Page 21 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Mere moments pass before the Blood Stealer enters the throne room. His powers demand more of her than yesterday, for the pull in her chest nearly convinces her she is not pretending, this ruse now feels real. Look at him, so handsome. So . . . alluring. The swing in his step makes it look like he is dancing across the floor, coming to sweep me up and carry me away. Snap out of it. Do not be an idiot. He killed my husband. He is killing me. He would want to kill my child if he knew about it. I do not want him. He wants me to want him. Myla allows a stream of defensive affirmations to flood her mind, centering her train of thought against the attack that is his poisonous aphrodisiac.

A hush claims the court as he walks with slow determination toward her, flanked once more by his wolves and an entourage of dazed guards. Those who watch from their huddled corners exchange fearful glances with one another as they make themselves small. It is as though they avoid being seen to avoid being used. He does not bow. Instead, his eyes devour her from afar, not ceasing in their consumption the closer he gets. He seems to not even notice the bodies and ruin around him, a sight he must be well accustomed to.

“Your Grace,” he says at last, stopping only when he stands directly before her, looking down at where she sits. She has leaned intentionally into her throne, relaxed by all appearances, watching him from beneath her thick lashes. “You look ravishing.”

She allows an easy smile to tease the corners of her lips before standing. Reaching out, she pushes him to his knees, forcing him to look up with a finger tipping his chin. “Lord Shayd, I see you left your manners outside.” Her voice is coy and flirtatious, a sentiment which sparks delight in his darkening eyes.

“Vesperian to you, Your Grace,” he replies, dark eyes casting downward in reverence.

“Then I must ask you to call me Myla,” she answers, urging him to his feet by the collar of his jacket, certain to pull him a step closer so they share the same breath. “I have considered your proposal.”

Vesperian stands tall, his hands resting casually on the hilt of the blade at his hip. “And what have you to say in response?” Only now do his eyes wander to the bodies hanging behind her. A glint of pleasure passes across his face, and Myla hopes that means he is taking the message in the manner it is intended.

Oozing confidence and a faint breath of sensuality, Myla answers, her voice low so only he can hear. “You asked me a question yesterday . . . of the most intimate nature. Do you recall?”

His eyes dart to the space between her legs and with a lick of his lips, he nods. “How could I forget. The question plagues me nightly.”

At this response, Myla feels herself wavering, tortured by what she must say next. This would be a great time to feel your dark pull, Vesperian. You really need to work on your timing and not make me do all the heavy lifting. The pull on her remains silent, as if he were giving her a choice. One of many lies to come from him.

She musters every ounce of courage inside and steps closer to him, tracing a gloved finger gently along his jawline until it finds his lips. Her finger grazes across them, separating them to gain access inside, she brushes the tip of his tongue, making certain her eyes flicker there in mock intrigue. In her peripheral, a tense Bryar stands, staring straight ahead, appearing as an unfazed and dutiful soldier to the crown.

“Two years ago, you rescued me from a most dull arrangement. In the many nights following, I have felt your pull.” She lowers her eyes and speaks the unspeakable. “Thoughts of your power have plagued me nightly. Thought of our power . . . together. So yes, I did touch myself as I thought of you. A man with such gifts, claiming what he wants, myself included; how could I not want what we might create together, what we might own together. A union to be feared after too many years of being underestimated.” Myla removes the finger and releases her grip on his chin before she takes one step back, her perfume wafting and the sway of her body carrying his attention. “Do you see how they look at me? They do not see a queen. They see a widow. My father.” She nods to where Maverick stands, his stern expression the very picture of disapproval. “You see, he created a life for me which I did not like at all. I should like to return the favor.” Myla cringes inwardly as the latter is whispered, exposing more truth than she intended. Another impulse, courtesy of the Blood Stealer before her.

Vesperian, handsome as he may be, reeks of lust and power. His words are repulsive, but promising to her cause. “Am I to assume this is you accepting my proposal?” he nearly growls, primal like a starved beast, stepping forward as though to claim her right here for all to see. Everything about him is refined, from his well-manicured hair and nails, to the precise lines of stubble along his cheeks and jaw. His eyebrows are set in a relaxed line across his brow while the eyes beneath them tell ancient stories. At a glance, he could seem cocky and boyish, but up close and intimate as he is now, she can see it. This man is centuries old, and carries knowledge and guile that she could never hope to hold for herself. He is power. He is an apex predator, ready to strike should his attempts to claim her falter.

Louder now so all may hear, she speaks. “It would be an honor to align myself with you and bring unity to our people and territories. I accept your proposal, Lord Vesperian.” Those in the crowd who are not privy to her plan seem to quiver in the wake of her acceptance. Eyes dart back and forth, searching for others who seem equally stunned. The courtiers need not look far before finding their bewilderment reflected in the eyes of their peers. The gore hanging behind her throne seems to be the only repellent which staunches any potential resistance. Gasps of shock and fear fall into something even more terrifying: silence.

When Caius had proposed to her publicly, all a ceremonial nicety as the official proposal was nothing more than him shaking hands with her father, and she had accepted, he had kissed her hand and thanked her for the consideration. Myla is not sure what she had expected, but as Vesperian steps closer, his hand snaking down the small of her back, she is momentarily stunned. Unwilling to waver now, she checks herself, pressing close to him, unresisting when he meets his lips with hers, his tongue delving inside her mouth. She matches his advancement, her fingers wrapping around his collar to hold him close, and in turn, kissing him back. It feels like the deepest of betrayals, knowing the man her heart beats for is mere steps away. Myla reminds herself that not only is this just the beginning of her sacrifices, but these sacrifices are for her people, and Bryar is one of those whom she hopes to save by suffering this.

