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  Why did his father give a single drop of blood about this human being Chosen? Especially when Viktor supposedly didn’t care about humans? Dante would have to think about that later—along with the fact that his father believed that the servant wouldn’t survive being Chosen. Had assumed she was dead before he’d taken the time to listen for a heartbeat.

  Viktor grabbed one of her wrists. “No pulse.” His face was paler than normal. He dropped the cold limb and it made a thwacking sound as it hit the bench. Hopefully the impact hadn’t damaged anything. Dante wasn’t sure how much the human body could take, and he didn’t want the transformation to be more difficult than it had to be, since she was already struggling.

  Dante inclined his head. “It’s there; you need to listen on her chest.”

  Bending down, Viktor pressed his ear to the exposed body part in question. “Nothing.”

  “It’s there,” Dante insisted.

  Viktor jerked upright. “This is beyond enough!” He slammed a hand down against the bench, next to the servant. The metal buckled and her hand flopped over the edge.

  Dante took an involuntary step backward.

  “This time you have gone too far.” His father was seething; it didn’t take a degree in body language to work that one out. Dante wouldn’t have been surprised if steam had emerged from his father’s ears.

  Dante straightened. “She agreed to be Chosen; it’s not my fault she didn’t make it.”

  “That is preposterous. She would never have agreed.”

  Dante blinked. Not the response he had expected. “Another one?” or “It is your fault” or “I said to find a born vampire bride,” but not “She never would have agreed.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “You just told me the other day that no human would refuse being Chosen. And now you’re saying that you know the mind of a servant? This servant? And that their answer would have been no?”

  “You dare to talk back to me?” Viktor’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. His nails must have cut skin, because the smell of vampire blood reached Dante’s nostrils.

  Dante thought about it. “I thought the answer was pretty clear.”

  “You will pay her death tax out of your allowance, do you hear me?” His father’s expression was gaunt, intense.

  “I keep telling you, she isn’t dead.” Dante rolled his eyes.

  “There is no heartbeat.”

  “Well, there is one, I can hear it.”

  “What? With your special hearing abilities?” Viktor sliced a hand through the air when he saw Dante was about to speak. “I have had enough!”

  Viktor turned to face the hall and shouted, “You!”

  A servant appeared in the doorway. She was all but cowering in her lord’s presence. It was pathetic. “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring me two men and some new clothes.” The servant bobbed a quick curtsy and then dashed away.

  Dante watched as Viktor turned back to him, his features twisted in rage. “I’ve had enough of your obsession. I thought giving you a servant with a non-brown eye color would contain your curiosity; make you realize they are no different. But what happened? You fucked up—again!”

  “She isn’t dead!”

  “She is dead. And now I have to explain this to her grandmother.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  Her grandmother? What the—

  “I don’t want you to leave this estate, do you hear? You are to stay here and not attempt to Choose any more humans. If I hear a cross word about you, I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

  Two burly footmen hurried into the room and the female servant returned with an armful of clothing.

  “Dress her and clean the blood off of her,” Viktor snapped at the servants.

  “She’s not dead,” Dante insisted.

  Viktor flicked his fingers at Dante. “I don’t want to see you for a decade.”

  “You just said I can’t leave the estate.”

  Dante thought his father’s head would explode. His face flushed a deep red and his lips disappeared. He turned away from him and addressed the servants. “Leave her down in the cold room. Her family will arrive to collect her later.”

  They nodded, wide eyes focused on the floor.

  She wasn’t dead, Dante wanted to shout.

  His father stalked out of the room.

  Dante wanted to stop them from moving the body, but he knew his father would snap whatever control he had left. Dante just hoped that they wouldn’t cremate her or bury her. He’d have to try and work out a way to sneak out and be there when she awoke.

  If she woke.

  Part II

  May you live in interesting times

  Chapter 26

  “She’s what?”

  Melissande felt as if her heart had been ripped from her. Her hand groped her chest and it clutched the soft material of her shirt as she slumped down on one of the plush green armchairs that littered her mother’s salon.

