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A fight to the death. Me and Rory versus Mihal and⁠—

Black hell.

“What have you done?” I ask, disbelief coloring my words with rage.

A female steps from the shadows, dressed in leather and reeking of mortal blood. Her eyes gleam as she inhales the scents of all the creatures congregated in the chamber, and it’s that feral spark that has me yielding a step toward my mate.

Vivian Alarie is a vampire.

Chapter 41

RORY

Shock as unsettling as rigor mortis freezes my features in place.

Vivian is a vampire.

I blink, disbelieving my own ears and eyes and roiling stomach.

There’s no possible way Vivvy, born on the Hunter’s Moon, Defender of Mortalkind, a mortal king’s stake, is a vampire.

Her once-blonde hair is still so dull and dry, her features hardened with age, not youthful beauty. This is not the Vivian who slit my wrists and drank my blood. This is someone else entirely. A demon donning my sister’s skin.

Moon cursed, indeed.

My feet are moving toward her before my brain can stop them. Quill’s hand wraps around my wrist as he pulls me to his side. Don’t.

This is my fault.

All of it.

My own reckless desire to live cost not only me my mortal life, but likely Quill’s second-life, too, considering this is a fight to the death, and I’m about as capable of fighting as I am at solving a math equation. Which is not at all.

Viv knows this. She flashes bloodied fangs at me. Gore drips from her mouth, stains her leathers in pockets of carnage.

How did we get here?

One sister promised a life of glory, another promised to Death.

Death’s laughter echoes in the back of my mind.

“This is absurd,” Quill says tightly. “They’re both fledglings. To force them to fight now is cruel and unnecessary. I will face Mihal on my own.”

“Cruel and unnecessary, yes,” says Tallis slowly, “but not against the rules. The parameters have been set. Both parties have until the sun is at its highest peak to prepare. The rest of us will retire to the underbelly of the Sanctum for the Challenge.”

The underbelly of the Sanctum is really just a cave. Craggy and dark, it’s lit only by torchlight. It’s a cold and unwelcoming host for the arena—a darkened twin to the seven-pointed star above ground. Creatures of every kind squish together to fill the rough-hewn benches in their section to watch a battle to the death on the stage set up before them.

We are given less than thirty minutes to prepare.

Risna and Carver are currently in deep conversation with Quill, discussing strategy against Mihal. My mate’s eyes keep flicking toward me, and they say everything his carefully blank mind does not—I am the weak link.

My lack of training, of physical strength, will be our downfall.

“This is hopeless,” I say bitterly. “I’m hopeless.”

Eivor grips my shoulders. He’s been trying to teach me how to throw a punch and defend myself from an attack ever since we came down here. “Do not walk into that arena already condemning yourself to defeat. Wits are won on the battlefield more than brute strength.”

He releases me long enough to unsheath a blade carved from bone. The tip is dipped in silver. He presses it into my palm as Risna wanders over to us. “Quill told us about the night you and he nearly ran away. He told us of your fire, your will to live. You broke a man’s nose and had to be drugged to extinguish your fight. That is what you must take with you into that arena.”