When I was younger, I had once asked him why he didn’t leave it visible more often. He’d just given me a serious stare and blandly remarked that it was unwise to leave one’s throat exposed.

That answer shouldn’t have surprised me. Vincent was well aware that usurpers lurked around every corner, both outside his walls and within them. Every new king, Hiaj or Rishan, was crowned upon a mountain of corpses. He had been no exception.

I turned away from the painting, just as he said softly, “It’s nearing a full moon. You should have a few more days, but it could begin any time. You need to be ready.”

I swallowed another gulp of water. Still, my mouth tasted ashy. “I know.”

“The start could be anything. She likes it to be… unexpected.”

She. Mother of night, shadow, blood—mother of all vampires. The goddess, Nyaxia.

At any moment, she could trigger the start of the once-in-a-century tribute that the House of Night staged in her honor. A savage tournament of five trials over four months, resulting in only one winner, and granting the most precious prize the world has ever known: a single gift from the Goddess herself.

Vampires from across Obitraes would travel to participate in the Kejari, drawn by the promise of wealth or honor. Dozens of the most powerful warriors from all three houses—the House of Night, the House of Shadow, and the House of Blood—would die in pursuit of this title.

And, most likely, so would I.

But they were fighting for power. I was fighting for survival.

Vincent and I both turned to each other at the same time. He was always pale, his skin nearly matching his silver eyes, but now he seemed a downright sickly shade.

His fear made my own unbearable, but I fought it down with a promise. No. I had trained my entire life for this. I would survive the Kejari. I would win it.

Just like Vincent had before me, two hundred years ago.

He cleared his throat, straightening. “Go change into something decent. We’re going to look at your competition.”

CHAPTER THREE

Vincent had said this was a feast to welcome travelers to the House of Night ahead of the start of the Kejari. But that was an understatement. The event wasn’t a “feast” so much as it was a display of shameless, exuberant gluttony.

Well, that was fitting, wasn’t it? The Kejari only happened once every hundred years, and hosting it was the House of Night’s greatest honor. During the tournament, Sivrinaj welcomed guests from every corner of Obitraes, including all three Houses. It was an important diplomatic event, especially for nobles from the House of Night and House of Shadow. No one was quite as eager for a visit from the House of Blood—there was a reason why none of the Bloodborn had been invited to this event—but Vincent would never pass on the opportunity to peacock before the rest of vampire high society.

I came to this part of the castle so rarely that I had forgotten just how striking it was. The ceiling was a high dome of stained glass, gold-dyed stars scattered across cerulean blue. The moonlight spilling through it danced over the crowd in whorls. Half a dozen long tables had been set, now holding only the remnants of what had certainly, hours ago, been an incredible banquet. Vampires enjoyed all forms of food for pleasure, though blood—human, vampire, or animal—was necessary for their survival. The food still sat, long cold, on the tables, while the blood dotted plates and tablecloths in dribbles and spatters of drying crimson.

I thought of the wounds on Ilana’s throat and wrist and wondered which stains were hers.

“Everyone already ate.” Vincent offered me his arm, and I took it. He put me between himself and the wall. Everything about his demeanor was coolly casual, but I knew this was a very intentional decision—the arm, and my placement. The former reminded the rest of the room that I was his daughter. The latter physically protected me from anyone who might, in bloodlust, make an impulsive decision they’d regret.

Vincent didn’t usually allow me to these types of events—for obvious reasons. He and I both understood that a human in a ballroom of hungry vampires was a bad idea for everyone involved. On the rare occasions that I did go out into vampiric society, I attracted flagrant attention. Today was no exception. All stares fell to him as he entered. And then they shifted to me.

My jaw locked and muscles stiffened.

Everything about that felt wrong. To be so visible. To have so many potential threats to watch.

With dinner done, most had moved to the dance floor, a hundred or so guests milling about dancing or gossiping as they sipped glasses of red wine—or blood. I recognized the familiar faces of Vincent’s court, but there were also plenty of foreigners. Those from the House of Shadow wore heavy, tight-fitting clothing, the women adorned in corsets and clingy, velvety gowns, the men donned in stiff, minimalist jackets—all very different from the House of Night’s flowing silks. I also saw a few unfamiliar faces from the House of Night’s outer reaches, people who lived not in the inner city but perhaps lorded over districts far to the west of the deserts, or in the House of Night’s island territories in the Bone Seas.

“I’ve been watching for bandages.” Vincent ducked his head and spoke quietly to me, low enough that no one else could hear. “Some have already made their blood gift.”

To Nyaxia—to signal their entry into the Kejari. My opponents.

“Lord Ravinthe.” He nodded to an ashy-haired man locked in enthusiastic conversation across the ballroom. During one of his gesticulations, I caught a flash of white on his hand—black-red soaked fabric, covering a wound.

“I fought with him long ago,” Vincent said. “His right knee is bad. He hides it well, but it pains him greatly.”

I nodded and carefully filed this information away as Vincent continued to take me around the room. Maybe to someone who wasn’t paying attention, we might have looked like we were just taking a leisurely walk, but with every step, he pointed out other contestants, telling me all he knew about their background or weaknesses.

A slight, fair-haired Shadowborn woman with sharp features.

“Kiretta Thann. I met her long ago. She’s a weak swordswoman but a strong magician. Guard your thoughts around her.”

A thick, tall man whose eyes had immediately found me the moment we entered the room.

“Biron Imanti. The worst bloodlust I’ve ever seen.” Vincent’s lip curled in disgust. “He’ll go after you, but he will be so stupid about it that it should be easy for you to use that against him.”

We finished one lap about the ballroom and started another. “I saw a few others. Ibrihim Cain. And—”

“Ibrihim?”

Vincent’s brow twitched. “Many will enter the Kejari solely because they feel they have no other option.”

I found Ibrihim across the room. He was a young vampire, barely older than I, with an unusually meek demeanor. As if he could feel my stare, his gaze flicked to me from beneath a mop of curly black hair. He gave me a weak smile, revealing mutilated gums jarringly absent of canine teeth. Beside him was his mother, a woman as brutally aggressive as her son was quiet—and the source of his wounds.

It was a story too common to be tragic. About ten years ago, when Ibrihim was on the cusp of adulthood, his parents had pinned him down, removed his teeth, and hobbled his left leg. I had been thirteen or so when it happened. Ibrihim’s face had been a mess of swollen, bruised flesh. Unrecognizable. I had been horrified, and I didn’t understand why Vincent wasn’t.

What I didn’t realize then was that vampires lived in constant fear of their own family. Immortality made succession a bloody, bloody business. Even Vincent had murdered his parents—and three siblings—to gain his title. Vampires killed their parents for power, then crippled their own children to keep them from doing the same. It satisfied their egos in the present and secured the future. Their line would continue… but not a moment before they were ready for it.