The Midnight Prince

Ravenna Selka, Former Queen

Ravenna Selka, Former Queen.

“Papa,” the little girl whispered, “was Ravenna really a queen?”

I sighed.

“Unfortunately.”

my son blinked. “Why unfortunately?”

“Because she reminded everyone. Constantly.”

The little girl giggled. “Was she mean?”

“She was Ravenna.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only answer that explains her properly.”

The boy leaned forward. “Why was a queen hunting people for money?”

The father looked into the fire and smiled faintly.

“Because immortality is long, crowns are expensive, and Ravenna Selka had never met a jewel she did not think belonged to her.”

Ravenna.

I had been a queen for four centuries, seven decades, and twelve very boring years.

Then my cousin stole my throne.

Tragic, yes.

Devastating, no.

People assume losing a crown should feel like losing a heart. It did not. Mostly, it felt like someone had taken a very heavy hat off my head and let my neck breathe for the first time in centuries.

My cousin, Valerian Selka, had always wanted the throne.

Wanting things was his worst trait.

Well, that and the curse rotting under his skin.

And the witch.

The witch was also a concern.

When he walked into my throne room wearing black velvet, stolen confidence, and a pretty witch with red-threaded hands beside him, half my court gasped as if we were in a cheap theater production.

I had been sitting on the Crimson Throne with one leg crossed over the other, drinking bloodwine from a glass older than LunariaNova’s first king.

Valerian lifted his chin.

“Ravenna,” he said, “your reign ends tonight.”

I looked at him.

Then at the witch.

Then at his boots.

“Did you rehearse that?”

His jaw tightened.

The witch smiled.

She had that look witches often had. Like she had swallowed a secret and wanted everyone to know it was expensive.

“You have grown careless,” Valerian said.

“No,” I replied. “I have grown bored. There is a difference.”

He hated that.

Men who crave thrones never enjoy learning the person sitting on one considered it furniture.

The rebellion lasted nine minutes.

Twelve, if one counted the dramatic speech he gave after I had already decided not to fight.

My guards looked at me, waiting for an order.

The court held its breath.

The witch’s red threads curled around her fingers, ready to bind, curse, or do whatever irritating little spell she had spent the evening polishing.

And I realized something very important.

I did not care enough.

The throne was lovely. Black obsidian, blood rubies, ancient bones in the frame. Very tasteful. Very me.

But ruling meant petitions.

And border disputes.

And lesser vampires whining about hunting rights.

And nobles pretending betrayal was a personality.

So I stood.

The court gasped again.

I removed the crown from my head and placed it on the throne.

Valerian stared at me like I had ruined his victory.

I had.

That was the point.

“There,” I said. “Try not to redecorate poorly.”

His eyes flashed red. “You are surrendering?”

“No. I am retiring.”

“You cannot simply retire from a throne.”

“Watch me.”

The witch’s smile faded.

That pleased me.

I walked out with my dignity, three trunks of gowns, two trunks of jewels, one illegal moonstone harp, and a ring once cursed by a saint.

I left Valerian with the throne.

I kept the taste.

At the time, I considered that winning.

Then came the bills.

No one tells you how expensive freedom is.

Palaces maintain themselves when one is queen. Manors do not. Tailors expect payment when one no longer has a treasury. Bloodwine merchants become disturbingly rude when centuries of royal credit suddenly turn into “personal debt.”

And then there was my problem.

I do not like the word addiction.

It sounds so mortal.

So sweaty.

So shameful.

I prefer passion.

A refined hunger.

An appreciation for objects too beautiful, too dangerous, or too cursed for sensible people to touch.

Unfortunately, my accountants called it an addiction.

Cursed royal relics.

Blood-gems.

Funeral crowns.

Rings cut from meteor stone.

Necklaces that whispered in dead languages.

Bracelets that had strangled three duchesses and looked divine doing it.

If it had belonged to a king, killed a bride, cursed a bloodline, or survived a burning temple, I wanted it.

Needed was such an ugly word.

But fine.

Sometimes I needed it.

