They questioned Obsidian for hours as Sergey's body was taken to his room to be cleansed and washed for his last rites.

This was the dangerous part, for he was trapped by a pair of angry courtiers determined to get to the bottom of Sergey's death, with only Lord Barrons to speak for him.

"No, I did not see anything wrong with the pistol. It was on a tray, and I paid no attention to the bullets within it," he said, many times. "I don't know what was wrong with the bullet!"

"Yes, we were enemies, but I did not plan to kill him. I wanted to beat him. I wanted to win his stupid game."

"It was not my idea! Sergey was the one who challenged me! How could I have planned such a thing?"

"Are we done here?" Barrons finally asked. "My man has answered your questions many times, and unless you wish to bring charges of murder against him, I'll remind you that you are questioning a servant of the British Empire. You had best be very certain of his guilt before you cast such an aspersion upon one of my queen's subjects."

With that, the courtiers exchanged a long glance. Barrons gave them a chilling smile that dared them to mess with him.

When they finally released him, Obsidian rubbed at his wrists. "Thanks."

"It's what I'm here for. Go upstairs and clean yourself up," Barrons told him, clapping him on the shoulder. "I've got to return to the court and see what rumors are circulating."

They separated and Obsidian made his way directly upstairs to wash the blood from his shirt and check the fading wound where Sergey's own bullet had struck him in the left pectoral. Someone had fished it out before they questioned him.

He didn't make it that far, however. Balfour was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, hands clasped on his silver-handled cane, his top fingers drumming against his bottom. Two guards waited beside him.

Obsidian's steps paused.

"You're like a vulture, circling around the dead—or near dead," he said.

Balfour stepped forward sharply. "May I have a word with you?"

"Somewhere private?"

"My study."

It suited him perfectly. "And the guards?"

Balfour's eyes flickered toward him. "For my protection, you understand?"

Obsidian smiled. "Of course."

They said not a word as they strode through the empty hallways. It was as if half the palace was either in mourning or in shock. And the other half most likely plotting how to take advantage of this sudden string of affairs.

The death of the Prince of Tsaritsyn opened up the line of succession, for though his young wife, Elisabeta, was powerful and dangerous of her own accord, her alliance with Sergey made her formidable. The tsarina might still name her heir, but to be able to hold such a position until the tsarina greeted the long dawn would be... difficult.

Everyone who wanted a chance at the throne would attempt to take it.

The door closed behind them, leaving the guards as a threat in the hallway. Obsidian leaned back against the door, hands clasped in front of him as Balfour seated himself behind his desk. There was a small brass device smashed into a hundred pieces on the middle of the desk, and Balfour sneered as Obsidian recognized it.

They'd suspected the listening device might have been compromised, but there'd been no way of checking until now.

"Just so you don't get any ideas about framing me." Balfour wasted no time. "I said to make Sergey's death look like an accident. I didn't ask you to murder him in front of the entire court."

"I thought you'd enjoy the show. All your little plots coming home to hatch.... Wouldn't you rather watch it all unfold?"

Balfour scowled. "You almost gave me a bloody heart seizure. What the hell was in that pistol?"

Blue bloods, after all, were nearly impossible to kill.

"Not a normal bullet. A little design of my own."

Balfour scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Well, he's dead now." A shudder seemed to run through him. "And this mess is... controllable. I can control this."

The last few words were almost a whisper, and Obsidian slowly realized Balfour did not react well to events he didn't control.

The man sat here in his study, pulling strings like a master puppeteer, trying to control events down to the last movement. No doubt he thought he’d accounted for everything.

Sudden surprises were his weakness.

And right now, it was clear Balfour wasn't thinking as fast on his feet as usual.

"Why did you want him dead?" Obsidian asked. "I thought the pair of you were allies."

"Sergey forgets himself," Balfour murmured. "He began to think he was in control, now he'd married an imperial princess."

Power. It all came down to power.

