Kingdom of the Cursed (Kingdom of the Wicked, #2) (24)

“Let me guess… Hell? Blacks, leathers, gold?”

“Lots of fire and chains and torture devices, too.” His smile was a quick flash of teeth. Dangerous, disarming. A different sort of weapon he’d honed to perfection. Possibly the most perilous in his arsenal. Especially here. “When you’re feeling brave enough, I’ll show you.”

My stomach did a tiny flip at the thought of chains and dark spaces and Wrath. “Naming your libraries Haven and Hell is dramatic enough to suit you, I suppose.” I walked down an aisle filled with various shades of blue books, the demon trailing me. I needed to stop looking at that smile, or this realm would pounce. “Have you heard from any of your brothers?”

“Envy, Lust, and Greed have all shown interest in hosting you. We received their House cards earlier.” His tone remained light, almost suspiciously so. “They’ve specifically requested your presence at their Feast of the Wolf celebrations. I imagine Sloth and Gluttony will eventually stop overindulging enough to send invitations, too.”

Lupercalia was a pre-Roman holiday that roughly meant “Feast of the Wolf,” where humans sacrificed goats, then anointed foreheads of the wealthy in the spilled blood. Some cut pieces from the creatures then ran naked through the streets, smacking bystanders with the flesh. If the demon celebration was anything similar, I’d prefer to avoid it.

Without turning around, I said, “Will you be hosting a feast?”

He appeared before me, leaning casually against a shelf. Supernatural speed on full display. I couldn’t help but run my gaze over him. His suit was the deep charcoal of shadows. It made me think of nighttime and silken sheets and secret rendezvous and things I shouldn’t.

“No. I’m waiting to see what Pride does.”

“Has he sent a summons yet?”

“No.”

“Why are you waiting to see what he does?”

“It’s one of the few times all seven princes are invited into the same royal domain. Then it’s three days of pomp and circumstance—dinners, hunts, a masked ball, then the feast. We decide where it will be held based on two factors. Where the guest of honor chooses to go, and which prince with the highest rank decides to host.”

“Aren’t you all of equal power?” Wrath shook his head, not elaborating. I locked my frustration away. “What if the guest of honor doesn’t pick the prince with the highest rank?”

“They always do. And if they don’t, they’re strongly encouraged to from whichever House they’re from. Refusing is a grave insult and has caused more than a few bloodbaths over the centuries.” For a fleeting moment, he looked hungry for battle. Then his expression turned contemplative. “Princes all suffer from surges of other sins, it seems.”

Our gazes locked. I understood what he really meant. Wrath was apologizing for our argument earlier. This information was an olive branch laid at my feet. I could kick it aside and continue our fight, or I could accept it and move on.

I resumed my slow procession down the aisle, looking for a particular subject matter, but projecting nonchalance to avoid suspicion.

“Why do you celebrate a pre-Roman tradition, anyway?”

“How very mortal of you to believe they weren’t inspired by our rites and rituals,” he scoffed. “They didn’t even have the decency to keep the correct dates or practices.”

I stopped my perusal of titles and studied him closely. “Why are you really telling me this? Do each of the princes of Hell turn into giant wolves and howl under a full moon? Perhaps I should be worried about you panting at my bedroom door before the feast.”

“We do wear wolf masks, but there will be no panting from me. Unless you ask nicely.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my thoughts away from where this realm—and this troublesome prince—was tugging them. “You didn’t answer my first question. Why are you telling me about this now?”

“You’ve been nominated for the guest of honor.” The remaining humor left his face. “The vote takes place next month. I have little doubt you’re going to be chosen. Your arrival is the talk of the Seven Circles. I doubt anyone else will be half as intriguing this Blood Season.”

Wonderful. “Will I be forced to kill the goat?”

Wrath held my gaze. “There is no goat, Emilia.”

The way he said it made my knees buckle. “Will I be the sacrifice?”

“No.” Relief flooded through me at that one beautiful little word. “Your biggest fear or a secret of your heart will be wrenched from you as the sacrifice.”

“No.” My voice was whisper soft, trembling. I hated it.

“Yes.” His voice was hard, edged. I hated it, too. “And it will happen in front of every prince of Hell and all of our subjects in attendance. Fear is power here. The larger your fear, the greater the power you give us. You would be far better off sacrificing your life. If they take your biggest fear, I promise you will wish for something as swift and final as a mortal’s death.”





SEVEN


“No. I refuse.” My voice was steel this time. “You said I always have a choice.”

Frost coated his expression. “From recent actions, I was starting to think you’d forgotten that conversation.”