Vesperian marks his territory before all. The gesture can not be mistaken as anything less than claiming her for all to see. Myla allows it, mindful to seem open to the encounter. When he pulls away, his face brimming with lust, Myla is grateful to not taste the bourbon and blood on him any longer.

“My Lady,” he speaks, tipping her chin upward with a threatening finger. “I am besotted.” He casts a glance over the room, taking note of the eyes sinking into him and then to the bodies overhead. “It seems I missed a show.”

Myla laughs lightly before slumping into her throne. “Your proposal was not welcomed by all.” A young page offers her and Lord Vesperian a glass of wine each, which they both accept; Myla takes a long sip before speaking again. “I squashed any sign of resistance and made sure the survivors were well aware of what might happen should they defy me.” The words are lackluster and seem to care little of the souls belonging to the corpses. “Do you think I got the message across?” The question is quipped like a small joke between the two of them and followed up by an insensitive giggle. Myla is repulsed with herself.

Lord Vesperian grins, his flash of white making it hard to believe he is a consumer of innocent blood. One could mistake his gaze as riveting, intoxicating even. Perhaps that is his strategy. “Consider me impressed, dear. I felt there may be a ruthless queen beneath the quivering widow, and I am deeply pleased to have been right.”

“You, of all people, should understand biding one’s time.” Myla answers, a dual meaning, for she reminds herself this is a temporary arrangement. Her eyes travel slowly to the bit of chest exposed beneath his black tunic. The place she plans to embed a knife. There is a twisting black tattoo—his wraith, she believes. From what she can see of the marking, the wraith is tattooed in a way that gives the impression of impaling Vesperian’s heart. A grim piece of artwork to put on one’s body, even for a fallen Fae God.

“It seems you are my match in that area,” he remarks, sitting in the throne which was brought in earlier. It is magnificent, with etchings of thorns and skulls seeming to tumble from the base. It was Caius’s father’s throne before. Myla would rather Vesperian sit in her father-in-law’s throne than that of her late husband, who died at his hands. She swallows hard, grateful to have removed Caius’s. There is a rush of whispers and murmuring building throughout the room, courtiers in disbelief that Myla should allow this man to sit upon the throne. In any other circumstance, should a betrothed display such disrespect, she would have them removed. Today, she must allow it. More than allow it though, she must punish her courtiers for questioning it. If it is a ruthless queen he wants . . .

Myla stands swiftly, demanding the silence and attention of all in the room. “I see it in your eyes,” she hisses, her fingers pulsating in and out of a clenched fist, magic convulsing in small orbs between them. They respond to her fear now. “You question me. You question him. But you shall not!” She takes a few swift steps forward, her advancement clearly frightening those closest to her. So many familiar faces, who have often looked upon her as a trusted queen, now tremble before her. She has had tea with these people, she has walked the palace gardens with them. Now, she threatens and terrifies them. Better this than death or enslavement.

“Have you seen my new decor?” She waves a dismissive hand toward the dead. “I believe there is room for more, and the bodies of those who defy me would be the most breathtaking additions.”

Lord Vesperian bellows a deep laugh before standing beside her. “No, my love, look upon the sheep. See how they tremble. They will not bleat . . . lest I eat them.” He licks his lips, a thirst visibly forming and that awful black mist of his wraith seeping from his veins.

Chills prick every inch of her body. Of course, he would threaten to rob them of their free will. That is his most potent weapon of choice. Rather than succumb to the vile twisting in her belly, Myla joins him in sadistic laughter, carelessly turning on her heel and returning to her throne, lowering herself weakly into it, his proximity already draining.

By nightfall, the Blood Stealer’s men have descended. At Myla’s command, arrangements for them have been made in the barracks with her soldiers. Myla trusts that Bryar has briefed his men well and none will truly sleep without a peer on watch. The Blood Stealer has been taken to Caius’s old chambers. She could avoid Vesperian sitting on her dead husband’s throne. There is no logical reason she would deny his sleeping in the King’s chamber were she truly aligned with him and planning to make him her king.

Thus, she stands in the heart of a room she has avoided for years, watching the dark man before her direct servants to place his trunks beside the bed. The bed. A fragrance fills her senses, or the memory of a fragrance. Oakmoss. That is what Caius used to smell like. On that particular night, he reeked of it. In his drunken state, his words landed with a harsher sting than usual. Stop it. She diverts her gaze from the bed, ignoring the memory of fingers around her throat, holding her in place. “Just give me an heir, Myla. That is all I ask of you.” With a shudder, Myla turns around entirely, facing away.

“I have ordered a feast in your honor,” she says, smiling sweetly at Vesperian, who tests the mantle with the swipe of his finger, pleased to find no dust. “I must go ready myself, but I look forward to seeing you there.”

“A feast? You indulge me,” he hums threateningly, watching with thirst as she leaves the room.

Walking down her own halls has never felt so threatening. Unfamiliar soldiers patrol, dressed in the crimson red of Vesperian’s house; some alert, others appearing dazed. His banners have already been strung up on the walls alongside hers; a single drop of red, presumably blood, is framed by ornate black detail. Myla interprets them as the curling of his black wraith around the blood of a victim.