Page 16 of Ravenous

Sheshouldbe afraid. The queen might make her a lesson or a pet. Who knew with Yrsa? He was certain of only one thing:Never cross the first channeler.

She was his gods-mother, and still he’d never quite figured her out.

Behind his helmet, he cast the vampire a cruel smile, wondering how she would react once he revealed the rest of his face.

She stumbled, and Arctos all but lifted her into the air. Her arm felt like a dried twig in his grip. She cast him a teary look with clear eyes. No red? Must not have killed as she drank yet.Give her time.

She finally found her tremulous voice. “Where are you taking me?”

“To meet your fate, which I hope is at the end of my sword.”

Her gaze fell on the weapon sheathed at his side, bloodied, but not enough.

Unsporting.The word kept repeating. Inkletter’s castle contact—some traitorous servant who fancied herself in love—had even undermined the protection wards guarding Emilia.Be careful who you trust, leech.

Torben barked a laugh as they passed. “However did you manage to capture that one?”

Arctos only grunted and kept walking. A warrior of his caliber—one who’d shown such promise—reduced to this humiliating spectacle.

Voices quieted when they entered the court.

“Ah, our new prisoner,” Yrsa called. “A vaunted vampire princess.” Everyone turned to stare.

Emilia’s gaze skittered past faces and snagged on the Channeler Stone. Her mouth parted as if with awe. Understandable. A shaft of sunlight caressed its lines, illuminating each inch of detail, every lick of lightning that had formed it.

“Well done, Arctos.” Yrsa scrutinized him. “But you still haven’t attained ohalla?”

“One kill short, my queen. Few valiant warriors challenged me.”

“One! You might’ve visited a barrack.”

Yes! I could have. But…“I followed your orders explicitly.”

“Hmm.” She gestured impatiently toward the vampire. “Come closer. Just her, Arctos.”

He reluctantly released the princess, and she limped forth, trailing blood from her bare feet. She must have cut them on the rocks leading here. Her cowardly shaking made the hem of her gown flutter around her bony knees.

Yrsa studied her, expression wavering between disgust and rampant disgust. “Princess Emilia, how disappointing your reflection must be, always reminding you of your inadequacy. You possess no strength. No fire. No cunning. I wonder if execution might not be a mercy.”

Let me do it!

“Speak, leech,” the queen commanded.

The vampire didn’t. Instead she pivoted and clumsily ran through the cavern, leaving little blood prints. Laughter chased her. Where was she going to go? Sunlight flooded the cave entrance, and she would know of no other way out.

Exhaling, he jogged after the princess. Yet then she bolted diagonally, heading away from the entrance toward the sunlit stone.

Suicide.

The queen yelled for her capture.

But the leech reached the stone before he could snare her. The sun didn’t burn her skin! She pressed her palm against that sacred stone—the vilest blasphemy. In a warbling voice, she called out in Old Norse, “I claim refuge in this queendom as an honorary Berserker with all the rights of this clan!”

He skidded to a stop a foot from her as three thoughts hit him:

With those words, she’s now a member of the clan.

I can no longer kill her.