Page 53 of The Surrender

A long coat much like Drago’s but without the flame elements. More cape-like, the coat fits looser. With the collar popped, it echoes a standing collar of vampiric fashion. The kind in those dusty vampiric books my father hated me reading.

The vampire’s blood-red tie, silver chains arcing from the base vest buttons, and elaborate silver belt are flawless pieces to the black fabric elements. The silver buckles fastened to each side of his breeches would warn any assailants from disrespecting him by raising a cross to the vampire.

“Come, Quinny,” Kyan interjects and brushes his knuckles upon my bare waist, sending a shiver up my spine. “It’s time to introduce my Queen of the Court of Storms. And announce the life growing within you that will serve as a beacon of hope for the entire world of the Waste.”

When the Lord of the Court of Storms extends his arm, I coil mine around his, swearing my heart must grow feathers with how light it feels. But just as we progress into the hall with the three Kings flanking us, memories of the last ball return to me. Along with a sudden surge of adrenaline in my nerve endings.

While I can’t be certain if it’s from fear or thrill—probably both—, I still find my voice to ask, “Will there be orgies at this ball?”

Drago snorts behind us. Mayce chuffs a laugh. Merikh simply grunts.

Brows tapering to cast shadows around the blue serenity, Kyan shakes his head. “No orgies in my court, my Queen. Unlike the salacious Fae and dragon race, angels still bear an age-old sense of nobility. And propriety,” he emphasizes, jutting his nose toward Drago and his partner. Both shrug.

“And vampires?”

Kyan stiffens as his partner touches my other elbow, casting chilled goosebumps all over my bare skin. “When you are revealed to my court in all your glory, Quintessa, there will be no dispute as to who owns you.”

While it may not exactly answer my question, the glimmer of bloodlust in his calamitous black eyes is enough to silence any more questions. But it could never silence the host of fantasies playing out in my mind.

35

Remember to breathe, Quintessa.

QUINTESSA

When you spend your life as a half-ghost with no sense of touch and a pariah among your family and homeland—with only a voiceless shadow who tries to kill you once a year for company—. it makes experiences like this overwhelmingly, breathtakingly, heart-splittingly beautiful.

Everything about Kyan’s Court is macabre but enchanting. Dark and ethereal. A mere echo of the courts of his realm. Chills sweep through me the more I study the surroundings, which are nothing like Drago’s Court of Ash but equally as cursed and disturbing. And yet, otherworldly in their beauty.

It’s not the broken crosses decorating the Court that send ice crystalizing my blood. Not the grandiose arched stained glass depicting angels with their celestial and sacred features twisted into perversions. Or the two great cages on each side of the dais where the four great thrones sit.

It's the eyes. Scarlet-scrawled eyes upon the walls, the pillars, the glass, the floor. And every last one is closed—crying tears like blood.

Merikh breathes a deeper chill across the side of my bare neck to confirm, "Blood, little dove.”

Questions scramble through my thoughts of what the closed eyes represent. I also notice ten pillars, five on each side, hold the foundation of the Court of Storms. And lead directly to the dais. While I haven’t learned the specifics of the number, it must be significant since Eyn-Amaru marked my brow with the ten-pointed star.

Last but not least, the villagers, the hundreds of villagers, so many holding babies, are the most beautiful sight. Dizzy at the sight of them kneeling with the arrival of the Kings, I touch the base of my bodice to steady myself. Remember to breathe, Quintessa.

My hands turn clammy with my nerves, especially considering my monsters have donned their masks. It makes me more aware of the eyes scrutinizing me. And expressions of chagrin, contempt, annoyance, and more. As if the celebration Kyan has arranged tonight is far more a feast of woe.

He offers no explanations. I shrink closer to him as he leads me up the dais and to his throne, which is the foremost one. Swallowing a fearful gulp because he doesn’t sit but faces the assembly, bidding them to rise, I lower my chin. Too intimidated by all those contemptuous gazes. One, alone, is familiar. So, I turn my eyes to Zephella. Her expression is stoic, which is far preferable to the cold storm of the others.

I guess it was too much to hope that the baby I saved through my blood-binding would be enough to win their hearts.

Kyan shifts until I stand before him. Terror bolts up my spine because the gasps and shrieking protests all over the Court of Storms assure me this is a grievous injustice. A tremor shudders through me. The dizziness swells, and I worry I might dry heave. But Kyan’s hands touch my waist, sliding slowly, tenderly, excruciatingly to cup the small swell in a precursory announcement. And wings begin a slow, subtle ruffling.

“My people! Even as you have tested her, judged her, and scorned her, the purity of the life growing inside her is a testimony to the redemption of the past. And not a repeat. If any have cause to treat my Queen with anything less than the honor she is due, I will hear your protests as I fly you to the highest mountaintop in the Waste. And with my fullest assurance of mind and heart, I will throw you off its peak.”

Rippled murmurs of awe, of wonder erupt through the Court. And finally, reverence. My own mirrors theirs when countless citizens curve their wings toward me and bow their heads. Mothers bearing babies, rise and approach the dais to present their newborns.

As tears burn in my throat, Kyan leans closer to hum in my ear, “It would be rude to reject this form of a gift, my Queen.”

My heart catapults in my chest. My skin breaks out in warm tingles.

I dare to stray from Kyan’s arms to descend the steps of the dais to greet the mothers gathering to offer me a closer look at their babies. And perhaps...more?

36

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