He must have felt the tremor, because he smiled against her skin, that perfect, serpent-charming smile. Her back arched. His hand was at the base of her spine, pulling her against him as he teased his way along her collarbone. Heat blossomed across her body where his hands found her skin. Lila knotted her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth back to hers. They were a tangle of limbs and want, and she didn’t think it was better than freedom or money or magic, but it was certainly close.
Alucard was the first to come up for air.
“Lila,” he whispered against her, breath jagged.
“Yes,” she said, the word half answer and half question.
Alucard’s half-lidded eyes were dancing. “What are you running from?”
The words were like cold water, jarring her out of the moment. She shoved him away. His chair caught him behind the knees and he tumbled gracefully into it with something half laugh, half sigh.
“You are a bastard,” she snapped, blushing fiercely.
He tilted his head lazily. “Without question.”
“All that, whatever that was”—she waved her hand—“just so I’d tell you the truth.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m more than capable of multitasking.”
Lila took up her wine glass and threw it at him. Both wine and cup hurtled through the air, but before they reached his head they just … stopped. The glass hung in the air between them, beads of purple wine floating, as if weightless.
“That,” he said, reaching out to pluck the goblet from the air, “is a very expensive vintage.”
The fingers of his other hand made a swirling motion, and the wine became a ribbon, spilling back into his glass. He smiled. And so did Lila, just before she snatched the bottle from the table and hurled it into the fire. This time Alucard wasn’t fast enough, and the hearth crackled and flared as it devoured the wine.
Alucard let out an exasperated sound, but Lila was already storming out, and the captain had enough sense not to follow.
II
RED LONDON
The bells were ringing, and Rhy was late.
He could hear the distant sounds of music and laughter, the clatter of carriages and dancing. People were waiting for him. They’d had a fight, he and his father, about how he didn’t take things seriously. How he never took things seriously. How could he be king when he couldn’t even be bothered to arrive on time?
The bells stopped ringing and Rhy cursed, trying to fasten his tunic. He kept fumbling with the top button.
“Where is he?” he could hear his father grumbling.
The button slipped again, and Rhy groaned and crossed to his mirror, but when he stepped in front of it, he froze.
The world got quiet in his ears.
He stared into the glass, but Kell stared back.
His brother’s eyes were wide with alarm. Rhy’s room was reflected behind him, but Kell acted as though he were trapped in a box, his chest rising and falling with panic.
Rhy reached out, but a horrible chill went through him when he touched the glass. He wrenched back.
“Kell,” he said. “Can you hear me?”
Kell’s lips moved, and Rhy thought for an instant that the impossible reflection was just repeating his own words, but the shapes Kell’s mouth made were different.
Kell pressed his hands against the mirror, and raised his voice, and a single muffled word came through.
“Rhy …”
“Where are you?” demanded Rhy, as the room behind Kell began to darken and swirl with shadows, the chamber dissolving into black. “What’s going on?”
And then, on the other side of the glass, Kell clutched his chest and screamed.
A horrible, gut-wrenching sound that tore through the room and raised every hair on Rhy’s body.
He shouted Kell’s name and beat his fists against the mirror, trying to break the spell, or the glass, trying to reach his brother, but the surface didn’t even crack. Rhy didn’t know what was wrong. He couldn’t feel Kell’s pain. He couldn’t feel anything.
Beyond the glass, Kell let out another sobbing cry, and doubled over before crumpling to his knees.
And then Rhy saw the blood. Kell was pressing his hands to his chest, and Rhy watched, horrified and helpless, as blood poured between his brother’s fingers. So much. Too much. A life’s worth. No, no, no, he thought, not this.
He looked down and saw the knife buried between his ribs, his own fingers curled around the golden hilt.
Rhy gasped and tried to pull the blade free, but it was stuck.
Beyond the glass, Kell coughed blood.
“Hold on,” cried Rhy.
Kell was kneeling in a pool of red. A room. A sea. So much red. His hands fell away.
“Hold on,” pleaded Rhy, pulling at the knife with all his strength. It didn’t move.
Kell’s head slumped forward.
“Hold on.”
His body crumpled.
The knife came free.
* * *
Rhy wrenched forward out of sleep.
His heart was pounding, and the sheets were soaked with sweat. He pulled a pillow into his lap and buried his face in it, dragging in ragged breaths as he waited for his body to realize the dream wasn’t real. Sweat ran down his cheek. His muscles twitched. His breath hitched, and he looked up, hoping to find morning light spilling in through the balcony doors, but was met with darkness, tempered only by the Isle’s pale red glow.
He bit back a sob of frustration.
A glass of water sat beside his bed, and he gulped it down with shaking fingers while he waited to see if his brother would come barging in, convinced the prince was under attack, the way he had those first few nights.
But when it came to nights and mornings and the dreams between, Rhy and Kell had quickly developed a silent understanding. After a bad night, one would give the other a small, consoling look, but it seemed crucially important that nothing actually be said about the nightmares that plagued them both.
Rhy pressed his palm flat against his chest, lessening the pressure with the inhalation, increasing with the exhalation, just as Tieren had taught him to do years before, after he’d been taken by the Shadows. It wasn’t the abduction that gave him nightmares in the months that followed, but the sight of Kell crouched over him, eyes wide and skin pale, the knife in his hand and the rivers of blood streaming from his severed veins.
It’s all right, Rhy told himself now. You’re all right. Everything’s all right.
Feeling steadier, he threw off the sheets and stumbled up.
His hands itched to pour a drink, but he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to sleep. Besides, it was closer to dawn than dusk. Better to just wait it out.
Rhy pulled on a pair of silk trousers and a robe—the latter plush and heavy in a simple, comforting way—and threw open the balcony, letting the night’s icy chill dispel any dregs of sleep.
Below, the floating arenas were nothing more than shadows blotting out the river’s glow. The city was speckled here and there with lights, but his attention drifted to the docks, where even now ships were sailing sleepily into port.