‘Lyla, she needs Fabian like she needs air. He stops her going mad in this place. By all means, get Fabian. But if you snatch him away from her, who is going to win her around to turning? You are putting the whole Kingdom at risk. Remember that.’

She froze for a moment, before straightening up and turning to face me.

‘You say that, Kaspar James Vladimir Eztli Varn.’ I scowled at her use of my full name. ‘But what about what you are doing? What about how you risk everything? You’re heir, but you’re the one who brought her here. You’re the one who tries to force himself on her. And Fabian will kill her with his bloody kindness. If he’d never invited her to the ball, she never would have been attacked. You two are the ones putting her in danger and if anything happens to her, you know what Michael Lee will do.’ She raised her hand to her neck and made a slicing motion.

I rolled my eyes at her melodrama. ‘Come on, like he will have enough men to actually get to us.’

She had turned back to her desk, downing the rest of her customary vodka and blood. ‘With slayers? Rogues?’

I shook it off. ‘This isn’t the point. The point is you’re not going to humiliate me or Violet by telling anyone that I took her blood. Neither are you going to stop Fabian from going near her.’

‘Aren’t I?’ she challenged.

I folded my arms carefully across my chest. ‘You could if you wanted, but if you do, I will tell father that you lost your virginity to a rogue when you were fourteen. Seem fair?’

She gasped as her mouth fell open, her eyes tingeing pink ‘How do you know that?’

‘Met the guy. Now do we have a deal, darling big sister?’ Grudgingly, she held out her hand and shook mine, the anger clear in her strong grip.

I left, feeling like a hypocrite the whole time. Because in truth, I was sure I was just as angry about the pair of them kissing as Lyla was. At least my sister can put a finger on why.

THIRTY-SIX

Violet

The temperature had noticeably dropped in the month after Ilta’s death. In fact, as far as being kidnapped by vampires goes, things were pretty normal. Lyla apologized (I don’t know what Kaspar had said, but it must have been good) and dropped her threat. Fabian cooled off and didn’t try anything again, although it was still awkward to be around him as I tried to figure out what on Earth I had felt whilst kissing him. And Kaspar? Kaspar stayed away.

I changed into a pair of trousers and a jumper, knowing after the experience of the last few nights that sealing myself between the many layers of sheets on the bed didn’t provide much warmth.

With a groan, I dragged the curtains across the windows, shutting out the worsening weather – the whole mansion smelt damp and I was sure it was going to rain. Again. Never known a year like it, I thought. We haven’t had a single hot spell, and now it’s basically winter.

I curled beneath the sheets, keeping as still as I could so the air would form its own warm blanket around me. Why can’t they just light the fires? Or get bloody central heating? But neither the warmth nor the cold could shelter me from the approaching dream.

The stench of death drifted through the air, not even disguised by the rotting damp in the valley that night. His feet sank into the ground with an unsatisfying squelch, soaking the hem of his cloak. Not that he cared. He had more pressing matters to attend to, such as how the damp masked every scent. Why could the hunters not pick a dry night?

Tonight, he was a true rogue. A feral smile appeared as he held onto that thread of thought. It was so liberating. Unrestrained by laws, morals and commitments, free to hunt when one liked, free to associate with whom one liked, free to enter Varnley and Romania; there were many, many benefits of relinquishing civility.

But something always held him back. To lose one’s civility was to lose one’s dignity. Many of the rogues still remaining in the country had taken to the forest of Varnley, seeking the seclusion and isolation it brought, as well as the obvious advantage of the bustling hunting ground of London being less than an hour’s run away. But to live amongst the animals, as an animal was, well, drastic.

He paused as something caught his gaze, this evening as sharp as a knife from the fresh blood he had just allowed himself to indulge upon. Perhaps a few hundred yards in front of him was a dark shadow, three in fact, hovering about the border to the estate. Throwing the hood of his cloak about his dripping hair, he continued on with caution.

As he approached, he could hear hushed whispers, so softly spoken he could only make out every other sentence.

