Narrow, wooden tables travel what might be the length of the room—it’s hard to tell as they vanish into the darkness. Upon them lie dozens of bodies—a feast of humans and fae alike—all nude, motionless, and with at least one pair of fangs sunk into each limb.
They feed in utter silence.
No scuffling, no cries, no resistance.
Few eyes turn in our direction as we approach the center of the room.
“Welcome to Ashemere,” an amused, deep voice curls through the darkness.
A voice I recognize.
Sabien.
But hearing his voice with these fae ears—it’s different. It’s richer, warmer, more welcoming. It’s the kind of voice capable of creeping into the dreams of his prey.
Our guide stops, lowering herself to a knee and dips her chin. Ryc and I stop a short distance behind her, exchanging a wary glance.
“Presenting Sovereign King of Erus, Alaryc Witherhorn and Vestaris Moonshadow.” She rises.
“Find Morgana,” he says, remaining hidden. “She waits in the cistern, my pet.”
“As you wish, my love,” she replies.
Love?
In a quick stream of coppery light—ahealer’slight—the vampire vanishes. Lifting my chin, I wait.
“This realm suits you, Ves,” Sabien says. “You’re a beauty like your mother.”
Ever the vain creature.
“I’m not here to discuss my resemblance to my mother,” I reply and his laugh echoes through the room.
A tall figure steps into the light, his hands clasped behind his back. Eyes the color of the night sky, waist-length deep crimson hair, and sable-toned skin… he flashes a fanged smile.
Sabien is as beautiful as I remember.
And he’ll remain beautiful—as long as he feeds.
His white robes swirl about his ankles as he strides forth. His steps are silent, but the swirling of silk and the heavy gold chain clasped about his waist herald his approach.
It hurts to look at him. Memories of centuries past resurface, all painful things—hellish celebrations, Kassil, Netharis, the court, the dancing, the blood, the gluttony, the screaming, the tears…
Ryc’s hand tightens over mine, drawing me out of myself.
“No,” he says, his smile lingering as he studies me. “Of course not. Forgive me.” He stops, well outside striking distance. “I’m assuming none in your party are gifts.”
I scoff. “No.”
“Pity.” His eyes roam over Ryc.
Ignoring him I ask, “Are you attending the Dark Hunt?”
Sabien takes a full step closer, his head tilting. “The tradition stands. Do you miss the hells already?” he asks, laughing. “If you wish to attend, I’m certain we can arrive at an arrangement.”
It’s an offer toturnme.
An offer I couldn’t be less interested in.
