This isn’t just another run-of-the-mill tavern, no—it’s an oasis of debauchery, where reverie bleeds into reality and even the darkest compulsions find their way home.
“King Killian!” A plump, middle-aged mortal woman appears in front of us, circling her arms around the vampire warmly. “It has been ages since you graced us with your presence. And you’ve brought company!” She throws me a knowing wink, and I almost cringe at the clear innuendo.
“It’s good to see you too, Sirmione.” Killian answers truthfully, a slow, earnest smile illuminating his features. He looks so at ease, so remarkably unburdened, that I feel the urge to pinch myself, just to make sure this is real, and not another one of my nocturnal fantasies.
“The usual?” the woman asks as she guides us to a private booth to the side.
“Yes, bloodwine for me, and the best champagne you have for the lady.”
Sirmione takes her leave, and silence reigns for a heartbeat between us. I glance at the bejeweled dancers, gliding on nimble limbs between the patrons. My heart squeezes in remembrance. In another life, a simpler one, this would have been me, mesmerizing vampires and men alike.
“Do you miss it?” Killian asks softly from across the table, his smoky tendrils crossing the distance to caress my cheeks.
“I do. I always reveled in the freedom of donning a mask, a magical alter ego that bedazzled and entranced, that held insurmountable power in her glittering fingertips. Leaving males wanting more, never giving them their heart’s desire, just the promise of it.” I sigh, the sound a melancholic whisper. “Celestia was my way of retaining control in a world where such a thing is merely an illusion.”
“You can always dance for me, little umbra. No matter what you believe, you are the one in control here.” His whispered words carry so much longing.
I refrain from letting the refusal slip from my lips, and change the topic. “So many nicknames you have for me. Maybe it’s time I gave you one, too. What should I call you, hmm?” I drum my fingers on my chin, pretending to be lost in thought.
“You can call me your shadow daddy,” Killian retorts seductively.
“I will do no such thing!” I breathe in a laugh as a server places the drinks in front of us and retreats.
“Uhm, I think you will, umbra. Sooner or later, you will.” His confidence is maddening, and maybe just a little disconcerting. His relentless will to bring down my barriers, to tear down my defenses and glimpse inside my soul… Sometimes I feel he sees me, reallyseesme, down to my very core, past the shields, past the well crafted lies and the sparkling, hollow deceit. Gods, I should not want him with the blinding intensity that I do. I should practice what I preach, and abstain from looking at himtoo long, from letting my gaze linger on his devastating face, or from allowing my thoughts to stray his way constantly.
I break our staring contest, sipping the bubbly champagne and trying to snuff out this yearning.
“Your duty is to your kingdom,” I drawl.
“It is,” he acknowledges in a whisper. “But before being a King, little umbra, I am a male. What my kingdom needs, and what my flesh craves, are two entirely different things. But they don’t need to cancel each other out.” His smoldering stare burns a hole deep within my chest. “There is no reason why I can’t have them both—no real reason not to haveyou.”
Oh, Gods, how wrong he is! His kingdom’s survival hangs on a thread, one that Aurora would certainly sever with no remorse if she knew about our liaison. We’re flirting with disaster here, and he doesn’t even know it! But there is no way of making him see sense, not without tearing the veil from his eyes, and allowing him to gawk into my void—not just a glimpse, but a full on perusal of all my festering wounds, all my trauma, my imperfection. I refuse to be the victim in anyone’s eyes, especially his, so I do what I do best. I deflect.
“How did you become King, anyway? Our history lessons never breach that particular subject.”
Killian exhales with thinly veiled frustration, but satisfies my curiosity.
“Before the kingdoms were formed, back when Akaori walked among all creatures, chaos reigned with a calloused hand. There was no order, no law, no decree of decency to abide by. It was only about the harsh, remorseless survival of the fittest. Creatures slew each other in the open, looting, pilfering, raping—taking whatever they deemed fit, as if it was theirs to begin with.” He’s staring at the mirrored ceiling, his own reflection gazing back at him with ancient, heavy-lidded eyes.
“Faes were the ultimate predators back then. Strong, olden, full of magic. Vampires were just emerging as a species, and when Akaori perished, one of the Fae warriors that had amassed massive lands through thievery and murder seized control over half of the continent. His name was Finn Bheara, but you probably know him better as…”
“King Finvarra the Great,” I whisper in astonishment. “He was the first king of our kind, the one that united the lands—that created Ryawarath.”
“He was a fucking farmer’s boy turned thief and murderer, that’s what he was. Particularly cruel and greedy. He crowned himself king and drew a line on the map, conveniently taking the rich, thriving South of the continent for the Faes, and leaving the Northern, frozen lands to the wandering vampires. And humans had the worst fate of all. Enslaved by Faes, and hunted and fed upon by vampires.”
My head swam with the history of our realm, the true, unembellished by lies, chronicles of Imiryion. Safe to say, nothing like that was taught within the deceitful borders of Ryawarath.
“I was born almost seven hundred years after the formation of the Fae kingdom. Wrahta was just a bunch of barren, gelid lands. Flimsy towns had appeared, such as Drovillan, right here. The vampires were still disorderly, fighting each other, with two factions emerging. The older vampires, the Purists, still wanted to feed unencumbered, to slaughter humans and Faes alike. But a growing force was taking shape, vampires that believed peace could be achieved; peace and coexistence. They called themselves Pacifists. Humans seeking asylum from the slavery endured in Ryawarath were crossing the borders more each day, in search of a better life, or certain death. My mother was one of those people. Heavily pregnant with me, a product of sexual assault by a filthy Fae Lord, she ran away from oppression,hoping to give me a safer fate than what was awaiting in the Fae kingdom. A group of Pacifists, believers in a new world order, took her in. Drusilla, my maker, was their leader. They kept us safe, and I grew up among them, learning the cruel tales of the past, but also instilled with the frail hope of a different future.”
His voice is just above a whisper, reverent and carrying all the weight of the realm. Against my better judgment, I reach for his hand and thread our fingers together, urging him to continue.
“My mother passed away when I was six, killed by cholerae, one of the old diseases that used to decimate humans and Fae alike. She refused Drusilla’s offer to be turned, tired of the horrors of this life, not wanting to endure an eternity of them. But she made Drusilla promise to be my haven, to safeguard me as if I were her own.”
He unsheathes two daggers from his belt, placing them gently on the table between us. I study in silence the twin blades, crafted not as simple weapons. They are reflections of each other, both matching in form, and bound in purpose.
One is long and will-bidding, with a straight edge gleaming like the moon over a dark ocean, oozing brutality in all its might. The second one is shorter and more serpentine, curved like a lover’s whisper in the dead of night, full of dark promise.
Both blades have similar hilts, carved from ancient bones, still pristinely white and almost humming, engraved with magnificent details. Magnificent battle scenes wrap around them like sacred scripture—heroes and villains clashing against one another—the everlasting Manichean conflict, upon which all realms burn and die, depicted in painstaking beauty.
