I blink over and over, but the haze does not clear from my eyes.

Thick gray and purple smoke fills the air. It floats through the field, laces between the trees, blots out the sky.

I walk through the tall grass, propelled forward by…by something. I feel it, and I’m drawn forward. Through the dark. Through the smoke.

I stretch out a hand, hoping to prevent myself from tripping over any hidden objects in the smoke.

Suddenly, there’s something hard and warm. Soft fabric.

And the smoke clears, and there are those green eyes.

Those soft lips.

Those strong shoulders.

“Sevan,” he breathes. I see relief clear in his eyes. His shoulders relax just slightly. “Good, you are here. I need your help.”

My brows furrow as he steps out of my reach. He bends, picking something up off the ground. He stands again with an armload of wood and strides off into the smoke. Quickly, I follow after him.

He walks across the field and the smoke grows thicker with each step. I cough, attempting to clear it from my lungs, but it lingers, saturating every crevice of me.

“Cyrus,” I call out to him, picking up my pace in an attempt to catch up. “Cyrus, I need to talk to you.”

He disappears as the smoke grows so thick I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. I dart after him, feeling desperate, every nerve in me anxious at the separation. And suddenly, I nearly smack right into him, there in front of me in the smoke. He bends over, placing the wood down, precise and exact.

My eyes widen as the wind shifts, clearing the scene for just a moment.

There’s a stone alter just a few feet from me. Stones stacked to support a giant slab. And surrounding it are smoldering logs, placed in a precise, exact circle. There are no flames, but I feel the heat rising from them, and I’m consumed in sweet smelling smoke. It billows in the air, thick and heady.

“Cyrus,” I say, my brows furrowed as I watch him hustle around the circle of smoldering logs, carefully adding them here and there. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t even look over at me, just continues about his work. “We must hurry, im yndmisht srtov,” he says. “We must prepare before the time has passed.”

“What time?” I ask, tracking him with my eyes as he moves. “What are we preparing for?”

He places his last log, standing behind the alter, across the circle from me. “They only occur once every few centuries,” he says. His eyes are hectic, frantic. He looks around, double-checking his strange work. “My parents…” He turns in a circle. He grabs a stick that was lying just outside of the circle and prods a log back into place. “My parents spoke of the power of the darkness during the light. Before they died, they lamented over and over, if only such a powerful celestial event was occurring…” He prods another log. “They would not have died.”

I step forward, feeling desperately confused. “Cyrus, I don’t understand. But we need to talk. So much…so much has happened.”

Cyrus suddenly stills, and I nearly collide with him. He stands straight and his eyes snap to me.

My racing heart freezes as I stare into those eyes. I feel my entire body relax, go to a peaceful place where I know everything will be okay.

He raises a hand, tracing his fingertips down my cheek. “I know, my love,” he says quiet and soft. “But I also know the greatness you are capable of.”

I take a step closer, closing the distance between us. I look up into his eyes and feel the longing in me double.

We’re so close, physically. But not near close enough.

“You are lost, my love,” I say as I reach up and place my hand on his cheek. He presses his face into my hand, his eyes sliding closed for a moment. “Come back to me.”

He opens his eyes again, but they rise up, rise up to the sky. “I am trying, my love,” he says, still staring at the sky. And I realize, we have been standing out in the day, but slowly, the world is growing colder and darker. “I am searching for the way back. So we must prepare. You must be ready. It will be soon, when the day is dark as the night.”

---

My head snaps up and I’m startled when my surroundings are dim and the walls around me feel crushing and suffocating.

My neck is stiff. I look down to see the table my cheek was resting upon.

Sitting right above where my head rested is a body.

Cyrus.

I realize as I stand up that I worked myself into exhaustion. I fell asleep here in the lab.

I lean over, double-checking all the work I did last night. Cyrus skin is still smudged with black marks where I rubbed the ash over every bit of him.

Gently, with careful fingers, I touch his neck.

A gasp. A peaceful breath. They exist in the same moment when I see it.

Tissue. Soft and pink. Fragile and thin.

I see muscle reattaching. I see skin touching skin, knitted back together.

“Cyrus,” I whisper as I place a hand against his cheek. “I knew you would find a way back.”

But do I, really? Cyrus’ body may be repairing itself, helped by my science and magic. But where is he? Where is his soul? His mind?

That wasn’t a memory I just had. As I search back through the thousands of years and lives, I know that scene was nowhere in history.

Was it just the desires of my imagination?

What it just my longing for my husband and answers to my desperation?

We must prepare.

Prepare for what?

Was Cyrus there, in my mind, reaching out for help?

“I don’t understand,” I say as I look down at his broken body. “What must I do?”

