Dante—and by extension, myself—were the dinner guests of the century, and everyone was vying to lure us to their table first.
“Emilia would be my first choice,” I decided, tossing the most recent invite on the growing pile in the center of the battered kitchen table. “She backed you before anyone, and returning her loyalty will speak louder than words.”
“I hate this game,” Dante muttered, elbows braced on the table as he stared down at the scratched surface. “I hate that I have to dress up and pretend I can stand any of these bloodsuckers.”
“This was your idea, and it worked.” I tried to read his expression, but he was too good at hiding. “Every family is attempting to curry your favor. They see the writing on the wall as clearly as your father does. You’ll be the next Don, and they want to make sure they aren’t left out in the cold.”
His enormous shoulders sagged. “When is Emilia’s party?”
“Tonight, as luck would have it. She’s not one to waste time. Or an opportunity.”
Our boat cutthrough the water like a knife, wake whispering against the hull. Behind us, the lights of Venice blurred into a smear of gold; ahead, the DiSangue island rose out of the lagoon like the altar of a wrathful god, the temple crouched low and wide, every window ablaze with candlelight.
“They could have hosted this in the city,” Dante muttered beside me. “Saved us a trip.”
I adjusted my midnight-blue silk gown, smoothing my hands over the skirts, ignoring the first layer of wards brushing against my skin—thin ribbons of pressure squeezing as we sped across the invisible boundary surrounding the island.
There was no dematerializing onto the Isola delle Spire.
Rumor had it that those who tried were ripped to shreds.
“This is all about appearances,” I reminded him softly. “The DiSangue are priests, remember? They enjoy subjecting the rest of us to their arcane theatrics. The dock has probably been bathed in sacrificial goat blood or some such nonsense.”
Dante huffed, but there was tension in the line of his jaw, in the way his fingers flexed every time he looked at the dark, looming temple. He was… nervous tonight. This male—who’d faced down the entire council with nothing but his arrogance and a stack of old receipts—was nervous about a social event.
No, not this male.
My husband.
Even now, the title sounded strange.
Dangerous, because already, it meant more than it should.
Sooner than I would have liked, the boat bumped gently against the stone steps. Above us, a pair of DiSangue priests in long black robes watched us tie up to the dock, their pale throats marked with the crimson sigil of their house—three vertical lines over a circle, stylized blood tears.
“Lady Emberline.” The older priest inclined his head, offering me his hand, ignoring Dante completely. “Welcome. Lady Emilia DiSangue awaits you inside the temple. We are honored to host the first appearance of the new Dominico bride.”
Interesting to make this all about me and not about my husband. A power play, but what sort, and why, when we didn’t even have an audience?
Dante’s mouth thinned, and I took his arm deliberately, letting my fingers curl around the hard muscle of his forearm as he lifted me onto the marble dock. “My husband will escort me inside.” I insisted, letting a hint of steel thread through my voice.
The guards hesitated, and Dante tensed, the air around us darkening.
He still wore that bored, slightly amused expression he’d perfected, but I was learning to read the small shifts in his expression. The faint flare of his nostrils. The way his fingers flexed once, as if he was envisioning them wrapped around someone’s throat.
“Play along, husband,” I cautioned, straightening his lapels, running my fingers down his tense chest. “Let’s find out what she’s after, then we’ll win her over to our side andhave one ally firmly in our corner.” I squeezed his arm, and Dante relaxed a hair.
We ascended the steps and passed under the carved stone archway, the DiSangue serpent crest glaring down at us—a single blood-red ruby for an eye. As soon as we crossed the threshold, the DiSangue wards enveloped us in a thorny embrace.
This magic felt like a garrot around my throat, ready to snap tight, everything about this place screamingthreat.The air smelled of beeswax and cloves, but under that, the metallic tang of old blood soaked deep into stone.
“Gods,” Dante’s tone was too low for the attendants to hear. “This place is oppressive. No wonder I’ve never set foot on this island before.”
Not a surprise. Few vampires outside the Order visited this island, part of the reason I’d chosen to come here first.Curiosity. But crossing through that ward meant we were entrusting Emilia with our lives.
Which was why I had knives strapped to both thighs, and one stashed between my breasts.
All jokes aside, dying on some sacrificial altar was not the way I planned on spending my evening.