"And so you had him killed," he said, as if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself. "I assume you mean to supplant him with some other puppet." He paused, as if a thought had occurred. "Or perhaps you intend to replace him yourself."

Balfour waved away the idea. "No. I much prefer to be the power behind the throne. It gives one more flexibility."

"And prevents some of the knives being aimed in your direction."

"That too."

"What now?" Obsidian asked. "I did as commanded."

"And I promised you proof of your heritage if you succeeded." There was a sheet of silk draped over something rectangular on the top of the desk. Balfour whisked the silk away with the kind of flourish reserved for showmen.

Inside the frame, behind the glass, was a faded splash of color.

A painting of the marque du sang of the Grigoriev bloodline.

"Blue bloods heal exceptionally well," Balfour murmured. "It was too dangerous to leave it upon your back, and it's not as if you remember the incident."

Not a scroll of parchment.

Not a painting.

It was skin, flayed so exquisitely well he could barely see the incision marks.

Obsidian froze.

"It was the cost of allowing you to live," Balfour continued. "Sergey wanted you dead. You were a threat to his power, you see, but I convinced him otherwise. It was the price of my silence for his role in the Grigoriev murders. In return, I had the marque removed and gifted it to Sergey to hang in his study so he would trust me. Without it, there was no proof of who you were and you could be made to vanish within the halls of Falkirk Asylum while I ruled the realm."

The gorge rose in Obsidian's throat. Seeing that scroll of skin made his ears ring and his head start to ache. His headaches had been increasing in recent weeks as his memories returned and he broke through Dr. Richter's conditioning inch by inch, but this one was like an ice pick driven directly into his eye.

He could almost, almost hear himself screaming as hands held him down.

Obsidian pushed away from the desk, swallowing hard. He couldn't afford to lose control. Not now.

Gemma was relying upon him.

The Rogues were relying upon him.

"You son of a bitch," he said hoarsely. "You're a monster. Both of you are monsters. You were involved in Falkirk from the start."

It was the scene of his nightmares, the place where the dhampir had been forged in a series of ruthless experiments—and finally in the fires that had helped them escape.

He'd always thought Balfour had found them afterwards.

He'd never expected the spymaster to be manipulating them from the start.

"Of course I was. Quietly. I knew several of the dukes using the asylum to test a cure for the craving virus, and the prince consort was interested in their results. I am a realist. And I never allow an opportunity to slip through my fingers." The chair squeaked as Balfour relaxed back into it. "Sergey couldn't see it at the time, but having you in my hand created a leash around his throat. My agent, Marina, travelled with you to England, where you were interred in Falkirk Asylum. It was deemed the safest place for you. I couldn't trust that Sergey wouldn't renege on his word and have you killed, so it was imperative he had no idea where you were."

Every single event in his life from the age of fifteen had been manipulated by this man.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why go to so much effort?"

"Because that is what I do," Balfour replied. "I pull strings. I set things into motion. Sometimes you are dealt a rare hand, Dmitri, and though you cannot see how it will all play out, you know you mustn't discard a single card. You were the ace in my hand, except every other card I held was a heart and you were a diamond. Wrong suit for my game at the time, but far too useful to get rid of.

"It wasn't until Malloryn and his rabble of friends destroyed the prince consort and everything I'd worked to build in England that I realized where you fit. One door closed in England, but another opened here in Russia. And all I had to do was start putting my pieces on the board. You were going to help me bring down the Prince of Tsaritsyn. I was going to have you replace him, but your recent defection has caused me some consternation. A pity."

"I am not a fucking piece in some game you play." He slammed his hands down on the desk. "You are not a god."

Balfour smiled. "I am the next thing to it. Kings and queens have danced to my tune. Princes kneel at my feet, and soon, perhaps, even the tsarina herself. Or her replacement. That is power, Dmitri. All I need is a Grigoriev heir."

"Unfortunately, I will never work for you again." He drew back, reining himself in hard. "And Gemma will kill you."

"She may try." Something dark swam behind the brown depths of Balfour's irises. "If I were you, I would advise her not to."