Cyrus does not answer me.

I turn, crossing to the fire pit and coat my hands in ash once more. I rub a fresh coat on Cyrus’ face, run my hands down his arms. I coat his own hands. I spread it all over his body.

Next I fetch a bowl from the shelves. Squatting beside the grotto, I reach down far, digging my fingers into the pebbled sand and mud on the sloping edge. I collect herbs, dozens of centuries dried out. I wish I knew more, knew everything about their use and purpose. There are so many more here than there once were when we lived back in our home country and Cyrus used them to heal the sick and afflicted. But I take some of this and some of that, mixing it into my mud.

I return to Cyrus’ side with strips of muslin I find on the shelves. I set them and the bowl beside his body.

Lastly, I take a knife and slice the blade of it across the palm of my left hand. Blood instantly wells. I make a fist, forcing the blood to flow and drip, and hold it over the bowl, letting it drip into the mud and herbs.

My blood. It turns the mixture dark and red.

I use my own hands to mix it all together. I blend it until it’s smooth and consistent.

“Bring him back to me,” I pray as I dip the strips of muslin in the mixture. I coat them until they are saturated. And then carefully so as not to disturb the healing tissue, I wrap the strips around Cyrus’ neck. I wind them around, fully saturated with mud, and herbs, and the blood of the person who loves him most in this universe.

“Come back to me, im yndmisht srtov,” I say quietly, over and over.

When I am finished, I stand with my hands braced on the table, my head hanging low.

I’m exhausted mentally.

I’ve run through this over and over and tried to understand my strange vision. I’ve tried to consider what his healing flesh means, the reality of what is possible.

“Please,” I beg, putting everything into my words. “Give him back to me.”

I take a breath as my head rises back up.

I feel the time that has passed since I came down here. I know each minute that has ticked by.

I’ve done everything I can for Cyrus. I’ve prayed all the prayers, used all the dirt magic I know.

All I can do now is wait. Try to understand what he was telling me in the dream.

Right now, I have an entire kingdom in upheaval. Right now, I need to go be the queen of all vampires.

“I will be back soon, my love,” I say quietly as I bend. I press my lips to Cyrus’ forehead. I press my palm to his cheek, gently brushing my thumb over his skin.

And then I step away. I cross to the hidden door and walk out, leaving my husband to heal, hidden in the belly of the castle.

As it should be, it’s absolutely silent when I step back into the hallway. Even with my enhanced hearing, I can’t detect a single sound except the air moving through the hallways.

With determination, I head down the hall. I turn right at the end of it. I head up a spiral staircase. I cross another hall, pass a huge ballroom. I turn at a meeting room. I ascend another set of stairs.

There at the end of the hall, I see the doors.

Huge and ornate and black, they stand fifteen feet tall. There are scenes carved into the wood. The battle with our son. Two trees with roots that lead to dozens of others. Another tree sits at the top of the door, beneath a beautiful sky—the place where Cyrus and I married in my first life.

It tells the story of us.

I feel heavy as I walk down the hall toward it. So filled with time. So weighted by responsibility.

The doors easily swing open when I pull on them.

And I’m overwhelmed by the scent of Cyrus.

Time. Pine. Sandalwood.

I feel Cyrus in every corner of this room. And a million memories rush through me.

A huge bed sits in the center of the room. A black bedframe supports the big bed, a black comforter and pillows make it look inviting. A desk is pushed up against the window, currently covered with solid metal shutters. Pictures are hung on the walls, each of them showing a scene of Cyrus and I together. All of them are paintings. We have not been reunited since modern photography was invented.

And hanging above our bed is the black crystal chandelier.

Memories threaten to overtake me. So I take the opposite approach. I push them away. Every single one of them.

I turn to the bathroom, a room that was merely storage when we first made the castle our home, and has since been updated with modern conveniences. A massive shower with four showerheads awaits me.

I crank the water as hot as I can, and burn off the horrors of the past twenty-four hours.

Getting myself presentable is a challenge. While everything I’ve ever owned is here—brushes, mirrors, they are so dated they’re hardly usable. I have not used them since I wore La’ei’s face, and that was nearly three hundred years ago.

I make a mental note to send someone—once I know who I can trust—to get me modern things—hair dryers, curling wands, makeup.

For now, I wear a bare face and have to let my hair dry in the simple braid I tie over my shoulder.

The closet is bigger than the entire apartment I shared with Amelia back in Greendale.

I smile at one side, filled with Cyrus’ clothing, most of it modern and sleek, but much of it incredibly old. I recognize which suit he wore to a certain grand ball and the ensemble he wore to preside over a specific execution.

