She’s perfect.
Dr. Abelard steps up. He’s got his own ritual robe on, dark blue with a gold trim, and he’s holding a book older than God. His voice is sharp, thin as piano wire. “Gentlemen. Thank you for arriving with such efficiency. There has been a change of plans.”
Rhett doesn’t flinch. “We figured.”
Julian yawns. “Do we get coffee for this, or just the bloodletting?”
Abelard ignores him. “The Night Hunt will begin at once. There is a matter of ceremony to address before the release of the runner.” He glances at Dahlia, but only for a second, like she’s a bug he’s pinned to a board.
He gestures, and two of the Board’s security goons grab Dahlia by the shoulders, steering her to the ceremonial boulder set up for the ritual. There’s a ceramic bowl, a candle, and a ceremonial dagger set on a velvet tray.
I snort. “Where’s the second?”
Abelard gives me a look that could freeze the sun. “We have been asked to forgo the traditional cut for reasons of decorum.”
I laugh, loud enough to echo off the trees. “Since when did anyone here care about decorum?”
But he’s already lighting the candle, melting a pool of blood-red wax into the bowl. “Please join hands,” he says, voice brittle. The goons release Dahlia from her restraints and she stumbles forward. I catch her, steady her by the elbow, and hold her hand in mine.
She tries to pull away, but I squeeze hard enough to make her wince. She looks up at me, and I see the fire is still there, coiled and ready.
Abelard holds the stick of wax over our joined hands, dripping it slow and steady, letting the heat bite our skin. It sizzles, bubbles, runs down over her knuckles and onto mine. The smell is sweet, like strawberries. The wax hardens instantly, binding us together.
He murmurs a few words in Latin. I don’t understand, but I hear the phrase “periculum sanguis,” and I know it’s the same shit they said a hundred years ago, just with more paperwork.
As soon as the wax is solid, Abelard steps back. “The bond is made. In thirty minutes, the Hunt will commence.”
I rip my hand away, shards of red dropping to the grass. Then, because I’m sick of the farce, I grab the dagger off the tray, slice a line across my palm, and squeeze until the blood runs. I let it drip onto her wrist, mixing with the red wax and pooling in the hollow above her thumb.
She stares at me, eyes wide, not blinking.
“If you’re too delicate to bleed,” I say, “I’ll do it for both of us.”
There’s a beat where everything is dead silent. Even the wind stops. Then, from somewhere behind the Board, Madame K appears. She’s got a crown of black dahlias and baby’s breath,the flowers wired together with silver thread. She sets it on Dahlia’s head with the kind of care you’d use for a bomb.
“Miss Bonaccorso,” she intones, “you are now the runner. You have thirty minutes to run. If you survive until sunrise, your family’s honor is secured, and the Academy will help the Kings secure their next turf.” She glances at Abelard, then at me. “If not, well—” She smiles, a flash of teeth, “—no one will blame the Feral Boys for doing their job.”
A second later, a figure in full ceremonial robe steps forward with a horn. Not the modern kind—the old, spiral kind, carved from bone or ivory, stained with a hundred years of spit. He puts it to his lips and blows.
The sound isn’t loud. It’s deep. It vibrates the earth under my feet and makes my skin prickle. Somewhere, something ancient wakes up and listens.
Dahlia’s eyes go even wider.
“Thirty minutes,” Abelard says, voice almost gentle. “Make the most of it.”
The guards cut her wrists free. She looks down at her hands, then at me. For a split second, I see something flicker in her face—hate, fear, maybe want.
Then she turns and runs. Not a look back, not a stumble. Just pure, desperate speed. Her bare feet slap the wet grass, and the white pajamas billow out behind her.
Colton leans over. “Damn, she’s quick.”
“I know,” I say, never taking my eyes off her.
Rhett’s at my shoulder, low voice. “You going to chase her, or let her sweat it out until sunrise? She’s yours either way, this is all for show.”
I grin. “Let her think she’s got a chance.”
I watch her until she hits the tree line, until the moonlight swallows her up and she’s just a blur in the dark. I see the trail she leaves—flowers crushed underfoot, a smear of blood where she stepped on something sharp.
