We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 28

I don’t see Tiernon for the rest of the day. I’m unsure if he’s avoiding me, or if the emperor has tasked him with something outside the ludus.

I don’t make it to training. Distantly, I think I should be concerned about Nyrant’s reaction to this, but since I’m unlikely to live through the next two days, I can’t bring myself to care.

I pace for hours, racking my brain before falling into bed, exhausted. Surprisingly, I fall into a deep sleep.

Even more surprisingly, I don’t dream. I’d imagined my sleep would be haunted by the sight of seven corpses, their eyes glowing green.

When I wake, I stare at the ceiling. Shockingly, no sudden waves of brilliance form in my mind. No plan appears, fully formed and ready to implement.

I’ve watched Bran succumb to madness over the past months. His addiction to his sun tonics makes him unpredictable. And it’s difficult to outsmart someone when you can’t predict their next actions.

Until I find a way out of this, I have to play along. I also have to prepare for the fact that this may be my last sunrise. Even if I’m spending it beneath the earth.

Bitterness fills my mouth, and I force myself to get up, shower, and dress, going through the motions.

I take the sword Leon gave me all those years ago. Using the weapons Tiberius sponsored me with feels … wrong. And if I’m going to die, I’ll do it with my own sword in my hand.

“Why aren’t you at training?” Neris asks when I step into the common room. She’s sharpening her weapons, Deitra by her side.

“I’ve got something I need to do.”

Deitra shakes her head. “Annoying Nyrant is not a good idea.”

I shrug, unable to even pretend to care. I can feel her gaze on my back as I walk out into the main corridor.

Surprisingly, the wall allows me entry to Jorah’s domain. I peer into the dim light, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Jorah.”

He doesn’t answer. I’m not expecting him to.

I don’t deserve him to.

I find Jorah’s desk in its little nook. There’s a sense of movement in the air, as if he was just here and left before I arrived.

Placing the sword and shield on his desk, along with one of my own knives, I leave my note for him to see.

Jorah,

Micah would like to train you personally if you’re interested.

I’m sorry.

—Arvelle.

Micah was bemused by my request, but he’d agreed. And I know he’ll keep his word.

It doesn’t make up for taking Jorah’s friend from this world—nothing could. But it’s comforting to know that Jorah will have a chance to live his dream once I’m gone.

When I return to my room, a set of imperius armor is spread out on my bed like a taunt. Panic ripples through me, but I force myself to don the armor. Each time I close my eyes I see Gerith’s and Evren’s faces, their eyes wide with shock and horror.

Pulling on leather leggings, I lift the black breastplate with shaking hands. The breastplate is lightweight, yet impossible to puncture with my knife. It curves up my back and chest, protecting the vulnerable spots at my throat and spine.

The helmet is last.

When I look in the mirror, I’m unrecognizable. Black boots, black leather pants, imperius armor, and the helmet with its eye shield all make it impossible for anyone to tell who I am.

At least until they rip this helmet off my corpse.

No. There’s a chance I can make this work. If I strike fast enough, there will be a moment of shock. A moment where people will stare, their minds unable to comprehend what they’ve just seen.

I’ll be prepared for that moment. I’ll have a way out.

I’ll do everything I can to live .

“Arvelle?” Tiernon’s voice is rough as he knocks on the door. My heart dances in my chest. He’s back.

“Yes?”

A pause. He’s noticed that I haven’t invited him in. “Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

I wish I could pull him in here. Wish I could take him to bed just one last time.

And still, a part of me is desperate for this to be over. Desperate to watch Vallius Corvus suffer and die for everything he has done.

“I have to leave early. My father wants me by his side.” A long, awkward pause, as if he’s waiting for me to say something about him and his father . “I’m leaving Neris in charge.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll see you there.”

Minutes later, I join the others in the common room. Neris gives me a questioning look, likely still irritated that I was able to join the imperius at all.

Time suddenly begins to race. What seems like moments later, we’re walking outside, the frigid air a welcome relief on my overheated skin. Above, the stars glimmer like jewels scattered carelessly onto black silk sheets, their glow creating a soft, silvery light.

We make our way to the closest ley station, traveling in small groups. Neris sends me an intent look and I give her a shaky smile back, even as cold sweat collects at the back of my neck and begins to drip down my spine.

Think of Evren and Gerith.

It helps, imagining them free.

Hope is strange. I’m likely walking to my death, and yet some part of me refuses to comprehend that this is the end. I’m still picturing myself sprinting from this place once again.

But this time, Leon won’t be waiting to help me get to safety. I made sure of it.

“Through here,” Neris says, and the eight of us follow her through the servants’ quarters. Mundanes and low-level sigilmarked pay us no attention as they hurry back and forth, moving in and out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

I’ve seen the way the imperiums walk when they’re on duty. And I mimic as best I can, hands loose at my sides, chin up, strolling with purpose. One by one, we enter the dining room.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the light, cast by hundreds of flickering black candles held in silver candelabras. I guess the emperor doesn’t like aether lamps for his dinners.

We’re not late—Neris would never allow such a thing to happen. And yet it seems the vampires have already gotten started. The coppery tang of blood is heavy in the air, and I breathe through my mouth as I walk past the long, ebony table stretching through the center of the room. The table is polished to a gleam, reflecting the candlelight as the open door creates a breeze, sending the light dancing through the room.

The emperor sits at the head of the table, Rorrik to his right, Tiernon to his left. The remaining members of the Vampire Council are seated around the table, draped in silks and velvets ranging from jewel tones to white.

White splashed with blood.

I frown, dropping my gaze to the vampire’s shirt. He’s sitting to Tiernon’s left, glancing down at the floor as he tugs at something.

I stare, and it takes me a moment to understand what I’m seeing.