The other side is filled with my clothing. All of it ancient. But it all looks dusted and fresh. It has been taken care of and updated, in preparation for my return.

And toward the back of the closet, I find what I am looking for.

Garment bags hang, fresh and modern.

I open them to find new clothes, all in my size. Leather and cotton and silk. Cyrus prepared for the moment I would return home to Roter Himmel.

I know the role I must play today. So, I dress the part.

I pull on black leather pants. I find a blood red blouse, sleeveless, but with a high collar. Black stitches and strategically placed buckles make it look fierce, while being practical for fighting, if necessary. I finish off the look with combat boots.

Lastly, I cross back into our bedroom. I go to the painting of Cyrus and I from the seventh century and swing it away from the wall. I press on the third stone down. Next, I cross to the lantern hanging from the wall and twist it forty-five degrees to the left.

I hear a latch release and walk to the ornate rug covering the floor at the foot of the bed. I slide it back, revealing the barely discernable door in the floor.

Lifting it, I drop down the stairs.

The space is not large. Maybe ten feet by ten feet. But the walls are lined with every kind of weapon imaginable. Stakes. Guns. Bombs even.

Only two people in the world know that there is a panel that lifts out of the back wall, opening to a passageway that leads down a tunnel that opens up into the water, an escape from the castle right into the lake, over two miles away—Cyrus and I built it as we waited for the war with our son to begin, just in case we ever needed it.

There are so many places in the castle no one knows about other than Cyrus and myself.

I arm myself with two stakes and a gun with glass bullets—I’ve never seen anything like it, but I can just imagine what it is capable of. I grab a wicked-looking knife too, just for good measure.

Closing the weapons room, I lock our bedroom behind me, and set back off through the castle.

The castle is roughly made up of six main levels. There are other side branches, other tunnels leading to secret destinations, like the lab, but generally, it equates to six levels.

The main entry to the castle, where it lets out on town level, is the third floor. It also houses the Grand Hall, the library, and other high-use rooms. The majority of the quarters are on the second floor, along with both our offices. Our bedroom is on the upper-most first floor.

The fourth floor houses more ballrooms and a few quarters. It also has the kitchens. The fifth floor is dingy and dark and where the politicians hang out. The sixth floor, dark and secluded, houses the prison, where I head now.

I don’t hesitate as I cut my way toward the prison. I’ve walked these halls and passageways thousands of times. I cleared the debris from those rooms, scrubbed the soot from those walls. I found bear cubs hiding in that hallway.

Down I descend into the dark, lighting torches as I go. The air grows colder, damper. Thicker.

I descend the last set of stairs and grab a pair of sunshades from a shelf on my way inside.

Brilliant sunlight scatters throughout the space. There are twelve prison cells, each of them divided with a solid steel wall. Steel gates hold the prisoners captive. And in every one of the cells, there is a tube that rises up to the outside world. They are lined with mirrors, to reflect and intensify the sun.

My eyes scan the cells as I walk along. The first is empty. As is the second. There is a woman in the third; I can’t tell if she’s alive or not. She lies on her stomach on the stone floor, her hair covering her face, her hands cupped around it in an attempt to block out the sun. But she does not move, and I’m not sure she’s even breathing.

The fourth cell is empty. And the fifth.

But in the sixth cell, I find the man I’m looking for.

I don’t say anything, don’t make any kind of sound to make my presence known, though surely he can still hear me. I watch him—observe.

He’s a dirty man who seems to have resurrected around the age of thirty or so. Thin hair sits atop his head, balding before he got the stones to take his own life and stop the ageing process. He’s lanky and soft looking. Very un-vampire like.

He sits huddled in the corner of the cell, his face tipped into the stones. He holds his hands over his eyes. His entire body trembles.

Weakling. He’s only been in here a few hours in the sunlight.

I remember. Cyrus held Alivia and Ian here for over a month.

“How did you get into the castle?” I start with the least important question.

The man takes in a sudden breath, his shoulders, dropping. As if he truly didn’t hear me enter the prison. Slowly, not fully removing his hands from his eyes, he turns. He peers at me with glowing red eyes. Venom fills them, but he still quakes. Even through the smile that grows on his face.

He turns, kneeling on the ground and starts crawling toward me on his hands and knees. He can barely keep himself upright, he shakes so hard from the pain of his fully, incredibly enhanced dilated eyes.

The man stops at the bars to the cell, crouching. His hair hangs into his face, but it does little to protect his eyes. Not only do his irises glow red, but the whites of his eyes have thick, violent red veins popping up in them.

“This is indeed a fascinating time in our history,” he says. His voice is surprisingly deep. It rumbles in his chest and reverberates against the stone walls. “For centuries we have seen the King lead without his Queen. But never, in all these years, have we seen how the Queen leads on her own.”