  “Dead, Mel.” Her mother sat opposite her, on her “throne” as Elle called it. Olive’s face was impassive; Green eyes with cold flints that reflected the lamplight in imitation sentiment.

  Melissande’s fingers tightened on her shirt. Why aren’t I crying? she wondered. Where are the tears?

  “How?”

  “She was Chosen.”

  By the blood, no.

  Melissande unclenched her hand and raised it, shaking, to her eyes. Not Elle, not her baby. Not Simeon’s daughter. “Elle would never have agreed!”

  “He says she did.” Olive spat the first word of her sentence.

  “He?” Melissande stared at her mother, her hand tangling in her hair, tugging, pulling strands out. She didn’t feel it.

  “Viktor Kipling’s son.”

  “Who?”

  “The Earl of Wintermere’s son.”

  The name meant nothing to her. But then, she’d never been interested in the aristocracy; that had been her mother’s obsession. All Melissande cared about was that this earl was the father of her daughter’s murderer.

  “I am to collect her body later on tonight,” Olive said.

  Melissande jerked her hand away from her face and glared at the blonde threads of hair caught in her fingers. “You left her there?”

  “I only just received notice.”

  Oh yes, sure you did, Melissande thought. You probably found out three hours ago and finally got around to “passing the message on.” She didn’t care that her mother could probably hear those thoughts. She hoped to blood she did.

  Melissande clenched her fist around the hair caught there. “I want her back home, now.”

  Her mother sighed. “She won’t be going home; she’ll be going to the funeral parlor.”

  “No, she’ll be coming back to my house. I will prepare her body for the funeral.” Melissande’s fingernails bit into her palm, and blood seeped from where her nails had bitten into flesh. She dropped the mental barriers that shielded her from other people’s emotions and irritation swamped her, but it wasn’t hers, it was Olive’s.

  “She will go to the funeral home.”

  Melissande jerked her head up. “She will not.”

  Her mother’s Green eyes flared. “Do not argue with me, child.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” Melissande fought for calm, but it was hard. She wasn’t a calm person; it was too hard to be when you could feel everything that everyone else felt. And it was especially difficult when all the emotion that radiated from her mother was relief, irritation and yes—a little bit of pleasure. “This is my daughter we’re talking about. You never cared one whit about her, but I do—did. You are not going to let her final preparation be handled by strangers.”

  “You are overwrought. Graceds don’t do the care of their dead. Only Browns do that.”

  “What I am, Mother, is angry. You forced Elle to go on this mission—you think I didn’t know?—and then you tell me a couple of days after she’s gone that she’s dead! I am her
mother!”

  “It is a deep shame, but you should let the professionals handle the arrangements.” Cold, frosty Green.

  “Really? You think it’s a shame? Because all you feel is annoyance and relief.”

  “You are so upset that you can’t read emotions properly,” Olive insisted. She waved a hand and her two bodyguards appeared from the shadows.

  Melissande stood. “Oh, I’m reading them fine.” She stalked toward her parent and leaned down over her “throne.” “Know this; I’m the best empath in this country and you’re as emotionally barren as a desert. You can pretend sympathy, but you can’t fake it, not here.” Melissande thumped her chest.

  With that, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

  Tears were pouring down her cheeks, but she didn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel anything other than her own emotions. Once, she would’ve thought that to be a blessing.

  More tears welled; her chest was broken and her heart shattered.

  Again.

  My poor baby.

  *

  Olive breathed in the aromatic steam of her tea. She nodded her thanks at Kevin, Bjorn’s brother, who left the room with the empty teapot. The scent of lemongrass and willow bark surrounded her. She settled back in her green chair. The tea wasn’t like the expensive stuff that came all the way from Bangkor, but it made her bones ache a little less. And that was something in this bitter weather. Especially since she’d had to go out in it to check Elle’s body.

