Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(85)
Even as he spoke, pain throbbed through Ramson’s chest, sending spasms of nausea shooting through him. He choked a gasp.
Kerlan chuckled. Nita smiled. And then there was the cold, hard drag of a blade on his cheeks as Kerlan held Ramson’s dagger to his face.
Terror locked its grip across Ramson’s throat. He’d seen Kerlan torture men; he’d stood there and handed Kerlan the scalpels.
“As I said, dear boy, I like to play with my food, so don’t worry. I’m keeping you for later.” Kerlan stood, brushing off his immaculate indigo suit and pocketing Ramson’s dagger. His shadow fell over Ramson, blotting out the world. “I’ll have to beg your pardon and take my leave for now. I do hope I’ve been a good enough host. But after all, I have a ball to get to—there are some rather important guests tonight, I’d say.” Kerlan’s teeth flashed. “And, it seems, I have a very special girl to find.”
No. But Ramson’s scream was trapped in his throat, his body paralyzed as he watched Kerlan’s retreating back disappear into the hallway outside. And then Nita stepped forward and the pressure on his chest increased, his throat constricting, his body growing numb.
Black spots dotted his vision, and soon he was drowning in darkness.
The snow fell thicker now, whirling in flurries beneath each swinging lamp that lit the veranda. Their shadows swayed unsteadily as Ana hurried past them. The few guests who had been outside had retreated inside. Laughter and music and light spilled from the tall windows and open doors of the banquet hall, cloaking Ana’s footsteps as she ran. Down the marble steps, past the balustrades of the veranda—and then she was on the ground floor, behind a pillar that supported the balconies.
Her heart pounded an uneven beat in her chest as she hid in the shadows, watching. It was him—it was undoubtedly him, Ana thought, taking in the white of the man’s cloak, the smooth skin of his head, and the paleness of his fingers as he raised them to the skies. A silver Deys’krug flashed around his neck, and she recalled with sudden sickness that he’d worn almost the same outfit exactly one year ago, when he’d murdered Papa.
Tetsyev made a circular motion across his chest, the sign of respect to the Cyrilian Deities, and tilted his face to the sky.
Ramson had coached her on how to construct the perfect ruse—her as a messenger from Kerlan, asking Tetsyev to examine the Deys’voshk in Kerlan’s basement before the newest shipment of Affinites arrived.
But lies and trickery were how Ramson would conduct his scheme. They were not, Ana realized now, how she did things.
Ana flared her Affinity. The garden lit up in shades of dark and light—and the flaming body of blood that was Tetsyev a dozen steps in front of her.
Ana strode forward. Tetsyev’s back was to her, and the snow muffled her footsteps. Her entire body shook. Something dangerous had coiled tightly in her stomach.
Her foot slipped; she muffled her cry.
Tetsyev turned. “What—” he began, eyes widening, but Ana threw her Affinity around him and tightened her grasp on his blood. Tetsyev made a choking sound, his eyes seeking out her shadow in the night.
“Do you feel that?” Ana gave another sharp tug on his blood, making sure to keep her face tilted away from the light. Tetsyev groaned. “That’s just a taste of what I can do to you. Now follow me quietly, and you’ll live.”
Her heart raced as she led him through the glass doors into the banquet hall, her Affinity tight as a noose around his neck. She walked a half dozen steps in front of him, but she could almost see his figure outlined in her mind in blood. He trailed her like a ghost, his hands clasped tightly, his steps in tune to hers.
The huge brass clock in the middle of the banquet hall struck twenty-five past nine when they slipped from the ball into the maze of corridors in Kerlan’s mansion. Ana recited the directions Ramson had drilled into her—second left, first right, fifth left—and the map he’d forced her to memorize until she could find her way in her sleep.
The halls were eerily empty, and as they walked, the winding set of hallways grew narrower, the bare floors no longer covered in exotic carpeting. The expensive décor faded to plain marble, and walls became barren. An air of neglect hung in this section of the mansion, infused with an unnatural stillness that made her feel as though they were trespassing in forbidden territory.
When Ana swept the area with her Affinity, there was not a single guard or servant around. A feeling of unease crept up on her as they made their last turn and found themselves in front of a dead end of a passageway. An ordinary oakwood door stood before them, a round brass handle polished.
Taking a deep breath, Ana grasped the handle and began to turn it. Two circles clockwise, five counterclockwise, then three clockwise again. Ramson’s voice seemed to whisper by her ear, and she felt the ghost of his touch as he guided her hands through the motions. Then push.
A clacking and whirring sound almost made her jump. It came from within the door, like a series of gears grinding open. Ana threw her weight against the door and pushed.
It ground open inch by inch, and she realized that despite its appearance, this was no ordinary door. It was thicker than the length of her forearm, and as it swung open into the light, she saw the glittering black material on the other side, and felt coldness and a sense of weakness drape over her like a suffocating cloak. Blackstone.