There was a particular thrill in holding a thing everyone else feared. Feeling old magic purr beneath my fingers. Knowing the relic recognized power, and my blood was old enough to answer.

I bought a crown from a drowned kingdom.

A mirror that showed enemies aging.

A ruby ring that screamed whenever liars wore it.

A dagger handle carved from a saint’s rib.

Practical purchases.

Emotionally necessary.

Financially catastrophic.

By the time the Crimson Bank sent its third warning, I had sold one manor, two blood mares, and a painting that may or may not have trapped the soul of my second husband.

I missed the painting.

Not the husband.

Then the bounty came.

Ashen Drakewood.

Accused traitor.

False White Wolf.

Abductor of Princess Moona PentNova.

Kill on sight if he resisted.

Princess to be recovered alive.

Payment obscene.

Dorian Calder’s seal was at the bottom, pressed into red wax like the man had mistaken himself for someone important.

Werewolf politics.

Messy. Emotional. Always involving destiny, growling, and people running dramatically through forests.

I usually avoided them.

Vampires had standards.

But the bounty amount had several zeros.

And I had recently lost a bidding war over a frost-diamond tiara allegedly worn by a dead northern queen.

A tiara I deserved.

So I took the job.

Not because I needed money.

Obviously.

Because I was expanding my experiences.

And because my accountant had used the phrase “asset seizure.”

Nobody seizes Ravenna Selka’s assets.

Not twice.

Tracking wolves was unpleasant.

They shed emotion everywhere.

Fear in the bark.

Anger in the snow.

Mating tension in the air like badly bottled perfume.

By the second night, I had followed enough broken trails to understand two things.

First, Dorian Calder had lied.

Shocking.

The princess had not been dragged helplessly through the woods. Her scent clung too close to Ashen Drakewood’s. Not captive-close. Choice-close.

Second, Ashen Drakewood was not what the bounty said he was.

Also annoying.

The problem with men falsely accused of being monsters was that they often became very inconvenient to kill.

Still, I had a reputation.

Former queen or not, Ravenna Selka did not turn around because a tragic boy smelled like snow and moral conflict.

Then the sky split open with moonfire.

A pillar of silver-white light burst through the trees, so bright it painted every branch bone-pale.

I stopped on a ridge and stared.

“Well,” I murmured. “That is dramatic.”

The light pulsed again.

Priestess magic.

Untrained.

Violent.

Beacon-bright.

Somewhere down there, the hunted group had either found something sacred or done something stupid.

Possibly both.

I smiled.

Finally.

Entertainment.

By the time I reached the clearing, the fae portal was closing.

I arrived just in time to see a young girl with a glowing crescent on her forehead vanish beside a fae woman with wild eyes and too much grief in her shoulders.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The portal sealed.

Left behind were three wolves and a great deal of blood.

Prince Solan PentNova stood like a man recently dragged away from death and offended by the method. Pale. Shaking. Still holding a blade.

Princess Moona PentNova was in Ashen Drakewood’s arms.

And Ashen himself—

Oh.

That was irritating.

He was supposed to look like a criminal.

Rogue.

Mad.

Wild-eyed.

A monster with blood on his teeth and treason in his bones.

Instead, he stood with the princess held carefully against his chest, one arm under her knees, one around her back, as if the whole forest could attack and he would rather lose his own throat than let her head tilt wrong.

His hair was pale as winter moonlight.

His face was too calm for someone standing in a clearing full of blood.

His eyes found me immediately.

Not frightened.

Not arrogant.

Assessing.

Protective.

Dangerous in that quiet way wolves sometimes managed before ruining it by speaking about feelings.

I stepped from between the pines and smiled.

“Hey, guys,” I said brightly. “Where’s the party? I saw the lights.”

Solan lifted his blade.

Cute.

The blood in the snow steamed beneath my boots.

I glanced down.

“Oh,” I purred. “And snacks.”

Solan frowned. “That is deeply rude.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve been practicing.”

The princess stirred in Ashen’s arms.

His hold adjusted instantly.

Small movement.

Precise.

Tender.

Ugh.

That kind of thing made women stupid.