‘Giles, remember we need the rogues … if you want any chance of cocking a leg over this Lee bitch, then you’ll shut up!’

His lips curled below his fangs in disgust at their crudeness, but he didn’t lose focus, tugging his hood tighter, ensuring his face was cast into shadow and reached into an inner pocket, producing a letter sealed with the rogues’ wax stamp.

‘Good evening, my friends.’ Startled, the three slayers reached into their own coats and he caught a glimpse of something silver and glinting. He rolled his eyes. ‘Put your stakes away, I am no foe.’

‘Then state your name and business, vampire,’ the middle man demanded, stepping forward until he teetered on the border. He did not withdraw his hand from his coat.

‘My name is of no consequence. My business is why you are standing here; I was sent in place of Finnian and Aleix, as they are indisposed.’ Yes, he indisposed of them yesterday, especially once he learned of this meeting they had planned. He walked forward, careful to keep his gaze averted slightly downward so his hood would not slip and handed the slayer the seal. The slayer allowed his gaze to flick downwards, before it bounced back up and then down again. Seeming satisfied, he placed the letter into his pocket, his hand withdrawing from his long coat.

‘Why has this meeting been requested, rogue? We have nothing of importance to share.’

He backed away a few spaces, allowing his elbow to rest on a nearby tree. He had little concern that they could overpower him, but he certainly didn’t want a premature fight breaking out.

‘Quite sure about that, slayer?’

‘Of course we are sure!’

The second man stepped forward, his accent considerably thicker than the accent of the first man. ‘Romania is a long way from Varnley, no? And yet we have come all this way to hear you ask for information we do not have.’

He did not reply immediately, instead waiting and watching them squirm as he carefully chose his words.

‘Not a wasted journey though, is it, my friends? I’m sure the English weather is quite enjoyable.’ Careful to ensure his hood remained in place, he let his head roll skywards, where the stars were masked by swathes of clouds. He just needed to wait. Humans were so impatient – they let their secrets slip so easily.

‘You know as well as I that Lee is waiting for the Varns to make a mistake. He needs an excuse to gain the support of the British government.’

The cloaked figure waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Varns don’t make mistakes.’

‘Maybe they don’t need to.’

His hand clenched. ‘Must you speak in riddles, slayer? You just stated that Lee needs to wait for a mistake, and now you say the Varns don’t need to make one? What do you mean by it?’

The slayers began to back away and the cloaked figure felt his eyes flash black. ‘That is all you will learn tonight, rogue. We will send instructions when the time is nigh.’

‘Of course,’ he replied, fighting hard to keep his voice from wavering as he prepared to leap. With a bow of the head from the one man, all three turned and made an exit, retreating away from the border.

The cloaked figure forced air in and out of his lungs. There are three of them, he reminded himself. He couldn’t afford to blunder. Stepping around the tree to conceal himself, he silently counted to thirty before beginning his pursuit.

Surprise was everything. He doubted the first slayer had time to register what was happening as he appeared as a shadow behind the largest of the three, placing his hands as softly as a lover would on either side of the man’s neck, fracturing it without so much as a moan from the man as he toppled face-first to the ground. His comrades took three or four steps before they even noticed what had occurred. When they did, a short, tapered stake materialized in the hand of the first man as he whipped around, thrusting the point in the direction of his assailant’s chest. The cloaked figure was faster; he had already anticipated the man’s move – slayers were so predictable – and stepped aside, leaving the weapon to strike thin air. The slayer stumbled and when the cloaked figure tore the stake from his hands, he toppled, landing at the feet of the dead slayer.

The third man was not so foolish. He backed away, holding his stake close to his chest and allowing his eyes to jerk between his two fallen comrades and the vampire in front of him. In their flecked hazel, he could see the reflection of the one slayer struggling to his feet, juxtaposed with the inner struggle of the third man as he battled between fight or flight.

The cloaked figure did not have the time or patience to wait for him to make a decision. With a languid effort, he pitched the stake in the direction of the man’s chest, turning away to deal with the first slayer. He knew his aim was true when the scent of blood rose from the corpse, hanging like a heavy musk in the air between the trees.

