But when we grew closer to Lahor, those smooth waves of gold were shattered by sudden gashes of broken stone. First a couple, then more and more as the hours passed, until the ground below us looked like distant crumpled parchment—all hard angles and sharp edges, cut through only by a single road. No movement below from other travelers, only distant roving packs of hellhounds and demons.

Lahor was that kind of place. The kind of place that the world just moved on without.

No one had much of a reason to come here. Except for us.

When we landed, Oraya made a face of such abject disgust, I wished I could capture it and keep it for the next time I didn’t have words to describe how much I hated something.

“Impressed with your ancestral homeland, princess?” I said.

The wrinkle over her nose deepened. “What is that smell?”

“Viprus weed. It grows on the cliffs near the water here,” I said. “It spreads quick and then rots as soon as it touches air, so whenever the tide goes out—”

“Ugh.” Mische made a sound like a cat hacking up a hairball. “Gross.”

“Would be even worse if you could see it. Looks like entrails. And then it shrivels up like—”

“Oh, I get it.”

“You’ve been here before?” Oraya said.

I shot her a little smirk. “I’ve been everywhere.”

“Aren’t we lucky to have a world traveler as our guide,” Septimus said. He was smoking, of course. His horse, a big white beast with pink-rimmed eyes, snorted and shook its head—as if just as offended by the stench as we were.

He looked up at the gates ahead of us. “Looks like a beautiful city.”

The words dripped with sarcasm. Earned sarcasm.

Maybe once, a very long time ago, Lahor had been a beautiful place. With a very active imagination, you could maybe see the ghost of what once stood here. Obitraes was an old, old continent—far older than Nyaxia’s patronage and far older than vampirism.

Lahor, though, actually looked it. Now it was little more than ruins.

The wall that stood before us was formidable, perhaps the only well-maintained part of this city. Black onyx, stretching high above us and out to either side. The skyline beyond the wall, though… it was what bones were to bodies. What had once been buildings were now jagged spires of shattered stone, the mere suggestion of architecture—towers cracked and leaning on uneven piles of stone. The only lights upon this skyline were distant, wild flames along the jagged peaks of a few of the tallest, broken spires.

The towering onyx doors before us remained firmly closed.

“How quaint,” Septimus said.

“Quaint,” Ketura echoed, eyeing the road behind us—and the packs of hellhounds yipping and howling not far from us. It was rare that so many of these beasts would come so close to a town. More evidence that Evelaena was not doing much to maintain her homeland.

“So now what?” Oraya said, turning to the door. “We knock?”

“It’s your cousin, princess. You tell us.”

Evelaena knew we were coming. Oraya and I had penned a letter to her before we left, announcing our visit—a tour of all notable vampire nobles in the House of Night. Cairis had heaped sickening amounts of flattery into it. We’d ensured that she had received it, but we’d gotten no response.

That didn’t surprise me. Even my own nobles weren’t especially inclined to return my letters.

I jerked my chin towards Septimus’s companions. “You think you can take down this wall?”

“I hope you’re joking,” Ketura muttered. “Stupidest idea.”

I was half joking.

Oraya had slowly approached the door, staring up at it. Something about the expression on her face made me pause. I approached her.

“What?” I asked, softly.

“It just feels… strange here.”

She lifted her palm, as if to lay it against the door—

And then a deafening grinding rang out as the stone swung open. The sound was hideous, squealing and cracking, as if the gate protested moving at all after decades or centuries.

The curtains of stone darkness parted, and Lahor spread out before us. It was even worse than it had seemed in silhouette—the road ahead nothing but slabs of broken stone, every building half-open and crumbling, every window nothing but broken shards of glass.

Standing before us was a boy, no older than sixteen at most. He wore a long purple jacket that didn’t fit him well, once fine but now several hundred years out of style. Waves of pale blond hair framed a delicate face and wide, empty ice-blue eyes. Those eyes seemed to stare through us, not at us. And then, just as the grinding finally stopped, they went suddenly sharp, taking us in with eviscerating keenness before sliding back to cow-like vacancy.

He bowed low before us.

“Highnesses. My lady Evelaena welcomes you to Lahor. Come. You must be eager to rest after your long journey.”

19

RAIHN

The castle was the only building in this place that seemed to be—almost—in one piece. It was the tallest building in the city, which was to say, it was the pile of rubble that towered over all the other piles of rubble. It was cold and damp inside, ocean breezes flowing in through broken windows, strong enough to rustle heavy, velvet curtains that reeked of mold.

We didn’t pass a single soul as we were led through the halls, into an expansive room with tall ceilings and towering windows that overlooked the churning sea beyond the cliffs. Some of the panes were tinted red. Maybe that once had been some kind of design decision, but now it looked eerie and disparate, because so much of the glass had been shattered.

Yet, even on such a sad canvas, the view was breathtaking. There were few places anywhere in the House of Night where you could see the water like this—ocean surrounding you on all sides. A gust of wind bellowed through the room, salt so heavy it made my eyes water, the stench of Viprus thick enough to gag on. A dais sat before the windows, bearing a rotting velvet throne with only one armrest and a cracked back.

And upon that throne was Evelaena.

She was only a distant relative of Vincent’s, and much younger than him. During his bloody night of ascension to power, he’d killed most of his close family members, carving a carefully mapped path to his inheritance. Yet, she resembled him. She had the fair eyes—not the moon-silver that he’d passed on to Oraya, but the cold ocean blue favored by most of his line. Her cheekbones were high and features severe, as if made of glass. Her blond hair fell over each shoulder, so long that it pooled in her lap in dry waves.

She rose. Her white gown dragged along the floor as she stepped down the dais steps, the hem bloodstained and dirty. It, like the boy’s jacket, was an outdated style, like she’d gotten it about a hundred and fifty years ago. Maybe it had been beautiful back then.

Her gaze passed over me, then Septimus, and then landed on Oraya—and stayed there, as a slow grin spread over her face.

I could practically feel Oraya stiffen. Hell, I did, too. I resisted the urge to step in front of her as Evelaena approached.

“Cousin,” Evelaena purred. “What a joy to finally meet.”

Oraya—ever transparent—blinked in shock at the sound of Evelaena’s voice. So, so young. Like it could’ve belonged to a fourteen-year-old girl.

Evelaena lay her hands on Oraya’s shoulders, and I could see every muscle in Oraya’s body tightening to avoid pulling away.

“Evelaena,” she said—and nothing else.

She clearly didn’t know what else to say. My wife was not much of an actress. But I could be good enough for both of us.

My hand slid around Oraya’s shoulders, casually displacing Evelaena’s.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Evelaena. I have to admit, we weren’t sure what we’d find. We never received your response to our letter.”