrogance in his expression when their eyes locked, and a vicious smile curled on his lips, as if he understood precisely what she was thinking. She turned away, a chill running down her spine. Her hands tightened into fists as she fought to steady her breath. In her mind, it had always ended with her killing Zarathos and claiming his throne, not the other way around.
Her teeth sank into her lip, and she glanced back at him. “Then, after Uncle interrogates me, I will most likely be sent to my bedchamber to rest from myhorrifyingordeal of being kidnapped and imprisoned.”
His dark grin stretched wider. And he rose from the king’s chair to follow her out of the throne room. They went up another flight of stairs, where they came to her private bedchamber. She hesitated at the entrance, a strange unease flowing through her at the thoughtof letting him into her personal space, even only mentally. Still, she pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