He stopped just short of the slayer, watching as he hoisted himself up, his nose dribbling blood. It was a pitiful sight. But as soon as the man had straightened, he was thrust against the tree as the cloaked figure’s hand clamped down on his throat.

‘What do you mean, they don’t need to make a mistake?’ he hissed in the trembling man’s ear. The slayer didn’t answer, instead throwing a ball of spit to the ground. The cloaked figure cringed. Filthy habit. He was disgusted, even, to bite such a filthy, grime-coated man and he toyed with the idea of using one of their stakes, but he dismissed it – he needed answers. So he sank his fangs into the neck, driving them in deep until his mouth was clamped around his throat. When he had quenched his mounting thirst, he withdrew, plugging each bite wound with a finger to prevent them from healing. Twisting them like a corkscrew, he worked his way through veins and sinew, earning cries of pain from the slayer.

‘You’re going to die, but there’s still time to make you suffer,’ the cloaked figure growled, plunging his fingers even deeper.

‘Who are you? Who do you serve? You don’t stink enough to be a rogue,’ the man groaned with surprising defiance considering his legs were beginning to buckle from under him.

‘I serve no one. Now why don’t they need to make a mistake?’ The cloaked figure raised his knee, pressing it into the other man’s crotch, watching as his eyes bulged. When no answer came, he jerked his knee up. It had the desired effect.

‘R-rumours,’ the slayer choked, trying to press his hands to his crotch as tears rolled down his cheeks.

His heart leapt into his mouth. Rumours about Violet Lee’s attack? Could the slayers know? ‘Rumours about what?’ The cloaked figure only gave him a second to answer, before kneeing him in the crotch again.

‘The S-Sage.’

The cloaked figure could see he was losing consciousness and shook him roughly.

‘What about the Sage?’

The man could barely speak and only managed to utter one word before he slumped onto the cloaked figure’s shoulder, out cold.

‘Prophecy.’

Frustrated, the cloaked figure reached down with one hand and plucked the stake from the other slayer’s chest, pinning the unconscious man through the chest to the tree, like a flyer to a lamppost. There was no point attempting to wake him and he wanted to take no chances when it came to leaving witnesses.

Leaving the corpses behind – other rogues would enjoy the feast – he set off back west, feeling as though he had achieved little. Prophecy? What did he mean by that? Athenea had hundreds of prophecies, whole archives dedicated to them, and rumours circulated about them constantly. And how is it a mistake? How can Michael Lee use it as an excuse?

Either way, he knew he was not the person to make sense of it and took a running leap in the direction of Varnley.

My eyelids peeled themselves apart, and I blinked in the bright early morning light. My spine felt as though it had been wrenched apart with a hacksaw, and my neck had an unwelcome stiffness to the muscle. After blinking a few times I realized I was splayed across the floor, half-leaning against the bed, half-lying on the floor.

Groaning, I lifted myself up off the ground, using the bed as a support. Sinking onto the thick mattress I caught an unpleasant stink, like that of a sports kit gone unwashed for weeks.

Disgusted, I realized that I was the source of the stink – I was coated in sweat.

Then it hit me. The dream. In an instant, every memory came flooding back, different parts vying for attention. Most prominent of all was the thought he’s coming. Secondly, came the slayer’s foul reference to what they wanted to do to me, and with a shudder, I resolved to step into the arms of none other than my father when I got out of here. Allies to the government they might be, but good they were not.

Scrabbling up, I darted for the wardrobe and hurried to get dressed.

Someone – the Sage, whoever that is – has made a mistake and a mistake is what my father needs.

I inhaled, paused, and stared at the wooden floor of the corridor for a moment, allowing the tiny bead of hope I had buried deep in my chest to grow bigger and bigger, bursting as I contemplated the idea that I could be getting out of here soon.

And he’s coming here, to Varnley, to tell the King what I already know.

The house seemed hushed when I reached the stairs and I hovered on the top step, unnerved by the sound of the ticking clock – in fact it was the only sound, apart from my breathing which I noticed was speeding up.