Page 7 of Vicious Kings
Every human family that produces a girl must submit a sample of her blood at birth, to determine whether her blood bears the marker showing she's even capable of one day becoming an omega. The candidates are stolen from their families at the age of fifteen and sequestered in special schools under the guise of protection until they come of age to be sent to Valemyre.
For the Fae, it's an education.
For theomegas, it's a canned hunt.
I'm told human families weep with joy at the realization that their daughters will live such pampered, "privileged" lives. That's how deep the brainwashing goes. All they had to do was build walls and tell us they were gated communities for our protection. To steal our children and convince us it was an honor.
"All we need to do is ensure you're discovered near the entrance to the city," the Shepherd continues. "The rest is up to you. And perhaps the Saints, if this is indeed a matter of their intervention." He withdraws his hand and folds both of them together primly beneath the silk of his robes. "That remains to be seen."
I can read between the lines. Get close to the prince. Use whatever means necessary. Complete the mission my mother died attempting. The method might be different, the path more degrading than anything I could have imagined, but the end goal remains the same.
"What if they find out the truth? That I'm a hunter?"
"I'm counting on it." His smile turns predatory. "As far as the Fae know, you'll be a hunter who was cast out when her true nature was revealed. If I know the Fae, and if the rumors of the prince's particular appetites are true, he'll find the novelty irresistible."
I shudder, unable to suppress the physical reaction to what he's suggesting. The Shepherd turns to leave, his robes whispering against the filthy floor.
"Someone will be sent to prepare you," he says over his shoulder. "I suggest you use the time to make peace with your new role."
"Father—" I call out, desperate for... what? Comfort? Understanding? Some sign that the man who raised me gives a shit about what they're asking me to do?
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with eyes that hold eight years of unspoken grief. He shakes his head once, a minute gesture that says everything and nothing, and follows the Shepherd out.
The door slams shut, leaving me alone in the dark once more.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold stone, knees drawn to my chest. My mind races through everything that just happened, each word, each horrifying detail of their plan.
They're going to dress me up like a doll and throw me to the wolves. Literally. They're going to parade me in front of the creature who killed my mother and hope my cursed biology does what their weapons couldn't.
The irony isn't lost on me. I spent my whole life training to be a weapon, only to discover the deadliest thing about me is my fucking womb.
But as the initial shock fades, that coldness returns.
They're giving me exactly what I wanted. Access to Prince Corvinus. The method might make me want to claw my own skin off, but the opportunity is there.
I think of my mother, of her last mission, of how she must have felt walking into that palace knowing she might not walk out. Did she hesitate? Did she consider turning back to steal another year or two with her husband and child? Or did she boldly do what was required of her, as my father so eloquently put it?
The answer doesn't matter. What matters is that she failed, and now I have a chance to finish what she started.
I still have a prince to kill.
Three
BILLIE
The room they've stashed me in is a step up from the moldy cell but still a cage.
No windows. One door. Two guards posted outside like I'm some kind of flight risk.
Where the fuck would I go? My entire world consists of this compound and the mission they're sending me on.
I've been sitting on this narrow cot for what feels like hours, counting the wood grain patterns on the wall. Five knots in the plank above the door. Five more in the one beside it.
My obsession with fives keeps my mind from spiraling into what's coming next.
The door creaks open, and I tense, ready for whatever fresh hell they've cooked up. But it's not the Shepherd or my father or even more guards.
It's Vera.
