He didn’t even stir when I approached. Nor did he move when I took my dagger and plunged it into his chest—pushing hard until the cartilage cracked, pushing until the blade pierced his heart.
Then, his eyes finally snapped open.
Good.
I liked to watch it when they realized death was coming for them. This one pissed himself when he went. I pulled him close, caressed his face with my red-stained hands, and made sure Ilana’s blood marked him as I let him slump down in a puddle of his own cowardice.
I had never despised my humanity so much. The weakness had been Ilana’s death sentence. We were so fragile, so weak, that even this piece of shit vampire wiped out a whole life as if it meant nothing.
My hands shook. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, numb and distant, as if my rage and grief bubbled beneath a sheet of ice on the brink of shattering.
I returned to Ilana and fished through her pockets. First, I pulled out a familiar balled-up scarf of purple silk. I stared at it, fighting a lump in my throat, before tucking it into my own pack. Then I returned for her box of matches. She never went anywhere without them.
Her body was so dry, skin so papery. She burned easily, accepting the flame like another brightly colored silk.
I left her on that balcony and went back downstairs to the greenhouse. The Moon Palace was dark, the open air of the great room rising all the way up to the top. The fire lit all of it. In the greenhouse, I drew my knees to my chest and watched that glow flicker beyond the double doors, as my friend burned and burned and burned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Come nightfall, a call rang out through the halls of the Moon Palace—three melancholy notes of Nyaxia’s hymn. At the sound, I peered through the foliage to see a single, smoky thread of shadow leading through the greenhouse to the door and into the hallway beyond.
The message was obvious: I was being summoned.
My eyes were sandy and my joints aching when I rose and followed. Ilana’s bloodless, torn-up face still lingered behind every blink. I had clutched that purple scarf all night, the blood from my wounded hand soaking the silk.
I didn’t cry. No. I was fucking furious. Sadness was a futile, weak emotion. At least anger was useful—a sharp edge to cut another’s heart, or a hard shell to protect your own.
The thread of shadow grew thicker as more streaks joined the main corridor. The summons had been sent, it seemed, to every contestant who had survived the previous night. The Moon Palace was not pitch dark as it had been before. Now, warm light rippled over the hall, emanating from the torches lining the walls and the candles that floated above us in the vaulted ceilings. As I walked, I watched that light shiver over the not-quite-smooth mosaic tile and felt foolish when I realized what I hadn’t during the day: the floors were made of shattered bone and teeth.
The group of us grew larger as we moved down the hallway, more and more joining with each turn or doorway we passed. We sized each other up silently. By the time we reached our destination—the great room—there were, by my rough estimation, about fifty contestants. Most were clearly members of the House of Night—an even split between Hiaj and Rishan, based on those who had their wings out—but I counted about ten members of the House of Blood, and fifteen or so members of the House of Shadow. Some looked around anxiously. Sizing up their competition? Or searching for someone who was missing?
How many of us had died last night?
Most ignored each other, though the Bloodborn vampires remained close together in one tight pack. That made sense, I supposed. No one else would have them. I eyed the woman at the center of their group. She was taller than all the others. Her armor left her shoulders bare, revealing impressively cut muscles. Her hair hung in a long silver braid down her back. She had to be their leader, judging by how the others deferred to her.
I hung back, watching my competition with a lump in my throat. I’d spent my entire life trying to avoid being in this situation: trapped with powerful vampire warriors twice my size.
Across the room, Ibrihim caught my gaze. He gave me a grim, humorless almost-smile, as if maybe he knew we were both thinking the same thing.
On the balcony, a tall, thin man with a bald head and wan skin stretched tight over his skull regarded us. He wore simple black robes and a sash across his body that bore three sigils: a moon, a mask, and a weeping woman—the symbols of the three kingdoms of Nyaxia. The church was independent of the three vampire houses, operating across all Nyaxia’s subjects as a nebulously powerful and mysterious force. Most powerful and mysterious of all was the Ministaer himself, who was said to not even be a living being anymore, but merely a flesh-vessel for Nyaxia’s will.
This, to me, sounded like bullshit.
It was impossible to follow the Ministaer’s gaze—his eyes were solid milky-white, with no iris or pupil—but his chin lowered, and I couldn’t shake the skin-crawling sense that he looked directly at me.
I met that stare without flinching, even though I wanted to shudder and look away.
The Ministaer didn’t especially seem like the embodiment of a god. He mostly seemed like a lecherous old man. I’d met him a few times at various religious feasts. No matter how big the crowd, he was always far, far too interested in me. After one night when he practically trapped me in a corner when I was thirteen years old, Vincent never left my side when he was in my presence ever again.
If Nyaxia needed a flesh-vessel—which she probably didn’t—this one didn’t seem like a wise choice.
Several other acolytes joined the Ministaer on the balcony to his right, and to his left was the leadership of the House of Night—Vincent and his Cabinet. He wore a long, dark cloak embroidered with silver stars. His wings were on display, the threads of red stark against the black, and he even exposed his Heir Mark, leaving several buttons at the top of his jacket undone to reveal the swirls of red ink on his throat.
The intent would not be lost on anyone here. Simply revealing his wings and his Mark served as a warning: I am stronger than any of you. I stood where you stood, and I won.
It was odd to see Vincent flaunting his power so brazenly, but maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising. Rulers of the House of Night often killed the Kejari’s victors. Anyone that strong was inherently a threat. And as I looked around the room, so many of these bloodthirsty warriors stared at Vincent with such lustful hate.
I felt a bit naive for not realizing earlier Vincent’s other selfish reason for encouraging me to enter the Kejari: if I won, it meant these people wouldn’t. And there was absolutely no one in this world—not a single soul—that Vincent trusted, except for me.
The Ministaer cleared his throat, and an eerie hush fell over the room.
“Welcome,” the Ministaer said, “to the Kejari, the greatest honor in the name of our lady Nyaxia, Mother of the Ravenous Dark, Womb of Night, of Shadow, of Blood. In her name, I thank you for the offering of your presence. Aja saraeta.”
“Aja saraeta.” The echoing prayer rose from the contestants in a misty murmur.
“I have overseen twenty-one Kejaris, now,” he went on. “Two thousand years of tribute to our Mother of the Ravenous Dark. And every time, this eve is the one that is the most meaningful. Such possibility. Such potential.”
A too-long silence as he surveyed us. Then: “You have survived the initial call, and the initial cull. At sundown tomorrow, the Kejari officially begins. It will continue for the next four months. When you made your oaths, you gave our Dark Mother your life. You gave her your blood. You gave her your soul. And she shall keep all three. Even if you survive the trials, a part of you shall always belong to her. Aja saraeta.”
