Page 17 of The Blood that Binds Us

You’ve already shown me you aren’t willing to do what it takes.

I hate him for being right. I hate myself forallowinghim to be right. If I was sure I could remain in control, that I wouldn’t fade away as the bloodwitch crawled out from the ruinous depths of my collective, I would have never been taken by Legion, and certainly never rotting away in a subterranean cell beneath Sin’s feet.

River pulls the final strings tight, and with a quick fluff of the dress’s skirts, she steps aside and clasps her hands together under her chin, admiring her work.

“How in the gods’ names did you make this happen?” The annoyance in my voice isn’t because her work is poor quality, but rather, the opposite.I look like one of them.

“You and Sin aren’t the only ones with magic up your sleeves,” she says with a wink. “Now that my most important job is done, I need to get downstairs and make sure the girls didn’t let any details slip through the cracks. These balls are quite important to His Grace.” River tucks the cosmetics and hair styling tools she brought with her into her basket and leaves, sucking all the comfort from the room when she does. River may be mundane, but her ability to make others feel at ease, even one of Sin’s prisoners, is a skill not even the most advanced of mages could replicate.

With a final look in the mirror, I pull my shoulders back and sharpen my gaze. Violence may be my least preferred means of escape, but I need to look the opposite in front of Sin. Lifting my chin and molding my features into marble, I appear strong. Fierce. And definitely capable of punching a dagger through his eye. I run my hands over my waist, admiring how the corset River tightened draws attention to other parts of me that are inherently feminine. And with that final touch of confidence, I drop my hands to my side and march out of the room.

* * *

The foyer that was brimming with violence just a few nights ago now bubbles with ladies dressed in lavish gowns and men tailored in fine coats. Decorative cloths of deep burgundy run along the wide-stretched tables, almost hidden under the silver platters offering assorted cheeses and fruits, and others adorned with glasses of spiced wine. Wrapped around the towering archways are flowers of vermilion red, their vibrant petals the only reminder of the Legion blood that coated the floor beneath them just days before. I follow the beckoning of stringed instruments that leads me to a set of already propped open doors, and beyond them, the castle’s ballroom.

The room is a storm of color and dance. Women’s skirts, sewn from the fabrics only available at elite modiste shops, whirl around the room as the musicians signal the next partner dance is about to begin. A glorious gold chandelier dripping with crystal accents hovers above the center floor, where men are lining up on one side, and women the other. I recognize no one in the sea of cosmetic painted faces. These are the lords and ladies from high-ranking families—families that live in Blackreach—and ultimately serve the kingdom. More tables presenting an array of foods—meat tarts, mushroom pastries, and flaky pies overflowing with a brilliant pink-red filling resembling rhubarb stretch across the perimeter of the room.

I move through the throng of bodies, some swaying to the music, others gathered in small groups. The indistinct chatter of politics and potential marriages and dowries nests in my ears until the clinking of silver against glass calls my attention to the far side of the room.

There, Dusaro stands on top of the dais, holding his glass of mead above his head as if saluting the gods. The crowd quiets as he begins to address the room. “Our beloved guests—nothing brings me greater joy than to be here, amongst the greatest and mightiest families of Aegidale. To celebrate together the great fortunes to grace our land under the fine leadership of my son and his beautiful Hand.”

His beautiful Hand.

I offer up a silent thanks to whichever god or goddess is looking out for my old friend, though I’m certainshedoesn’t consider us friends anymore. The mass of lords and ladies to my right steps backwards and bow in synchronized unison as Sin and Ileana walk with rehearsed grace to replace Dusaro on the dais.

Despite Ileana’s mundane nature, she looks equally as powerful standing next to the Black Art. Her warm sepia skin is as clear and bright as daybreak, her angular face framed by a long mane of thick raven curls that hang to her waist. Her delicate brown shoulders peek through her thin-strapped dress, the color like melted steel with deep blue beading along the neckline. The beaded accents glimmer like tumbled gemstones, and I instinctively run a hand along my neck as the image of Cosmina’s sapphire necklace that was a staple to every outfit she wore prances through my mind.

Ileana smiles at the crowd, warmth and softness replacing the daggers she once stowed in those dark brown eyes. At her side, Sin wears a long-sleeved burgundy surcoat with gold threadwork along the shoulders and neckline, and fitted black pants. His usual unbound hair is tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and he mirrors her smile, his emerald eyes bright with excitement. Looking at him now, fitted in his formal wear and his militant paws not wrapped around my throat, he looks…good.

Sin takes a step forward, and the last of the excited whispers fall silent. “Tonight… isn’t about negotiations. It isn’t about war or winning or sacrifice. Tonight, is for your families and mine, honoring those we love and will protect at all costs. Now, raise your glasses with me to a better and safer tomorrow.”

A mural of goblets fly into the air with shouts of ‘to a better and safer tomorrow’ as the noble men and women bid their toasts and drink their wine. It takes all my self-restraint to not knock the glass away from the lord pulling a deep sip of his mead at my side. While transcendents dip their heads as they hurry from one dimly lit alley to the next, lords wear their fancy coats and make toasts in fortified castles promising their extinction. Disgusting.

Sin and Ileana step down from the platform and are instantly swallowed in a circle of eager townsmen intent on bending their ears, probably pitching more ideas on how to eradicate the shifterproblem. I uncurl my fingers, not having realized my hands balled into fists, and move to a less crowded part of the room, near one of the striking white pillars.

With a steadying breath, I force my face to relax and fix it with one of casual interest as I scan the room, flexing my collective away from me. A chorus of emotions invade me. Scattered notes of intention and feeling—pride and joy and lust—dance through me as the hymn of their collective energies prod at me with their melodic songs. Gluttonous desires that fill my mind with thoughts of balmy summer nights and tangled sheets tear through me like a violent wind. My eyes sting with greed, images of crown jewels and golden trinkets prance before my eyes, invisible to all but me. Something sweet like gardenias laced in vanilla beckons to my nose as thoughts of corseted gowns and ripe bosoms wrestle for my focus. Tilting my head to the side, I casually press two fingers to my temple, steering my collective through the room, listening for anything reminiscent of betrayal. I continue to scan, toread…beauty, coin, the tranquility of rainy evenings spent indoors—

“Evening,” says a male who sidled up next to me.

I jump, my collective snapping back to its place behind my eye, and my hand smacks against my chest with an audible thwack. A young man with wavy chestnut hair and a matching well-groomed beard grins widely at me. A second too long passes before I remember to force a smile back.

“Bennett Langston. My apologies, my Lady—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Wren. Lovely to meet you, my Lord,” I say, extending my hand.

He grasps it firmly in both of his and raises it to his lips. “Bennett,” he corrects and kisses the backs of my knuckles.

If I wasn’t so determined to play my part well, I may have vomited on his leather shoes which have been shined to a mirror finish. But like the good lady I am, I offer a polite smile and drop my hand back to my side.

“Why don’t I recognize you?” Bennett asks.

“I’m only visiting Blackreach, so I’m afraid I don’t know many faces. His Grace and I are old friends.”

“Well, our mutual friend sure knows how to host a ball.” He leans in closer and extends his hand, eagerness sparkling in his deep blue eyes. “May I have the next dance?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’d embarrass myself and you,” I lie. My father was an excellent musician and taught me most of the partner dances when I was a girl. Dancing is one of my favorite pastimes. Or so, it used to be.

“Spare me one whirl on the floor, and if you deem me bloody incompetent on my feet, I’ll never ask for another one again.” He waves me forward, dipping his head slightly to meet my eyes.

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