Queen of Blood Read online

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  IMITATION EXCERPT

  REBEL WING EXCERPT

  COPYRIGHT

  In the Beginning . . .

  Once, long ago, the Blood were normal men. They ate like regular men, lived in the sun like regular men, and died like regular men.

  Thousands of years ago, when Athon was little more than a group of sheep herders and the land was cobbled into dozens of small kingdoms, there was a ruthless ruler—a king who changed it all. This king had a daughter rumored to be the most beautiful woman in nine lands, and many sought to marry her. The man who coveted her most of all was the king of Praava, a cruel and formidable ruler. The king of Athon was keen to arrange a marriage with the Praavan king, but his daughter refused. She insisted on becoming a priestess and serving the Goddess. She would marry no man, especially not the king of Praava.

  The Athon king did not like this idea. If his daughter devoted her life to prayer, she would be of no use to him, and he was desperate for a strategic alliance with Praava. When his daughter would not listen to reason, he locked her away until the eve of the wedding. She had planned to steal away to a convent under the cover of night and take shelter at the Goddess’s temple. By the time her father figured out she had gone, it would be too late.

  But her father caught wind of her ploy and was furious. How dare his ungrateful daughter thwart his plans? Never mind that her intended husband had already killed three of his prior wives. The Athon king was blinded to all but his daughter’s betrayal. When he found his daughter kneeling at the foot of an altar to the Goddess, he stabbed her to death with his own knife. Not yet contented with his bloody revenge, he then ordered the execution of all the priests and priestesses as punishment for their treachery.

  The Goddess was furious that the king dared to destroy those she claimed as hers and in her own home. She cursed him and his lineage. Since he had destroyed his own daughter, she would not grant him any more. When his loins bore seed, they would be sons, equally as cursed as their sire. The entire bloodline would be doomed to shun the day and live at night. They would be forced to drink the blood of others for survival, to flit from throat to throat, lover to lover, never finding satisfaction or relief. Every warm body would quickly lose its flavor and ability to nourish. The Blood would be forever cursed, eternally hungry yet unable to slake their thirst.

  But the Goddess was not entirely without pity.

  If one of the Blood proved to be different from his cursed bloodline and showed traits of empathy and remorse, she would give him a gift: an Eterna, an eternal-mate to her Blood husband. He would never need to drink from another to satisfy his thirst, for she would be his everything.

  But there has been no Eterna in recorded history, and the Blood continue their endless, cursed existence. As Athon grows in might, eclipsing all other kingdoms, some wonder if the Eterna is merely a myth, a dimming beacon of hope for a powerful yet doomed lineage.

  From her perch on a craggy rock, Seri watched the caravan creaking down the main road and tried not to feel alarmed. For days now, the carriages had been piling into Vidari lands, heading toward the large castle in the distance. She didn’t have to see the bright, silk banners or the ornately clothed passengers to know who the newcomers were.

  They were Athonites, and they were the enemy.

  Like every other day for the past sevenday, the caravan was a line as far as the eye could see. But unlike before, a horde of soldiers swarmed about these carriages, protecting them with spears and metal shields. Behind the convoy marched regiments of orderly troops. Their red cloaks splashed color on the horizon, impossible to miss.

  Seri turned to her companion, worried. “Maybe it’s a dignitary come to take residence in the old castle,” she said. “Your sister told me the Athonite prince was returning to handle the ‘savages’ with a civilized hand.”

  As two of the so-called savages, Seri expected Rilen to smile at her words. Any Athonite lord would have his hands full trying to appease the Vidari people, still bitter despite a hundred years of servitude, forced to live on the poorest farmland in the kingdom.

  Instead, Rilen shot her a wary look. “Elen says too much.”

  Seri frowned as she studied Rilen’s face. “You don’t deny it?”

  “Why else would they be here?” he asked. “Why else would they rebuild the castle?”

  Seri stared out at the immense palace, high atop the cliffs above the city. It had been empty for as long as anyone could remember, an old, forbidding pile of rocks, a vestige from a time long past. Then, last Growing Season, carpenters and stonemasons had arrived by the hundreds. As the locals watched, they’d put a roof on the ruin, fixed the crumbling walls, and restored the stone halls. Now, Athonite guardsmen and nobles streamed toward the castle in a steady flow and had for the past two cycles of the moon.

  “Just let him try to force his ways upon us.” Rilen threw a stone toward the caravan like a sullen boy.

  Even though there was no way the Athonite soldiers could see it, Seri’s heart still pounded. “Rilen, don’t do that. Anyone caught with a weapon—”

  “It’s a rock,” he said scornfully.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’ve hung people for less!” Seri pointed out.

  He shook his head and climbed down the boulder. “You worry too much.”