A mundane sits at his feet, eyes glazed, blood covering his neck. A leather collar encircles his throat, attached to the leash in the vampire’s hand. At the vampire’s signal, he rises, sitting carefully on the vampire’s lap, as he bares his throat.

The vampire strikes like a snake, laughing softly against the man’s neck as the man cries out. I’m not sure if the sound is one of pleasure or pain, but it makes my head swim.

I’ve been careful to keep my gaze away from the Primus, but I catch the moment Rorrik glances at him, and then slowly turns his head, his gaze unerringly finding me.

His eyes fire with manic delight.

The vampire finishes feeding, dumping his human victim on the ground before picking up his leash and giving it a tug.

“Please,” the man hisses, and the vampire’s lips curl up.

The blood addict crawls across the ground, staring avidly up at the vampire.

Repulsion overwhelms me. These people have families. Families who miss them. Who long for them to return home.

My hands shake, and I’m suddenly ten years old again, a baby in each arm as my mother disappears out the door to find glister.

When you love an addict, you know their addiction isn’t their fault, even as you resent everything about them that made them fall prey to it.

And you live with the guilt. The pain of knowing that you didn’t do enough. The knowledge that if they loved you just that little bit more, they would have overcome that addiction. They would have gotten better. For you.

The man moans again, and I force myself into the present.

I’ve heard that for a subset of sigilmarked and mundanes, vampire blood is a thousand times more addictive than glister.

And for an unlucky percentage, the vampire bite is even more addictive than their blood.

Those people never live long.

I can feel Tiernon’s concerned gaze on me as I position myself against the wall behind the emperor, and I will him to look away before his father takes notice. Thankfully, Vallius has continued his monologue, and he claps Tiernon on the shoulder. “And of course, my youngest son. Many thought I was too harsh at first, forcing him to become Primus. But he has truly excelled in his role.”

“What are you up to, little rabbit?” Rorrik’s voice is filled with dark amusement.

I scowl, thankful no one can see my expression beneath my helmet. How did he build that wall between us when he killed Lucius? When I begged him to stop?

Closing my eyes, I visualize a thick, stone tower encasing my mind.

Rorrik’s low laugh echoes in my head. “A valiant effort. But not enough, I’m afraid. If you had let me teach you, you’d be able to block me by now.”

I open my eyes to see him reaching for one of the mundane women kneeling next to him. She blooms under his attention, her eyes wide as she eagerly thrusts her wrist at him.

I can’t seem to rip my gaze away. Rorrik takes her wrist, his hand surprisingly gentle as he guides her up to her feet. She attempts to sit on his lap, and he slowly shakes his head, ignoring her obvious disappointment.

Lowering his head, he bares his teeth, sinking fangs into her wrist. I draw in a sharp breath, and despite my hidden face, it feels as if Rorrik can see my every reaction. His eyes have darkened, his pupils expanding as the woman lets out a low moan. The muscles at his throat work as he swallows, his hot gaze knifing into me.

The emperor finishes his little speech, and every vampire at the table raises their glass. Rorrik slides his tongue across the woman’s wrist, and she sinks back to the ground, her eyes glazed with dazed pleasure.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. My skin feels too tight, my body overheating.

Lifting his glass, Rorrik joins the others in a toast to his father.

To my left, a mundane sits next to a female vampire, his face pale as his fangs stab into his own lip.

Not a mundane at all. A vampire.

“Why … why is he so … hungry?”

Rorrik sends me an amused glance. “He is freshly sired. Vampires can only drink from their sires for months before they can tolerate pure human blood. And he is being punished for some infraction.”

My stomach swims. “She’s starving him?”

“It’s not a punishment without a little suffering.”

Ugh.

I stare at Tiernon. It’s not Rorrik who I want to talk to. It’s the vampire doing his best to ignore me, even as his gaze continues to flick toward my spot near the wall.

He knows something is wrong. And if I was able to build a mindpathing bridge with Rorrik, I can do it with Tiernon.

“I’m sorry,” I think at him, as hard as I can. He doesn’t look at me.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Tiernon.” I’m not sure if it’s his name that does it, or the desperation as I throw my entire focus into communicating with him, but he looks at me.

His eyes can’t meet mine. I know he can’t see my face thanks to the helmet. But I’ve got his attention.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

I don’t answer. Tiernon returns his attention to his food. “I can guess. You’re going to try to kill my father here. In front of me. In front of every imperium in this room. What are you thinking, Arvelle?”

I’m not going to try to kill the emperor. I’m definitely going to kill him. My hand has begun to itch with the need to pull the knife in the sheath at my hip. My muscles practically vibrate with anticipation. My mind is turning foggy.

I block out Tiernon’s concerned frown, ignore Rorrik’s considering look, and focus on the vulnerable spot at the base of the emperor’s skull.

I visualize the exact movement I need to make. Two large steps toward the emperor. Drive the blade upward at an angle, just beneath the occipital bone. Silver meets brain stem. Instant death.

Time slows. The vampires’ voices become a low drone. My body begins trembling, and when the emperor reaches for his cup, the world sharpens. All I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.

It’s as if I’m moving in slow motion, but I know it’s the fastest I’ve ever pulled a knife in my life. The hilt is cool in my hands, and I watch the spot beneath the emperor’s dark hair as he tips his head back to drink.

Now.

I jolt forward.

Invisible hands clamp around my wrist, twisting the knife in my grasp. Pain rips into me and I let out a shriek, staring down at my hand.

I’ve shoved the knife into my own thigh, the blade sharp enough to rip through the leather of my leggings and deep into flesh and muscle.

Agony erupts, and I stumble back against the wall.

As one, every vampire in the room turns to look at me, eyes flaring with hunger.