I feel very calm inside, and very cold. I’m made of stone, utterly quiet and controlled and strong.

“Something in me tells me you are not a Royal,” I say, staring at him. Nothing about him indicates he is any kind of a Royal. Not his demeanor, nor his body, nor the smell rolling off of him. “Everyone in our world knows only Royals are permitted within the borders of Roter Himmel. So how did you get in?”

The man laughs, wrapping his dingy hands around the bars. “In times of peace, minds are at ease and suspicions are down. Borders are patrolled with easy eyes.”

He snuck into the city. Not that difficult to do, really. There are endless mountains that surround us. There are a hundred different ways you could slip into the city without The Guard knowing.

But the fact that he got through the city, into the castle without a Royal detecting him and sounding the alarm, that is what worries me.

He should have been caught. Someone should have detected him. Someone should have said something.

“I’m going to ask you some more specific, harder questions,” I say as I reach into the sleeve sewn into my pants. I remove the knife. “I know your instinct will be to be vague, to not directly answer my questions, to laugh and smile like a knowing little cockroach.” I bring the blade up, staring down its polished surface. “But this is your one warning. I do not have much time for games. I don’t like performing interrogations. So be direct, and I’ll be merciful on your body.”

There. That is what I want. That little falter in his gaze. The slackening of his disgusting smile.

He tries to hold the façade, but I see it slip.

And I smile.

“How many of you are there in this plot to kill Cyrus and change the monarchy?” I ask, looking him dead in the eyes.

He looks at my blade, as if deciding just how much it will hurt when I use it on him. He smiles again, looking up at me with his red eyes, smiling. “Just me.”

I turn away from him, walking to the cupboard against the stone wall. Swinging the doors open, I reach inside and grab one of the circular orbs resting on the shelf.

I spin, and toss it into the cell, where it lands on the floor just to the side of the man. It shatters, and a small cloud of gas envelops him.

He shouts, coughing. He attempts to scramble away from it, but his limbs keep giving out on him and he falls half on his side, half on his face.

I grip the chair sitting in the corner. I drag it across the stone floor. The gate screeches loudly as I unlock it and swing it open. The man moans and whimpers on the floor as I walk into the center of the cell and set the chair upright.

He twitches, as if he thinks he can make a run for it, but his muscles have been frozen, and pain rockets through his body, rendering him unable to do anything but speak and process pain.

I grab him by the front of his disgusting shirt and haul him up. He nearly falls out of it when I throw him into the chair. His head lolls from one side to the other, resting at a downward angle to the left.

“I did warn you,” I say as I stand before him.

His face contorts in pain as his nerves are pummeled.

“I tried to be level and easy to work with,” I say as once again I hold the knife at my side. “Perhaps you did not take me seriously because I am a woman. Because I am the Queen, and not Cyrus. But today is a day to learn, I suppose.”

I walk forward. I raise the knife, touching it to the tip of his chin. I still feel absolutely calm. Confident. Controlled. “Now tell me,” I say quietly. “How many of you are there?”

“Within the city?” he says, his eyes flicking up to mine. They’re wide, flooded with fear. “Only five others, beside myself.”

“And outside the city?” I prod further.

He gives a tiny shake of his head, which causes the tip of my blade to press further into his chin. He immediately stops. “It’s a movement that has been growing for years, centuries.”

“This isn’t anything new,” I say. “There’s always been Born who have tried to take Cyrus off the throne. What makes this movement any different?”

His mouth slowly closes and his eyes drift up to mine again.

“I’ve heard rumors that some of the Royals are turning against us,” I say. My voice is quiet. I lean in closer, leveling my eyes to his. “Are you working with them?”

His eyes grow hard and dark. “We had a choice to make. If we trusted them or not. How far do you trust members of the family who looked down upon you for so long? But in the end, what choice do we have, if we want things to change?”

I truly didn’t think he’d have the control or strength.

But suddenly he lunges forward, his hand wrapping around my wrist. Smooth and quick, he yanks the blade forward, and buries it into his own heart.

“Say your goodbyes, Sevan,” he says in a raspy voice as he slumps into the chair. “The change has already begun, your world will never look the same.”

With horror coursing through my body, I let my hand fall, the knife clattering to the stone floor. And the man slumps, falls off the chair, and lands on the floor with a dead thud.

“Shit,” I hiss as my hands fist into my hair. “No, no, no.”

I need more information. I needed so much more information out of the one individual I know for sure is involved in this conspiracy.

I feel my eyes ignite. I know what must be done.

I turn, leaving the dead man on the floor, and stalk back up the stairs.