  And you don’t worry enough, she wanted to tell him, but it was useless. Even if he didn’t remember the bodies hanging from the gates of Vidara City, she did. They were people she knew. People he knew as well: Kraig, the farmer who’d refused to bow to a nobleman on the road; Selwyn, a weaver who’d dared to make a tapestry depicting the Athonite downfall; Lesten, who’d accosted a solider after his daughter had disappeared from the fields. But Rilen had always been more spirit than common sense. That was one of the things she adored about him—he dreamed big, when all she could think of was what would go on the dinner table the next day.

  She hurried down after him, her flock of geese scattering as he stormed away. “Are you leaving?”

  “A few of the men are meeting at Jovis’s farm. I told him I’d be there.”

  Seri frowned.
Jovis was even more hotheaded than Rilen, and he despised everyone and everything not Vidari. “What are you meeting about?”

  “You know, Seri,” Rilen said, giving her an exasperated look.

  “No, I don’t.” Seri made her voice sweet as she took out a handful of cornmeal for the geese. The last of the cornmeal, she noticed. Just one more thing to worry about. “Vidari meetings are forbidden,” she reminded him. The only thing the government allowed were religious festivals. “And I know that Jovis wouldn’t invite you to a meeting because that would just get you into trouble. And I know you won’t go to anything dangerous because you know I’d be upset.”

  Rilen groaned and gestured at the road. “Seri, be fair. Look at those caravans and tell me that our people don’t deserve to know what’s going on?”

  “Our people have eyes. They’ll see the soldiers arriving.”

  “Yes, but if the Athonite dogs think they can appease our people after forcing us to live off their scraps for a hundred years, they have much to learn!” The tendons in his neck stood out, taut with anger.

  Seri shook her head, biting back her frustration. They had fought about this far too much lately. “You know I don’t like it, Rilen. It’s dangerous. Jovis is courting trouble by holding these meetings. What does he possibly think you can do?”

  Rilen moved toward her, an excited light in his eyes. “Rebellion, Seri. The men are talking of an uprising.”

  Her heart sank. “Rilen, no—”

  “Yes.” He took her hand and squeezed it, trapping the rough cornmeal between their palms. “Wouldn’t you like to live a life free of the Athonite yoke?”

  “I’d also like a house full of exotic foods and to laze about all day while someone else tends the geese, but those are just fantasies,” Seri said.

  “Those fantasies might be real someday,” he argued. “Some of us are ready to fight for what we want.”

  Seri scattered the last of the cornmeal for her honking geese and picked up the herding stick she’d left at the base of the rocks. “Some of us have more important things to worry about, like putting food on the table.”

  “Come with me,” Rilen urged, nodding in the direction of Jovis’s farm. “See for yourself. Hearing the others talk will change your mind.”

  “I can’t be party to such things, Rilen.” The very thought terrified her. “If the soldiers were to catch me at such a place, what would happen to my sister? My father?”

  “You’re right,” he said, looking abashed. “I’m sorry. Let’s not fight.” He kissed her callused palm. “Forgive me?”

  She put her hand over his. “Of course. Promise me you won’t go?”

  “I promise.” He nodded solemnly.

  The compromise came a little too swiftly to be believable, but Seri could no more control Rilen than she could command her geese to lay more eggs. “Be careful. That’s all I ask.”

  “Always.”

  Rilen pressed a hard, quick kiss to her mouth. “I can hardly wait for the Spring Festival.”

  Seri grinned and kissed him back. “Me too.” They would be handfasted at the festival, in front of their entire Vidari village. Then, Rilen would move in to her small farm and help her take care of Father and Josdi, and they would build a life together.

  “But for now”—Rilen kissed her again—“for now, I must go.”

  She laughed as he raced away again, his bare feet slamming through the brown grasses. “Go, then,” she teased, waving her herding stick after him. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  Smiling, she turned back to her flock of geese. With clucks and promises of nonexistent cornmeal, she rounded them up and drove them into the ramshackle pen on the edge of her family’s farm. It looked like rain, and the last thing she wanted to do was fish eggs out of the mud come the morning. Once she’d settled the geese, she headed home to the small farmhouse on the edge of the fields.

  Just before she entered the house, she turned to look one last time at the distant road. If she squinted, she could still make out the vibrant red banners of the distant caravan. Like blood, she thought uncomfortably, and with a shiver, she headed into the house.

  The interior of the two-room farmhouse was as dark as a cave, all light disappearing the moment Seri shut the door behind her.

  “Seri? Is that you?” Josdi’s faint voice sounded worried. She clutched a frayed blanket tighter around her shoulders, seated on her customary stool opposite the fire pit. She had let the flames die again.

