Rapture's Edge

54

“If they knew where I was now, we’d have already seen them. I’d already be dead.”

Hmm. He believed her sincerity about that; her voice was hard with conviction. But something was most definitely off. He decided to push her a bit and see how she’d react. In a sympathetic, thoughtful voice he asked, “Why do you think they bothered to blow up the police station? It seems a bit…loud for a group of assassins. At least, I always imagined assassins to be more of a stealthy group.”

Her face changed, a flash of unidentifiable emotion, here then gone. “Diversion, maybe. I don’t know.”She turned her head and he couldn’t see her expression, so he slowly walked around behind her with his hands clasped behind his back, contemplative, patient. When they were shoulder to shoulder, he set his gaze in the middle distance so he could see her in his peripheral vision. “You’re probably right. Killers seem to enjoy creating diversions. Your father’s killers, for instance—they certainly knew how to divert you. Getting Demetrius to woo you so you wouldn’t suspect his real motives was, in its own way, a stroke of genius.”

It was nothing, it was less than nothing, but his hawk eyes detected it and recognized it for what it was: a tell. A tiny muscle beneath her left eye twitched. Once. Otherwise, her face and body remained entirely impassive. Her breathing didn’t even change.

But now he knew. Whatever she was hiding, it had to do with Demetrius.

His mind leapt far, far ahead, calculating possibilities, creating, examining, and discarding hypotheses, working with the swift, cold precision of a well-oiled machine.

Perhaps there had been no assassins. Perhaps instead of an attempt to end her life, the bombing had been more of an attempt…to win her heart. She’d returned here, so the attempt had obviously not been successful, but perhaps something had been planted.

Perhaps a seed of doubt had been sown.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice steady and cool, “it was genius.” She turned her head and looked him full in the face, her eyes flat, revealing nothing. “Ingenious, rather. One wonders how a group of males with room-temperature IQs normally preoccupied with nothing more than screwing and fighting could be quite so cunning.”

Ah. A challenge. He’d been prepared for it for years. What actually surprised him was that it had taken this long.

He returned her gaze with a steady, open one of his own. “Hatred is a powerful motivator, principessa.”

“Hatred?” she repeated, incredulous, and turned to him. “What reason would they have to hate me?”

“Not you,” he said with a gentle shake of his head. “Your father.”

She stared at him, revealing nothing. “Go on.”

Silas let his gaze drift away, lingering over the forlorn headstones. A raven caught his eye, and he followed its flight from the branches of a leafless tree until it disappeared into the winter sky beyond the pitched roof of the abbey. “Children can never truly know their parents,” he murmured sorrowfully. “Love and loyalty conspire to blind them to certain distasteful truths.”

Without looking he felt the change in her; the stiffening, the flash of heat. “Don’t talk to me in riddles, Silas. Say what you mean to say.”

He took pains to ensure his expression was exactly the right combination of angst, caring, and sincerity when he turned to face her. “Your father was a brilliant man, Eliana. I served him for most of my life. I know his intentions were good—”

“Silas,” she warned, moving closer.

“But he wasn’t always the kindest man. In fact, he could be…unspeakably cruel.”

He let it hang there between them, enticing as a windfall plum. Eliana said nothing for long moments, and Silas guessed she was searching her memory banks for corroborating evidence. She was silent just long enough to make him think she’d found it.

“Kings are known to be heavy-handed,” she said stiffly. “The burden of rule rests on their shoulders. They can’t afford to be…soft.”

“There is heavy-handed, Eliana, and then there is bloodthirsty. Tyrannical. Ruthless.” His voice dropped. “Mad.”

She barked a disbelieving laugh. “Mad? My father, mad? You yourself said he was brilliant—”

“Genius and madness often go hand in hand—”

“What proof do you have?” She was livid now, breathing hard, eyes flashing cold fire. She stepped even closer, and he took in a deep, intoxicating breath of her scent, not perfume but something richer, darker, decadent. “What evidence can you produce? My father worked his entire life to find the solution to the problem of our infertility and the curse of the Transition that’s plagued us since the beginning of time. And he found it! He actually did it! What kind of brutal madman would want us to survive, to join Bloodlines with humans and live in peace—”

“Your brother shares a portion of your father’s particular brand of madness,” Silas interrupted, very quietly. She blanched, her lips flattened in disgust. “But none of his genius and none of his foresight. Caesar is warped in ways your father wasn’t, but, my dear, your father was warped in ways only the devil himself could conjure. Ask, if you don’t believe me.” He gestured toward the abbey. “Ask your friend Mel. Ask any of the rest of them. Your father had a side so dark it puts the blackest pits of hell to shame.”

She flinched. All the color had drained from her face.

“I’m sorry.