The music hits me first—a waltz played on instruments that sound wet, as if the strings are made from something that recently stopped screaming. Laughter drifts through the air, sharp as broken glass.
Vassier waits at the ballroom entrance. "Your Grace," he intones. "The wedding ball awaits. The ceremony will follow at midnight."
The massive doors swing open and I pause at the top of the grand staircase, letting my eyes adjust to the ballroom below.
It's a cavern of decaying splendor, crystal chandeliers dripping light like blood into water. The dancers move in perfect synchronization, too perfect, and I realize with crawling certainty that not a single heart beats in that room except mine.
They all turn to look at me at once.
Dozens of vampire faces tilting upward in unison, like flowers following a different kind of sun. Their eyes reflect the candlelight wrong—silver, gold, red—colors that human eyes never hold.
Each step echoes too loudly. The vampires below have stopped dancing entirely now, creating a path straight through their midst.
A woman intercepts me halfway across the floor—red-gold hair that seems to move independently of any breeze, eyes like green fire. She's younger-looking than I expected for someone who must be ancient, her beauty sharp enough to cut.
"The sacrificial lamb arrives," she says, circling me slowly. "Though you're prettier than the last few. I'm Lydia. Dorian's beloved sister."
The way she says 'beloved' makes it sound like a threat.
"How... quaint.” Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "We've all been dying to meet you. Well, not literally. That's more your fate, isn't it?"
"If I'm meant to die," I say, finding my voice despite the fear crawling up my spine, "at least I'll do it as myself. Can you say the same?"
Lydia's eyes flash dangerously, but before she can respond, two figures glide forward—a matched pair of beautiful monsters. The man has silver hair despite his youthful face, the woman's is black as midnight.
"Oh, she has teeth," the man says with delight. "How refreshing. I'm Lord Callum Ashford, and this divine creature is my wife, Lady Corin."
"For now," Corin adds with a languid smile.
"Don't mind them," Lydia says, her grip on my arm tightening. "The Ashfords think eternity is a game."
"Everything is a game when you have forever to play it," Callum counters.
"Tell us," Corin says, tilting her head, "what does it feel like? Standing here among us, knowing you're the only one whose heart still beats?"
"Like being the only candle in a room full of shadows," I answer. "Eventually, you'll all be drawn to my flame, whether to warm yourselves or snuff it out."
Callum laughs like silver bells over a grave. "Oh, I do hope Dorian doesn't drain you too quickly. You're far too entertaining!"
"Come," Lydia says, pulling me forward with barely controlled violence. "My brother is waiting."
Lydia's eyes flash dangerously, but before she can respond, two figures glide forward—a matched pair of beautiful monsters. The man has silver hair despite his youthful face, the woman's is black as midnight.
"Oh, she has teeth," the man says with delight. "How refreshing. I'm Lord Callum Ashford, and this divine creature is my wife, Lady Corin."
The dancers—vampires, all of them—move with inhuman grace. Their skin catches light differently, lit from within by something cold and dead. And then I see him.
Prince Dorian North stands at the far end of the ballroom, and the sight steals what little courage I'd gathered. He's beautiful in the way winter is beautiful—stark, merciless, and absolute.
Black hair falls to his shoulders, framing a face carved from marble and shadow. His eyes find mine across the vast space—obsidian black as the void between stars, utterly empty of warmth.
Up close, he's even more overwhelming—perfection preserved in ice. He doesn't bow, doesn't smile, merely regards me with those bottomless eyes.
"Lady Rosalind," he says, his voice winter wind over graves. "Welcome to your wedding ball."
A servant appears with a goblet. The liquid inside is too dark for wine, too thick. Dorian takes it, maintains eye contact with me, and drinks deeply.
When he lowers the goblet, his full lips are stained red.
"You must be thirsty from your journey," he says, mockingly. Another servant offers me wine—actual wine, golden and innocent. "Please. Drink."
I take the goblet with steady hands, though my pulse races. "To our union, then. May it be as brief as you clearly hope."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or interest.
"Careful, little bride. Wishing for death so publicly might inspire someone to grant it."
"Better a quick death than a slow rot." The wine tastes of nothing, but I drink it anyway, maintaining eye contact. "Though I suspect you know all about slow rot, don't you?"
The temperature drops so fast frost forms on my goblet. Around us, conversations falter as vampires sense the sudden charge in the air.
"Dance with her, brother," Lydia demands, her voice carrying a strange intensity. "Isn't that what husbands do? Dance with their brides at parties?"
The word brides drips with venom.
Dorian sets down his goblet and extends his hand. Not a request. A command.
I place my hand in his. His skin is cold as death itself. He leads me onto the floor as the music shifts to something slower, more intimate. Other couples give us space, creating a circle of emptiness around us.
"You're not what I expected," he says as we begin to move. His hand at my waist grips hard enough to bruise through corsetry.
"You expected me to cower and weep?"
"I expected you to have enough sense not to challenge a vampire." His voice drops to barely above a whisper, but it carries more threat than any shout. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"
"Told the truth?" I force myself to meet his gaze despite the darkness I find there. "Or is honesty another thing vampires have forgotten along with their heartbeats?"
He spins me violently, pulling me back against him with my spine to his chest, his mouth at my ear. "The last person who spoke so freely... I removed their tongue. Whilst they watched."
I can feel the absence of breath against my neck, the terrible stillness of his chest pressed to my back.
"How fascinating," I manage, though my voice trembles. "Did you do it before or after you killed your last wife?"
He spins me again, facing him now, and his grip on my hand tightens enough that bones grind.
"She died."
"Did you kill her?"
The music swells. He pulls me closer, close enough that I can see flecks of old blood in his dark eyes.
"Does it matter?" His hand moves from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against him with deliberate force. "She's dead. You're here. And everyone in this room is waiting to see when you break."
"I don't break."
"Everything breaks." His mouth hovers above mine, close enough that I taste pomegranate on his breath. "The only question is whether it happens beautifully or ugly. Isabelle broke beautifully. All poetry and song and sweet surrender."
His lips brush my ear as he whispers, "You'll break ugly. All defiance and fury and wasted courage. And I'll drink every drop of that rage until there's nothing left but another portrait for Lydia's gallery."
"Try it," I breathe back, though my body trembles against his, fear and something worse tangling in my chest. "But we both know you won't. You're too busy destroying yourself to destroy anyone else properly."
Let him see I know about pomegranate wine, know what it doing to vampires.
The song ends and he releases me immediately, stepping back as if my touch burns him. "Midnight approaches," he says. "You should prepare yourself.”
He turns away, but I call after him. "Will you kill me tonight? Right after the vows?"
Dorian pauses, doesn't turn. "No. I prefer my victims willing."
"I'll never be willing."
"We'll see."