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~Cleo Rathmore, The Capital ~
“I’d rather kiss an Orc,”I muttered as I ducked behind a cart stacked with pear tarts. “A muddy, tusked, flea-bitten Orc with rotting fish breathe and a gambling problem.”
The tart-seller blinked at me and edged his tray farther away.
I gave him a grin and kept moving. I didn’t get far before a crowd of revelers blocked my path, the gasps and pointing fingers forcing me to look up.
I should have known the gods were mocking me the moment I saw the silk banner catch fire.
It wasn’t a large fire—just a flicker of gold licking the edge of the crimson ribbon strung across the archway to the Tournament Court. But still, fire. On a wedding day. An omen, if I believed in such things.
The knot in my gut said not only did I believe, but I also knew exactly who that bad omen was for…me. Maybe the gods were right. Perhaps I could not outrun my destiny. I sure as hell intended to try.
The flames climbed higher, igniting a second silken banner. A merchant raised the alarm, pointing and shouting for buckets of water. I gasped as a nearby fae from one of the outer regions waved his hand and suffocated the flames with a sudden whirl of wind. He was gorgeous. Tall. Long, silver hair fell to his waist and his eyes sparkled like amethysts in sunlight. I had no idea what kingdom he was from, but it mattered not.
I wasn’t betrothed to a Fae. Or even a vampire. “Void take me, I’d rather marry a half-wet dog.” I didn’t speak too loudly. Not when there were probably half a dozen werewolves within hearing distance. I’d always found the werewolves who came to the nurses at my orphanage for healing tinctures to have an extremely unpleasant odor, yet even one of those howling beasts would be better than what awaited me if I didn’t manage to escape this city.
A death mage. Dark magic. The most powerful among them were known as Revenants, their magic so black they bound their souls to the dark portal and drained their brides of life to feed the magical gate between worlds. It was said their blood was cold as death itself. Their touch could drain the life from you between one breath and the next. That the shadows themselves fled before them.
Dramatic? Yes. In my experience, rumors like these were always based on a bit of truth.
“I’m no dark mage’s sacrifice.” I said it aloud for what had to be the twentieth time since the death mage’s appearance at the orphanage last night. The Matron hadn’t bothered to warn me, tell me she’d signed my life away,givenme to a complete stranger.
Betrothed. I was to bemarriedto him. Taken to The Spire. Never seen or heard from again. They’d probably stake me to some alter and sacrifice me to The Void. Why else would a powerful mage want someone like me?
No. I refused such a fate.
I pushed through the crush of bodies in the market avenue, ignoring the mingled scents of roasted almonds, perfume oil, and too many sweating nobles packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Music floated through the air like a promise—violins and flutes, laughter and the drumbeat of feet on cobblestones. The hauntingly beautiful voices of the fae countered the pounding drumbeats of the Orcs on the opposite end of the street. Vampires leered from the shadows, waiting for sunset. Werewolves fought Orcs for prizes in the streets. Every merchant in the realm had made the trip to the capital to sell their goods during the royal wedding of Prince Adom of Pridehaven to a fae princess. It was a once in a lifetime event. The city held many times the normal population, every inn and tavern full to bursting. The capital was in chaos.
Everyone was celebrating. Laughing. Dancing. Unaware of the quiet death being stitched into my future. Many in the realm believed betrothal to a death mage was a fate worse than death. “Count me among them,” I whispered under my breath as a group wearing the black armor of The Spire walked through the crowd. The Spire was home to dark magic, Death Mages, Necromancers and Vampires who protected Lunaterra from entities too horrible to imagine. Worst of all, they’d built The Spire’s primary tower to surround the Void and the Rift between worlds. The horror of all Lunaterra.
As always, people parted before them as if afraid of being touched. Cursed. Or worse… noticed.
I backed into the edges of the crowd without making a sound, nearly bumping into a vampire.
“Careful, little one. Stay out of the shadows. Some of us are hungry,” He inhaled slowly, as if I smelled like a freshly baked sweet. “And you smell delicious.” He snapped his fangs at me and slipped inside the nearest building.
Great. The last thing I needed was a hungry vampire’s unwanted attention. One death mage determined to claim me was more than enough trouble for one day. Luckily, my human blood was not high on the list for the bloodthirsty vampire lot, not with so many powerful fae and shifters in town.
I adjusted the hood of my cloak and walked toward the city gates, slipping between vendors hawking fruit-glazed sweetmeats and glass-blown charms. One day. A head start. That’s all I needed. Just one day to vanish into the noise and color. One day to escape the noose tightening around my throat.
I’d packed everything I owned—three coppers, a frayed velvet book of fairy stories, the blanket I’d been wrapped in when the Matron found me—and placed it in the satchel flung over my shoulder. It would take me until sunset to reach the city walls. I’d sneak past the east gates, climb into the back of a merchant’s wagon heading out of the city and disappear into the borderlands where I would start over. Make a new life for myself. One where I wasn’t the poor orphan abandoned on the steps as a baby. One where I wasn’t betrothed to a complete stranger who scared the hell out of me.
There was no way—noway—I was marryinghim.Allowing him to touch me. Kiss me. Claim me. No.
Jarrik Morren. Death Mage of The Spire. He claimed to be more than a hundred years old, though he looked only a few years older than my twenty summers. His age showed in the hollow darkness of his gaze, the way he stood still as death itself, face void of emotion. As if the Rift behind The Viel had already devoured his soul. And now he wanted to devourmine.
The Matron introduced me to him yesterday. My futurehusband.
The Matron called his interest in me an “honor,” her beady eyes gleaming as if she was handing me off to a prince instead of a walking tombstone. Jarrik came to the orphanage in fullceremonial black, silent as stone and twice as cold. Tall, sharp-featured, with ink-dark hair braided down his back and a voice that sent goosebumps down my arms—not the good kind. The way he looked at me… it wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even interest. It was calculation.
Something inside me screamed that I was simply a puzzle piece he needed to complete some arcane ritual. A vial of rare blood in a worn dress.
He offered me a smile. It didn’t touch his eyes. And when he reached to touch my hand, something inside me screamed. Recoiled.
No.
