The Vampire King's Unwanted Bride

The blood had dried into a dark brown shell in the seams of the stone. Nadia pressed the rag into the bucket. The water went red. She wrung it out and kept scrubbing. Only three lamps burned in the service corridor. Rourke said the candles had to be saved for tonight. "You." His boot stopped beside her hand. He tapped the rolled register against his palm. "We're short one." Nadia didn't look up. "Who?" "You." "Say it plainly." "You're going." Rourke crouched low enough for her to see his face. "Sixth." Her hand stopped in the bucket. "The tithe was three." "The Council doubled it. Three became six." He opened the register and ran his finger down the names. "I filled the last place." "With my name?" "With your name. Nadia Voss. Sixth." "And if I'm not at the altar?" Neither of them moved. "Then they'll come for you." "And if I run?" "You won't get past the gate." The room stayed quiet. "Then I'll take the coin." "Take it." "Why are you telling me?" The lamps flickered. "Because someone had to." "Then tell me the truth." "I am." He held her gaze. "And the priest?" "He'll read what I wrote." "And the King?" She did not look away. "He'll drink." "You can't put me in a noble line." "I don't have to. The priest reads whatever name is written." Wind moved through the room. "And if I refuse?" "Then the guards carry you." Nadia stood. "How many cups?" "Six." "One for each name?" "One for each name." He snapped the book shut. "Go to the dressing room. Don't make me repeat it." "You made the Council choose me?" "The Council chose six people. I chose which name to write." "And the payment?" No one answered. "You'll get the tribute coin." "Then give it to me now." Rourke looked at her for a moment. "You think money matters after tonight?" "It matters before tonight." Nadia pulled her hands out of the red water. "If I'm going to die, I'm not dying unpaid." He studied her, then reached into the register's inner fold and held out a thin coin. "And the coin?" Nadia asked. "You'll get it." "Now." "You think I'd cheat a dead woman?" The silence held. "I think you'd cheat anyone." Rourke's mouth tightened. He put the coin in her palm. Nadia tucked it inside her apron pocket. The pocket had been sewn with three layers of thread. Her the woman who raised her had taught her that. Money goes against the skin, or someone takes it. "What's the coin for?" Rourke asked. "Medicine." "Yours?" "My the woman who raised her." A chair scraped somewhere behind them. "She isn't your blood." "She's my mother." He looked at her a moment longer. "Go to the dressing room." He left. His boots struck the stone, then another door swallowed the sound. The dressing room was brighter than the corridor. Four copper mirrors, three oil lamps, powder and sweat packed into the air. "Three went in last month," Celeste said beside the mirrors. "None came out." "Stop," Iris said. "My cousin went in last autumn. Her name is still in the register." "I said stop." "Then tell me I'm wrong." Celeste pulled her sash tight. "The King's curse is worse. You saw his hand when he lifted the cup." "Which hand?" "The right one. He shook hard enough to spill the wine." Iris adjusted an earring. "The priest says it's the cold." "Cold?" Celeste turned. "That hall has never been cold." "Then why is his hand shaking?" Nadia asked. "Because the curse is worse." "You don't know that." "No," Celeste said. "I know that three people went in last month. I know none of them came out. I know the King drinks from every cup and still trembles. Make of that what you like." "And if he refuses the cup?" Iris looked up at last. "Then none of us leaves." Mina came in carrying gray tribute cloth. She saw Nadia and stopped for half a step. Then she smiled, loud enough for the whole room. "The blood-taint is going too?" Nadia kept untying her apron. "Put the cloth down." "Six tonight," Mina said. "The first five have proper names. Now a floor-scrubber gets the altar. Three hundred years of dignity, and Rourke chooses you." "Rourke chooses nothing. The Council did." Mina's smile thinned. "Does that make it better?" "No." Nadia took the first gray dress from the table. "It makes it true." Mina dropped the cloth. Dust rose. Two girls coughed. "You'll die in that dress," Mina said. "Do you understand that? They'll take you through the side door, and no one will say your name again." "People have been saying my name all morning. None of them kindly." "You think that makes you brave?" "No. It makes me tired." Neither of them moved. "Then sleep before you die?" "I'd rather stay awake." Iris watched them in the mirror. "Mina. Enough." Mina shut her mouth. Iris was noble, even if only a distant branch of a noble house. When she spoke, Mina obeyed. Iris never looked at Nadia. Not once. "You believe her?" Nadia asked. "About what?" Mina said. "The King's hand." "I believe what I've seen," Celeste said. "Then say it again." "The right hand shakes. He can't stop it." "Enough," Iris said. "You'll have us all imagining coffins." "One of us should." Mina picked up the fallen cloth. "We're the ones going in." Nadia pulled the gray dress over her faded brown one. She tied the cord at her waist and paused when her fingers reached the knot. "Who chose the sixth?" the young girl beside her whispered. She still had half a flatbread in one hand. "The Council," Nadia said. "Why are you