“There’s nothing little about it, pretty boy. But it is secret, for reasons that are beyond your comprehension.”
“And you’re letting me in on your privileged informationbecause?”
“You’re just a means to an end, vampire. An opportunity that fell into our lap, or stalked its way badly into our midst, whatever you want to call it,” Soren answers, although my question was directed to his sister. He pauses in front of a massive iron door, opens it curtly and gestures for me to get inside.
I begrudgingly oblige and enter the square chamber, wary of my surroundings. It resembles a mixture of a study and a library, with tomes of ancient texts encased in glass bookshelves that run from floor to ceiling.
Sariah’s fingertips start glowing a warm hue, casting a faint light in the room.
She moves towards the center of the chamber and hops onto the sturdy oak desk carved with Fae mythological beasts and depictions of battles that are of unknown origin to me. Soren fills two whiskey glasses with the amber liquid, passing one to his sister, and leans against the worktable next to her in a rigid stance.
“No welcoming drink for me, I gather?” I ask, amused.
“We don’t keep blood on hand.”
Soren’s reply is curt and standoffish, and his tense posture makes me snicker. This male would get along great with Killian. Or butt heads. It’s a gamble I would like to see unfold.
I take a seat on the rich brown sofa on the far wall, kicking my feet up on the arm, my boots leaving muddy imprints on the lush velvet. Soren’s jaw ticks with controlled annoyance, and I know I will take great pleasure in pissing him off.
“So, the Order of Ereshkygall, huh? What’s your deal? And what do you want with me exactly? I’ve leveled up from prisoner to guest of honor unexpectedly fast.”
“We want nothing from you, vampire. Our business is with your King. You’re just our ticket into Wrahta,” the male responds without missing a beat.
“Now, now, Soren, play nice,” Sariah quips, downing her drink. She places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“You’ll have to excuse my brother, Blaise. He’s quite fond of his things, and doesn’t take it lightly when someone tarnishes them.” She stares pointedly at my dirty boots.
“Or when they try to kidnap my sister,” he gruffly adds.
“My methods might lack a certain finesse, but my heart was in the right place. I was just fulfilling Aimee’s request. She seems to be under the impression that you need protection, and wanted me to bring you to Wrahta.”
“How is she?” Sariah asks in a soft voice that has nothing to do with the leader of a hidden order of warriors, and everything to do with a concerned friend. I regard her quivering lips and the way her shoulders slump slightly.
“She’s the badass prophesied savior of this realm. A little shaken, but she’ll be fine.”
“How did her powers manifest?”
“Oh, in a total shitshow of a standoff against your new Queen,” I answer between gritted teeth.
“She is not our Queen,” Soren answers sharply.
“Fine, let’s stop tiptoeing around the huge metaphorical creature with tusks in the room. If you are keepers of the prophecy, and you knew Aimee is the Foretold One, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you warn her about her sister? Why didn’t youwarn usabout Morweena’s real identity?”
“Morweena?” both brother and sister ask at the same time.
“The wretched creature infecting vampires for years now. The blight spreading over Wrahta. Fucking Aurora Vaureghain?”
“What are you talking about?”
Sariah’s eyes widen just a fraction, and she sits straighter on the desk, as if she’s on alert.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I ask, pulling on the roots of my hair in agitation. “Didn’t you just say you’re theseall-knowingkeepers of the prophecy? Looks like you know shit to me.”
“It’s not that straightforward,” Soren answers in a clipped voice.
I cock my head to the side, scanning the siblings for any signs of deception. Sariah looks puzzled, a cute frown forming between her eyebrows. Her breath is steady, her pulse is not elevated, and her starlight-infused blood flows unhurriedly in her veins. Her brother is more stoic; his face is a mask of quiet fortitude and resilience.
They’re either telling the truth or extremely skilled liars. I don’t know which one worries me more.