Before he even realized he'd moved, he'd hauled Balfour over the desk, putting his knife to the bastard's throat. The world dropped away from him, leaving nothing but shadows in its wake as the dark, merciless predator within him took over.

"Don't you ever threaten Gemma."

"Careful, Dmitri." Balfour curled his hand slowly around the knife. "If you kill me now, then Gemma dies. Malloryn dies. They all die."

He had to trust Charlie and Lark would come through. They'd destroy Balfour. But not yet. Not yet.

Somehow he leashed the beast inside him and let Balfour go.

"The job is done," he said coldly, picking up the frame with his own skin inside it. "And if you ever try to blackmail me again, be prepared to swallow your own tongue."

"The job is done." Balfour pushed to his feet. "You see, I uphold my end of the bargain."

Obsidian's lip curled as he sheathed his knife and turned to leave. "One day you will get what is coming to you."

"Aye. But I won't be bested by you, boy."

You already have been.

It was the only thing that got him to that door without drawing his knife again.

He was almost through the door when Balfour barked, "Seize him! He admitted to murdering the Prince of Tsaritsyn!"

The two guards on either side of the door slammed their blunt metal truncheons into Obsidian's middle, as if they'd been waiting for the command. The frame hit the floor, glass shattering across the marble. Obsidian lashed out and caught one of the truncheons, but the guard flipped a switch on the end of it.

Sparks spat and the impact of the current lashed through him.

He went to his knees, heart hammering and his body jerking uncontrollably until he let go of it. Sweet saints. This was how they'd controlled blue bloods at Falkirk Asylum. The shock might not kill him, but it would certainly incapacitate him.

The second guard struck, injecting something cold into the back of his neck before he could recover.

Obsidian tried to clap a hand to the wound, but his body was no longer obeying him. The floor rushed up to meet him and he slammed into the marble, blood spraying from his nose as he slumped there.

Hemlock. They'd hemlocked him.

The guard must have used an extremely potent dose. It affected every blue blood differently, depending upon how high their craving virus levels were, but a dhampir's CV levels were so high it rarely affected them for more than half a minute, and never full body paralysis like this.

He'd never felt so helpless in his life.

Glass crunched under someone's shoes as Balfour stood over him.

He knelt at Obsidian's side and grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting him close enough to whisper in his ear. "Thank you for removing that obstacle from my life. I owe you a great debt. But now, I think you are more risk than you are worth. And as I said, I need a Grigoriev heir. My sources tell me there’s another one now."

Lark.

He did have someone inside the diplomat’s house.

A syringe came into view, the tip of it glistening. "I would tell you this will be painless, but I'd be lying. You know what Black Vein can do."

He'd wielded it himself, watching his fellow dhampir, Zero's, capillaries burst one by one until her heart finally gave out from the shock of it.

A chill ran down Obsidian's spine and he fought to move, but the hemlock had temporarily paralyzed him.

He could barely even grind his teeth together to break the false tooth Gemma had fitted him with. The glass ampoule was covered in a thin skin of rubber, but he couldn't move.

Ava’s antidote hadn’t been tested.

Not in the field.

But Gemma wouldn't allow him to set this in motion without taking precautions.

His heart raced.

"Stop!" Gemma came flying down the hallway, her red skirts streaming behind her like the sails on a ship.

Balfour's grip on his hair eased, and Obsidian knew he was weighing the odds of ignoring her.

"By order of the Captain of the Imperial Ravens, stop!" Gemma waved a piece of parchment in her hand.

Obsidian could almost feel his fingers twitching as sensation began to rush back into his frozen body.

Nearly there.

Just a few seconds more.... He bit down steadily, and felt something pop between his teeth. A froth of serum exploded through his mouth, tasting utterly vile, and he swallowed.

"Curse that meddling bitch." Balfour looked down at him. "You realize I cannot afford to allow you to speak of this."

And then he slid the syringe into Obsidian's arm and injected its entire contents into him.