  Thinking of her granddaughter reminded her of Melissande and the debacle Olive had had to endure. Sending out a mental probe to check on Mel, she found her daughter’s mind mired in turmoil. It made her draw back. Melissande was at her apartment in the city, with Bjorn on his way back to Olive’s house. Mel was fuelled by emotion, to the point where Olive had trouble grasping Mel’s thoughts at times. Whether her daughter had developed it as a defense against her mother or whether it was just part of her strength as a Blue, Olive didn’t know.

  But she didn’t like it.

  Aside from the Green daughter Olive had had, Mel was the only child of hers that had been able to block Olive from entering her mind whenever she wanted. Four children, Olive had had. One Hazel, one Blue, one Green and one Gray. All four colors, which was abnormal for a Green-eyed mother to produce. But then, Olive had deliberately picked different fathers for each pregnancy.

  Unsurprisingly, Olive’s favorite child had been the Green, Jenny. Whoever claimed that people shouldn’t have favorite children was a fool. Olive knew that there were very few people who loved their children equally. Children, after all, were a commodity. They helped you get ahead in life. Children were about you, not them. Too bad her granddaughters hadn’t quite grasped that yet.

  But her Jenny had been strong, and had shown signs of intelligence. But like her Hazel brother Yale, she had died young of a fever. Yale hadn’t been much of a loss; he’d only been two and not much of anything at that point. But he may have been worth something later in life. And so that one virus had cost her two children, two futures. And that had left Mel and Brock, her Gray-eyed son. Who had been too stupid to live.

  And after he’d died, there’d just been Mel. Who was strong-willed when it came to her children, which was a problem Olive wished she didn’t have. It had taken her almost twenty years to “convince” Mel to have another baby. And it had produced Emmie. Useless, unusual Emmie.

  But Mel had been right. Olive was relieved that Elle was dead. It meant that Olive wouldn’t have to kill the girl. Because if Elle had survived being Chosen, that’s exactly what Olive would have done. The bond between a new vampire and their Chooser was a strong one, and in a Graced’s case, psychic. Olive could not afford for Elle to be tied irrevocably to a vampire; to give away the Graceds’ secrets to a weak-minded blood-sucker. Vampires should bow to Graceds, not the other way around.

  That was why Olive wanted an immortal Graced great-grandchild. It would move her closer to the dynasty she dreamed about. The child would be Graced; wouldn’t be forced into doing anything by their Chooser, or have an overpowering need for blood or meat. Whatever power they had would be Olive’s.

  No, it was lucky that Elle was dead. Elle would have been a puppet pulled by a vampire’s strings and that was an abomination.

  Chapter 27

  Clay didn’t believe that Elle was dead. Couldn’t accept that she was, despite the news, the evidence; he’d seen her body. Emmie had shown it to him, when he’d come the next night to see if Elle had returned. It had been cold, devoid of life.

  Even though he hadn’t known Elle for long, she’d made bulls look like pansies when it came to stubbornness. He just couldn’t admit that Elle was dead. Especially from being Chosen.

  He just hadn’t thought it could happen.

  Blood, it shouldn’t have happened. Elle was a Hazel; she had enough Brown—non-Graced blood—in her to make the transition. She could have survived as a vampire or a werewolf. Blood, in his darkest hours over the past few days, he’d even thought about Biting her once or twice. The only way she could have died was if the vampire Choosing her had been a complete and utter imbecile.

  Clay folded his arms across his chest and leaned his shoulders against the back wall of the funeral home. Cool brick dug into his skin through his shirt. Vampires and weres didn’t go in for funerals, but humans did. As a result, so did Graceds. Not because they thought there was something to go to after death, but because it was a human tradition; mourning their dead in public displays of affection. And Graceds liked to blend in, even if they didn’t share the beliefs that inspired the ritual.

