The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(54)

“Of course I did.”

Riva was a terrible liar. She blinked repeatedly, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Now it was Dinah who hissed, “Liar.”

Riva took a step forward and jabbed the wand into the skin above Dinah’s heart. A jolt of power leaped from the hazel wood into Dinah, and pain crashed through her. She clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

“I told you I wouldn’t help you, even if I could.” Riva’s voice was steady, though something dark haunted her eyes. Grief? Remorse?

“I’m going to lose everything,” Dinah said quietly, hoping to appeal to the part of Riva that had once welcomed Dinah with open arms. “My home. My businesses. Maybe even my daughters too.”

Riva closed her eyes as if pained by Dinah’s words, but when she opened them again, they were hard. “The blood wraith isn’t the way to solve those problems.”

“I just need the wraith for one day. One single day.”

“No.”

“Riva—”

“Leave it be. I can’t help you.”

“Then the person who made the lock—”

“She’s dead.” Riva spat the words at Dinah. “Been dead for years. There’s nothing you can do to change that. The blood wraith is out of your reach.”

Dinah held Riva’s gaze and waited, but the witch’s breathing remained steady, her stare unwavering.

She was telling the truth.

Which meant Dinah’s plan was once again falling to pieces all around her. Her head swam, and a faint ringing sounded in her ears.

Sixteen years of planning. Of living for the revenge she was so justly owed. Of flattering and pretending and living next to those who’d taken the wraith from her and, with it, the power that Dinah had sacrificed so much to get.

“If that’s all, then you’ll be on your way.” Riva stepped closer, and Dinah’s eyes were drawn to the beads of sweat that dotted the witch’s brow. The way her pulse fluttered rapidly in her neck. The tremble in the hand that held the wand.

Riva was afraid.

Dinah cast about for a reason, searching through their conversation until she found a thread that didn’t belong.

Riva had known all along that the person who’d created the lock was dead and couldn’t undo it or share its secrets with Dinah. So why had she insisted that Dinah leave it alone? Why had she lied about being the one who made the lock in the first place?

The answer hit Dinah, a wave of sickening relief that nearly brought her to her knees.

Maybe the original creator of the lock was dead, but someone else still knew the secrets. Someone else still had the power to open the wraith’s prison. And Riva knew it.

The queen had said Valeraine de la Cour helped Riva lock the wraith into the Wilds. If Riva hadn’t created the lock, then it must have been Valeraine, which meant she had the potion written down somewhere in her shop or in her home.

Dinah smiled as she turned to leave the cottage.

Maybe Valeraine and her talent were out of Dinah’s reach, but she had something nearly as good.

She had Blue.





TWENTY-THREE


KELLAN WAS CORNERED. Flanked on both sides by girls from rival families, his back against the south parlor’s wall, his tea coat itching in the miserable summer heat that rolled in through the open doors that led to the veranda. The girls’ parents weren’t far from their daughters, their eyes trained on every move the prince made, even as they exchanged pleasantries with the queen and each other.

His smile felt permanently carved into his face as he offered each girl his arm and led them toward the tea table in the corner where dainty apple puffs, fig twists, and tiny bolla jelly sandwiches were arranged on plates the same color as the warm summer sun.

“I’ve been stitching my own ball gown for your birthday party,” Marisol Evrard said as she let go of his arm in favor of picking up a small plate and filling it with food.

On Kellan’s other side, Jacinthe Chauveau’s pretty lips twisted into a sneer. “Why would you do your seamstress’s job?” She kept her arm tightly laced through Kellan’s.

Marisol frowned. “Stitching a gown is slow, careful work. It develops patience and attention to detail, both of which are important qualities for a queen.”

Kellan gave Marisol a real smile. “I can attest to the depths of both my mother’s patience and her remarkable ability to keep track of every single thing that happens in her kingdom.”

Marisol grinned and popped an apple puff in her mouth.

Jacinthe leaned against him. “I think I’ve shown remarkable patience with you already, Prince Kellan.”

His brows rose. “Is that so?”

She gave him a pretty little pout. “I’ve entertained you twice in my home in the past few weeks, and I’ve attended four functions at the castle, and you’ve barely danced with me.”

He gave her a slight bow. “A grave oversight on my part.”

“And one you can remedy now.” She gently pulled him in the direction of the veranda, where a trio of musicians played stringed instruments. The soft melody wrapped around the thick summer air, a ribbon made of song.

He paused and turned back to Marisol, who looked suddenly bereft. Winking, he offered her his other arm. “A dance with one pretty girl is lovely, but a dance with two makes me the luckiest boy in the kingdom.”