Page 86 of The Vespertine Treaty

A figure stepped into the dim light. Tall. Broad. Radiating an arrogance that sucked the air out of the room.

Malathor.

He looked exactly as I remembered from the brief, terrifying encounters at court—handsome in a cruel, sharp-edged way, his eyes devoid of any warmth. He wore the same velvet robes he had worn in the garden, uncreased and immaculate.

"Awake at last," he drawled, his voice smooth like oiled leather. "I was beginning to worry the mixture was too potent for such a... delicate little thing. It was designed for interrogation, after all."

He raised a hand, and the air around him rippled. It wasn't light; it was a warping, oily distortion that seemed to swallow the dim illumination of the cell.

"You are wondering where you are," he said, enjoying my confusion as the walls seemed to bend and stretch under his influence. "You are nowhere. My estate is currently folded into a pocket of obscurity so deep that even the Prince of the Void could scream at the gates and not find the entrance. We are invisible, Ophelia. To the world, and to your husband."

The betrayal twisted in my gut. I had walked into the trap like a lamb to the slaughter.How stupid of you, Ophelia. Stupid.

He stopped in front of me, towering over the chair. Without warning, his hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my throat.

I gasped, instinctively trying to recoil, but the chair held me fast. His grip wasn't choking—not yet—but it was dominating. His thumb pressed against my windpipe, feeling the frantic flutter of my pulse.

"You should have been mine," he sneered, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. I could smell wine and stale smoke on his breath. "The Last Life Heir. The connection to the ancients. And Cain... that mongrel... he gets you. Like he got everything else.”

“I have no power," I choked out, clawing at the arm of the chair with my bound fingers. "I am useless. You know this."

"Useless?" His eyes roamed over me, lingering on the sheer fabric of my gown in a way that made my skin crawl with phantom insects. "Perhaps. Perhaps you are just a whore with a fancy bloodline. But you are symbolic, Ophelia. And symbols have power."

He tightened his grip, just for a second, enough to make black spots dance in my vision, before shoving me back against the hard wood of the chair.

"It should have been me," he spat, turning away as if looking at me disgusted him. "I deserve the legacy. Not him."

"He will come for me," I whispered. I didn't know why I said it. I didn't know if it was true. Given how I left him—insulting him, rejecting him—he probably hoped I was gone. But the words tumbled out, a desperate shield.

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

The shadows in the corner of the room seemed to deepen, to curdle. They swirled, coalescing into a shape that was distinctly, terrifyingly feminine.

Rosette stepped out of the darkness.

"Is she broken yet?" She asked.

She was beautiful and cold, in the way a poisonous flower is beautiful. Her now dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her dress a scandal of purple silk that clung to her curves. But her eyes... her eyes were pits of malice.

Something shifted on her thigh.

Sybel.

The massive black snake unspooled from where it had been hidden beneath the slit of Rosette’s dress, its thick body pouring onto the stone floor with a heavy, wet slap. The familiar was huge, a thick muscle of scales that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it.

She was an Obscurer. I could feel her magic pressing against my mind, a slithering, oily sensation that made me want to scream.

"She is awake," Malathor said, bored now. He moved to the corner, leaning against the wall to watch.

Rosette walked toward me. She didn't walk; she prowled. She circled my chair, her fingers trailing along my bare shoulders. Her touch was ice cold, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

"Go on, Sybel," Rosette whispered.

The black snake slithered up the leg of my chair. I froze, my breath catching in a terrified hitch. I felt the dry, heavy weight ofthe creature moving over my bare ankles, winding its way up my calves. It was terrifyingly strong, a living band of iron.

Sybel continued upward, coiling around my waist, then my chest, until its flat, black head rested on my shoulder, its forked tongue flicking against my ear.

Then, it squeezed.