  The funeral home was filled with people. Most of the guests sat on the rows of benches that faced the wooden coffin, which was positioned at the front of the large room. There were a few others like him, standing at the rear of the chamber. Flowers were draped over the coffin’s lid in artistic disarray and the wood was shiny in the daylight. He thought the blooms may have been orchids, they certainly smelled like it, but he didn’t really pay much attention to plants as a general rule. If he couldn’t eat it, he didn’t give a shit about it.

  A small hand suddenly fastened around one of his larger ones. Glancing down, he noticed Emmie’s bright eyes looking back at him. She was dressed from head to toe in a deep mourning red.

  “You lied to me.” She didn’t appear angry, though. In fact, her eyes weren’t even red or swollen. Not like that night when she’d shown him Elle’s body.

  Which was odd.

  “Hello, imp.”

  “Hey, Clay.” Her nut brown fingers tightened on his.

  “Should you be talking to me?” He looked up and saw the pale face of Melissande staring at the two of them. She’s aged, was his first thought. Well duh, was his second. The last time he’d seen her was when she’d been a teen. She was still beautiful though, but in a pretty, breakable sort of way. Not like either of her daughters. They must have gotten their strength from their grandmother or their fathers. Clay couldn’t read her expression, but she didn’t seem irritated at seeing him with her daughter. Just…blank.

  “No, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all.” Emmie smiled at him then, a slight smirk.

  The conversation struck him as decidedly strange.

  He tried to shake his fingers loose. “Shouldn’t you be with your family?”

  “Yes.” She clung to him like a limpet.

  He wasn’t sure how to take that. Children he mostly understood, but Graced kids—no, he lied—this Graced kid was a whole new world of bizarre. “I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry Elle is dead,” Clay said.

  Emmie looked at him for a long minute. “I got to touch her before they had to bring her here for the funeral.”

  He shut his eyes. Clay could just picture how Emmie would have looked at seeing Elle again, pale with death. He hadn’t gone back after his first sighting, maybe he should have. Maybe he should have kept an eye on the imp. Clay tightened his fingers in sympathy.

  Emmie
tugged on his hand. Clay opened his eyes and looked down at her.

  “You lied when you said something really bad wouldn’t happen to her.” Emmie brushed some hair from her face and let go of his hand. “But you didn’t say she wouldn’t die.”

  Emmie walked away from him then, her face taking on a mask of pain and sadness, eyes growing swollen with unshed tears. And it was a mask, Clay realized, he’d seen it slide into place alongside the rise of tears.

  Clay refolded his arms and stared broodingly at the family side of the church. Olive Brown was glaring in his direction while one gnarled hand rested on a wooden cane. As she leaned down and whispered an admonition to Emmie, the old woman’s eyes locked with his. Emmie appeared to ignore her grandmother. The little girl took a seat next to her mother and reached out, taking one of Melissande’s pale, limp hands in a firm grip.

  Voices rose and fell in the room. There were lots of tears and handkerchiefs being used. It seemed that Elle was popular despite her starchy ways. There was also a reasonable crowd of city guards in attendance. He’d had more than a few belligerent glares sent his way. From her partner, especially.

  He wondered where her Chooser was. Perhaps he hadn’t thought it would work, that’s why he’d abandoned her?

  Clay’s attention was distracted by the funeral director, who took a step toward the podium, and cleared his throat.

  *

  Elle woke up dead.

  She’d always thought it was a stupid phrase. How could you wake up dead? You were dead. That wasn’t something you just woke up from. Although, Elle hadn’t understood she was dead. She thought she was hungover.

  Majorly hungover.

  Elle opened her eyes to velvety darkness and strained to find light, any light. She tried to roll over, to light the bedside lamp, to see if Clay was there or not, but she came up against resistance. Reaching out, her hands slid against walls that were covered in something soft and slippery and which smelled faintly of dye and soap. Satin. Frowning, she pointed her toes and felt them hit another cool barrier. Worry began to kick in. She lifted her hands, only to flatten them against the roof of her prison. Cool, smooth wood slid underneath them as they began to move more rapidly, feeling for a latch, anything.