going?" "Money." "That's all?" "That's enough." Nadia pulled the knot tight. "You have a plan?" Mina asked. "No." "Then don't pretend." "I'm not pretending. I'm going." The room stayed quiet. "That isn't a plan." "It's enough." "Will it hurt?" the girl whispered. "Yes." "Are you scared?" "Of course." The lamps flickered. "Then why not run?" "Where?" The girl had no answer. She looked down at her bread, then wrapped it in her sleeve. The temple hall lay at the center of the estate. Nadia walked at the end of the line. Five nobles walked ahead of her. Iris was second. Celeste fourth. Their heels struck the stone with more certainty than hers. "It's cold in here," Celeste whispered. "It's not cold," Iris said. "You're shaking." "Then why aren't you?" "I am." Iris kept her eyes forward. "I'm just better at hiding it." The temple doors opened. Light spilled across the aisle. Nobles filled the left side. Servants filled the right. At the far end, on a black throne, Adrian Voltaris sat with his right hand on the armrest. "Do not look at him," Celeste whispered. "I wasn't going to." "You were." "Then I'll stop." He held her gaze. "Don't stop watching." "I won't." "You won't." She did not look away. "I know." "Keep your eyes on the cups," Celeste whispered. "And you?" "On the doors." Six silver cups waited on a long table covered in dark red cloth. The priest stood behind it with the register open in his hands. "First tribute. Present your hand." A girl walked to the table. "Name?" the priest asked. She gave it. He wrote it down. "Family?" She answered. "Second. Present your hand." "Third." "Fourth. Present your hand." Wind moved through the room. "Fifth." A girl knelt. The priest asked her family, her age, how many times she had been offered. The answers came too low to hear. Then the knife cut. Blood fell into the cup. A servant carried it to the throne. Adrian took the cup. His right hand trembled when he raised it. He drank once. His throat moved. The cup returned to the tray. Guards led the girl away. "Second." "Third." "Fourth." The ritual repeated. Cut. Bleed. Carry. Drink. Take away. "His hand," Celeste whispered. "Right hand," Iris whispered back. "Look." "I see it." "Don't stare." "Then stop telling me to look." Nadia had already seen it. Adrian's right hand shook at his side. His left hand caught the wrist and held it until the tremor stopped. His face never changed. "Fifth." The tribute before Nadia knelt. The priest cut her hand. Blood struck the cup. When the guards pulled her away, her shoes dragged across the stone. "Sixth." The priest looked at the register. "Nadia Voss." The hall went silent for one breath. Then the noise came. First from the nobles, then from the servants. "Voss?" "Here?" "The scrubber?" No one answered. "Why is she on the altar?" "Who brought her here?" "Does it matter?" The silence held. "Not after tonight." "Rourke's blood-taint." "She belongs in the corridor." A chair scraped somewhere behind them. "Then take her back." "What did she do?" "Nothing. That's the problem." Neither of them moved. "Voss isn't a house." "Neither is a dead noble." Iris whispered something Nadia couldn't hear. Mina's voice cut through the crowd, every syllable a blade. Nadia didn't move. Five used cups sat on the table, their bottoms dark red and black. The sixth cup waited at the end. Empty. The priest bent toward her. His breath smelled old and sweet. "Your hand." She gave it to him. The knife opened the skin beside the callus on her middle finger. Blood welled and fell into the silver cup. Drip. Drip. The color was darker than the others'. Almost black. No one looked. The priest carried the cup toward the throne. Adrian took it. His fingers touched the silver. His right hand shook once. A drop of blood splashed onto his thumb. He didn't wipe it away. He looked into the cup for a long time. Then he raised his head. For the first time, he looked directly at Nadia. "Your blood is spoiled," he said. The hall exploded. "Spoiled?" "Then why is she here?" "Take her." A chair scraped stone. Guards stepped into the aisle. Steel rang from both sides. Nadia stayed on her knees, watching Adrian's right hand. It rested against the cup. Still. Her heart struck once, strange and hard. Spoiled meant death. She knew that much. But his hand wasn't shaking. He hadn't drunk. He had lied. The priest's mouth moved through law and sentence. "Execution," someone shouted. "He didn't drink." "That doesn't matter." "I saw it." The room stayed quiet. "Quiet." Hands seized Nadia's arms and pulled her upright. Her knee scraped the floor. She didn't cry out. She turned her head toward the throne. Adrian's right hand lay over the silver cup, steady. Then she saw Marcus. The King's uncle stood in the first row of the noble seats. Tall. Gray-haired. Dark robes. Around him, people rose, whispered, drew back. His face showed nothing. His mouth curved at one corner. He was smiling. The guards dragged Nadia through the doors. Cold air struck her face. A scabbard hit the wall. A hand pushed her against the corridor stone. Behind her, the priest read the sentence in a dry, practiced voice. Nadia closed her eyes. Her right hand curled against the wall. The cut on her finger kept bleeding. One drop struck the floor. Then another. She didn't see the first drop stay on the surface. It didn't sink. It shone faintly, like a small spark refusing to go out.