  “It’s me,” Seri confirmed, reaching out to touch Josdi’s delicate hand before moving toward the now-banked fire. “How is Father?” She stoked the ashes and placed a bit more tinder on the peat bricks, hoping for a flare of warmth. Once the sun went down, the cold would set in.

  Josdi’s sightless eyes followed Seri. “He has been calling for you,” the girl admitted, her fingers gripping the edges of a pillow tightly. “I wanted to look for you . . .”

  Seri moved to her side and touched Josdi’s cheek affectionately. “It’s all right. I met Rilen in the fields and we stopped to talk. I was gone a bit longer than I expected. But you know I will always come home to you.” She patted Josdi’s knee and touched her sister’s latest creation. “Another pillow?”

  Blushing, Josdi nodded. “I used some of the scraps from old dresses and made the decorative knots around the edges, like Mother showed me. How does it look?”

  Seri fingered the soft fabric, the needlework intricate though her sister had been blind these past five seasons. “It’s beautiful, Josdi. Mother would be so proud.” Their mother had died when Josdi was a young girl; Seri still missed her and thought of her often, and she knew her father and sister mourned her deeply as well.

  “I’m glad,” Josdi said. “I like to be useful.”

  “You are,” Seri told her with an affectionate squeeze on her shoulder. “Give me a moment to check on Father.”

  She turned toward her father’s room. He didn’t rouse when she opened the door and stepped inside, though his chest rose and fell under the blankets. Her steps were quiet as she approached the bed and sat down on the side of the frame. His brow was hot to the touch and when Seri lifted the blankets, the smell of rotten flesh touched her nose. She winced and checked his bandages. Leaking again.

  “Father?” Seri whispered. “How do you feel?”

  The man stirred, but did not wake. She blew out a breath, fretting. The local Vidari healer had already come by and offered her prayers, and the town herbalist had offered to sell her a potion, but the price was more than she’d make if she sold all her geese and their eggs for an entire season.

  Seri brushed her father’s forehead with her fingertips, then stood and shut the door behind her. She returned to Josdi and sat down heavily beside her.

  “I bathed his leg earlier. But the smell is bad today.” Josdi paused, as if reluctant to continue. “He asked for butter with his bread.”

  Butter. Seri’s mouth watered at the thought. “We should all like butter, I imagine.” They hadn’t had any for moons. Not since last harvesttime, before her father had been struck with the wasting disease and lost the use of one of his legs. Now their fields lay unreaped and fallow. Rilen came and helped when he could, but he had his father’s own farm to tend to. His younger brother would take over when Rilen and Seri handfasted, but until then, they had to make do.

  “I suppose we’re lucky to even have bread,” Seri said.

  The comment was met with silence, and Seri knew with a sudden sickening anxiety that the last of it was gone. “No more bread? I thought we had a few rinds left.”

  “You were supposed to go to the miller’s and buy more flour,” Josdi said, her voice small again.

  Ah, yes. She’d promised to do that yesterday and had been distracted by a fox that had gotten into the chicken house. He’d eaten two hens and the rooster before she’d been able to sh
oo him away and patch up the hole he’d dug. Then today, there’d been Rilen and the caravan. “I’m sorry,” Seri said, rubbing her face, feeling frayed and worn. And to think there was still dinner to cook, dishes to be cleaned, and straw to be baled before she crashed into her sad bunk for the evening.

  “It’s Restday, isn’t it?” Josdi’s hopeful voice interrupted her grim thoughts.

  Seri’s gaze focused on her sister. “So it is. Why do you ask?”

  “Restday is when they have the night market at the castle. They just started it last moon.” Josdi smiled. “Rilen mentioned it when he was here. He said all the vendors set up tents, and merchants from all over Athon have started to arrive in Vidara City.” Her hands clasped her shawl tightly. “Do you think we could get something from the market?”

  Oh, Rilen. Seri sighed. Count on him to fill Josdi’s head with nonsense. “A night market sounds foolish.” And dangerous.

  “It’s because the Athonites avoid the daytime. That’s what Elen told me. She also told me they feast on flesh and never age.” Josdi shuddered.

  Rilen was right. Elen did talk too much. “I don’t know, Josdi.”

  “Don’t you think it’s wondrous, though? A night market!” Her voice was an excited whisper. “You could sell the goose down we’ve collected and my pillows. I know they’d fetch a few rumma at least, and perhaps we could get some butter and cheese. Maybe we could even afford a cow.”

  Their old, skinny cow had been stolen by highwaymen last spring, when Seri had been at a barn raising with Rilen. It had been the last one she’d attended. “Come, Josdi,” she said wearily. “We wouldn’t make enough on pillows and feathers to purchase another cow.”

  “At least butter, then?” Josdi’s eyes were hopeful. “And some fresh bread?”