Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(43)

It was a struggle to bring her focus back to him. Ana tamped down the maelstrom of her thoughts, clearing her mind. She could think about her broken world later. Right now her sole objective was to save May. “So what’s the complication?” she asked wearily. “We’ll rescue May, and then locate the alchemist.”

Ramson continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “Kerlan hosts the grandest ball for the Fyrva’snezh each year. All of his associates—all the crime lords and thieves and traffickers in the Empire—will make an appearance. And that includes your alchemist.” He gave her a pointed look. Her stomach tightened. “I can get us into this ball. But it’s going to be difficult. Dangerous, even.” Ramson’s tone held a challenge. “Are you ready for that?”



She’d been waiting for this for nearly twelve long moons. Ana leveled a cool gaze at Ramson. “I am.” She jabbed a finger at the map. “So that means we’ll have to find May before the Fyrva’snezh.”

Ramson lowered the map. “You can’t have it both ways. Rescuing May at the Playpen is like knocking on Kerlan’s door and signaling to him we’re there. We need the element of surprise when we show up at the Fyrva’snezh.”

“This is not negotiable.”

“One fish in your hand is better than two at—”

“May’s life is not negotiable!” Her voice rose to a scream.

Silence fell. Shadows danced across Ramson’s face; the flames reflected in his eyes, which were narrowed. “You need to decide,” he said at last. “What do you want?”

“To right my wrongs. What do you want?”

“I told you. Revenge.”

“Revenge against whom?” Ana leaned closer, refusing to let go of his gaze. To his credit, Ramson didn’t look away. “Why were those mercenaries bringing you to Kerlan?”

Ramson matched her stance. They glared at each other across the fire, the heat coiling around them like a living thing, embers flickering between them. “I botched a job for him. Broke a Trade. Now you see the implications?” At her silence, he sighed and stood. “Kerlan knows everything that goes on in his territory. If you try to save May, you risk losing your alchemist. Think about that.” He paused on his way out. “And, Ana, remember this. You’re not a Deity. You’re not the Emperor. You can’t save everybody. So think about what’s best for yourself.”



“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“To cleanse my soul.”

She watched his retreating back and suddenly wished he hadn’t left. Silence pressed in, and it was as though the entire temple, with its walls of stone figures, watched her.

Ana ran her eyes over the wall carvings. The figures might once have been gilded in gold and silver and lapis lazuli and emerald, but those had long been pillaged by thieves as the temple fell to abandonment. Still, it was beautiful. Reverential.

As always, she shrank back beneath the Deities’ watchful gazes, all too aware of what she was. Monster. Witch. Deimhov. She heard the screams from that day long ago in the Salskoff Winter Market as she sat paralyzed in all that blood, affirming to the world that she was the demon everyone believed she was.

Yet another part of her—a small part—leaned forward, yearning for the light and rightness and goodness. It was the small flame of hope that her aunt had lit in her chest all those years back, with a single sentence.

It had been in a temple just like this, the moon weeping above snow-covered grounds and casting a cold light over Mama’s new tomb. She’d been eight years old. Ana knelt beneath the statues of the four Deities, their expressions stern and ungiving. She traced her fingers over the marble, carved in the exact features of her mother’s face, long eyelashes that cast half-moon shadows over high cheekbones, and vibrant curls that had always seemed so full of life. The only thing the marble did not capture, Ana thought as she stroked the small crook between Mama’s nose and cheeks, was the rich fawn of her mother’s skin when she had been alive; the healthy glow to her smile that seemed to light the world.



Ana’s fingers drew the same patterns over and over on the marble’s cold white face, mingling with her tears.

It had only been one moon, yet with Mama’s absence, the winter that swept over Salskoff that year was cold and stark, the snows harsh and unforgiving.

“Why?” Ana’s whisper had lingered in the air between her and the marble Deities, small and forlorn. “Why did you take her?”

Stubbornly, they remained quiet. Perhaps it was true that the Deities did not listen to an Affinite’s prayers.

A warm hand slid over her shoulders, and Ana jumped. Instinctively, she swept a hand over her face to clear it of tears before turning around.

The Grand Countess’s quiet eyes, the color of pale tea, met hers. It was a few moments before Morganya spoke. “Your mother meant the world to me,” she whispered, and Ana had no doubt that was true. It was Mama who had found Morganya all those years ago in a village, her body battered from the torturers who had kidnapped her from her orphanage and beaten her. Mama had brought Morganya to the Palace, and they’d grown closer than sisters.

“Have your prayers worked?” Even after all those years, Morganya’s voice had not lost the quiet, cautious timbre of the downtrodden.