Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(62)

No one in their right mind would offer up this much money for a few moments of entertainment.

Onstage, Bogdan’s eyes sparkled in delight. “And how else,” the Penmaster continued, his voice growing louder as he held up the pouch of coins, “are affairs conducted here at the Playpen but through gold and coin? Mesyrs, meya damas, and everyone—I say we hear out this civilian who seems set to give us the show of the night!”



As the crowd burst into thunderous applause and roared their approvals, something moved amid them. A flash of gold, a hooded figure.

As the man took a light leap onto the stage, Ana found herself gazing into a familiar golden mask.

There was no mistaking it. It was the nobleman she had bumped into on her first night at the Playpen. He wore the same mask he’d worn then, with a derisive crying face, yet it was the burning in his eyes that she remembered. That first night, she had only glimpsed him, but he had looked irate.

Something wasn’t right.

“Ramson,” Ana whispered, but the man had begun speaking.

“I’ve been to many, many Affinite shows,” the gold-masked nobleman cried, his voice lofty, his hands raised in elegant, sweeping motions. “And I have waited for this moment for so long.”

Ana began to move forward. She wasn’t sure why, but she found herself pushing past people with a growing urgency to reach the stage. To reach May. She heard Ramson hiss her name behind her; sensed the thrum of his blood as he began to follow her.

“We’re glad to have you here, noble mesyr!” Bogdan chortled, patting his bag of goldleaves. His smile stretched from ear to ear. “Let me know any and all requests you’d like to make of this Affinite, and I can—”

“I wish for everyone gathered here to remember this glorious moment with me!” the gold-masked man crowed. With a flourish, he slipped off his hood. His hair shone red as he stepped forward, closer to the edge of the stage. He ripped his mask off, tossing it onto the ground in front of the glass.



Ana stopped in place. The face onstage was alight with triumph and the orange-red glow of the torchlight. And it was utterly familiar.

Someone’s hands closed around her wrist. Dimly, she heard Ramson speaking to her. “Ana, listen to me—”

But she couldn’t. She was staring at the man’s face; it drew her back to her childhood in the Palace, when he’d brought her steaming tea and fresh pirozhky pies—but it was his words and the brightness in his eyes that had warmed her to the core.

“I know him,” she said hollowly.

“You—what?”

Onstage, the red-haired man had availed himself of a torch. “My fellow noble guests, I want you all to remember one thing.” He held the torch up, and the triumphant expression on his face twisted in hatred.

“I know him,” Ana gasped. “Ramson, he’s an—”

“Long live the Revolution.” With all his strength, the red-haired man smashed the burning torch onto the stage.





Flames roared to life along the thread of oil that poured from the torch, winding along the marble floor like a shimmering, transparent serpent. For a moment, the man was hidden from view behind the wall of fire. And then he stepped through, his hands outstretched, and two pillars of flames shot from his palms into the air.

The screaming started.

Ana ran for the stage.

The crowd jostled against her as the nobles fled like frightened children, the leers on their faces replaced by unadulterated fear. But Ana’s eyes were fixed on the fire Affinite.

Yuri.

She remembered the sparks in his coal-gray eyes back then, when he would slip ptychy’molokos onto her dinner trays. That warmth had grown to a raging fire—wild and untamed.

He’d planned something—she didn’t know what—but the show, the gold, had all been a ruse to get him to the stage. And now May’s life was in danger.

Movement in the ceiling alcoves drew her attention. The marksmen shifted, orange torchlight glinting off their blackstone arrows.



Ana’s gaze whipped to the stage. Beyond the searing flames, behind the blackstone glass, stood May, alone. The broker was gone; she thought she saw a flash of his back as he disappeared behind the curtains.

The archers nocked, and drew.

For a terrifying second, the world seemed to slow, and all that Ana heard were arrows whistling as they shot toward the stage.

Ana reached for May’s blood—and again, her Affinity hit cold, empty blackstone. Panic surged in her chest—

The stage exploded. Not in blood and not in fire…but in ice. Crystal-white ice crackled to life above the arena, forming a hard, glittering arch over the entire stage. The arrows ricocheted off the ice and clattered to the ground.

Onstage, the Ice Queen straightened, her hands outstretched, her ash-white hair whipping in the heat of the flames. She turned, locking gazes with Yuri. And gave a single slow nod.

Together, they turned to the blackstone glass wall behind them. Fire and ice crackled into existence from thin air, whorls of silver-white and flaming red that slammed against the glass.

They were going to bring down the arena. And if that glass fell, if the stage collapsed, everyone underneath would be crushed.

Which meant Ana had to get May out before that.

“May,” she screamed, searching for a glimpse of the girl behind the elements that raged against the glass. She was so close—but still not close enough to protect May.