My brain is screaming over and over and over.

Too much.

Too much to process in here.

The camera.

Alivia.

Moab.

This mystery woman.

And, oh shit…the pile of decapitated bodies on the floor just five feet to Moab’s right side.

If I were human, I’d turn and throw up, all over the floor. Because there’s a pile of…hair. Scalps. Just to the side of the pile of bodies. And every one of those bodies, those dead Royals, is missing theirs.

“Why don’t you come join us, grandmother?” Moab invites.

The sly smile on his face and the soldiers behind me who step up and tighten around me tell me this is not an invitation. It’s a command.

I cross the room, holding my head high, my lips pressed in a thin line. I tighten my grip on my sword, which still drips blood to the floor. My eyes meet Alivia’s momentarily, and she does nothing to hide her terror. Her eyes are wide and wild. There’s sweat on her upper lip. She grips the arms of her chair so hard she’s splintered the wood.

“Please, sit there,” Moab requests, pointing to the chair just beside Alivia. “And give the viewers a little smile.”

I sit in the chair he indicated, but I certainly don’t give the camera a damn smile.

“Sevan, this is Jersey Adams,” Moab says, shifting his green eyes from me to the blonde woman across from me. “She’s a news journalist from the country I hear you were reborn in. America. When I contacted her, she jumped at the story, but I don’t think she quite knew what she was getting herself into.”

He gives a little laugh, deep and dark. He smiles, looking her over appreciatively.

Of course. The second he says her name, I know exactly who she is. She’s one of the most popular journalists on one of the most popular national news channels.

Jersey Adams looks terrified. She’s stark white. She sits still as a statue. I’m pretty sure she’s going to be sick at any moment.

“Jersey, I’d like to introduce you to the legend herself,” Moab continues, sitting up straight. He’s in the camera’s sight, it’s focused to fit the three of us in the frame. “All these stories we’ve told you, and this is the woman who was there to witness all of it. The resurrecting Queen herself, Sevan.”

Jersey swallows once, and I can see fear all over her face and smell it on every inch of her. “It’s…a pleasure to meet you. The stories I’ve heard…they’re quite incredible.”

I don’t say anything. I haven’t gathered enough information, I don’t know what they all know yet. I need to wait and gather more intel before I make a move.

Or try to murder Moab in front of possibly millions of viewers.

Shit.

My organs are gone. Ash.

This really is it. The end.

The whole world will know now.

Come morning, the time for quiet and secrecy will be over.

“It has been a very, very educational hour,” Moab continues. He leans forward, resting one elbow on the table, pressing two knuckles to his chin. “The interviews are fascinating. Hearing everyone’s take on our history…” He shakes his head and smiles. “It has been enlightening to see how different individuals paint the history.”

Moab sits forward, and my stomach does a jolt when he reaches forward and takes a lock of Alivia’s hair in his fingers, twirling it back and forth. He studies her, his eyes trailing up and down her neck.

I don’t love Alivia. Not yet.

But I want to pluck every one of his fingers from his hands as he touches her.

I want to peel his flesh from his body and turn him inside out.

Alivia sits there, breathing hard, her nostrils flaring.

But she’s frozen. Staring right at the camera.

“Your mother…” he suddenly stops speaking and looks directly at the camera. “Yes, they may look the same age, or within a few years, but this woman,” he turns back to Alivia, I swear, eye raping her as he continues to play with her hair, “is biologically Sevan’s mother.”

Moab’s eyes flick back up to mine. “As I was saying. Alivia was granting us a very, very interesting interview concerning the Bitten. How they’re made. The Debt of slavery to their creators. How they nearly overran her region. And how the King ordered the extermination of their entire kind. How many of them would you say he had killed, throughout the world, Sevan?” He nails me to my seat with his dark gaze. “How many deaths is your husband responsible for?”

“You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you, Moab?” I seethe between my teeth. “After all these years, you’re finally accomplishing your goal of ruining the world.”

“After all these years, I’m finally executing my father’s vision,” Moab says calmly. He drops Alivia’s hair finally and sits back in his seat, locking me with his molten hot vision. “A vision you and my grandfather could never comprehend.”

“The lack of foresight was not on our part,” I counter. “But congratulations. It only took you two thousand years to accomplish it.”

I can tell that hit the mark. Moab’s mouth snaps shut.

I look away from him, and my eyes lock directly on the camera.

For a very long moment, I just stare at it.

I’ve said too much already. I don’t know what Javier of the House of Badillo already said in his interview. I don’t know what Yuuto of the House of Himura said before Moab killed him.

But after this much coverage…the truth is out there now. The damage has been done. Our world will never look the same.

“I know some of us are watching this, or will watch it later,” I say. My throat is tight. The words don’t come out easily. I have to fight for each one of them.

In the background, I hear something slam into the huge and solid wood door. Larkin attempts to break it down.

“It was never supposed to come to this,” I say to the camera, shaking my head. “I’ve lived in the world where others knew what I was, what my husband was. People who are different, until the world understands them, are feared. And fear makes people do violent things.”

I shake my head again, fighting the sting at the back of my eyes. I can’t cry. Not now.

“I know this may seem like an exciting, new time,” I continue. “But unless you have had to run, unless you have been hunted, you cannot understand. And if you do not understand, do not go trying to change the world.”

I can’t fight it any longer. Tears well in my eyes as I imagine it in my head. When the most powerful governments in the world realize the truth. When they get ahold of us, when they rip our bodies apart, when they see our supernatural strength, and when they realize that we must feed on their blood to survive. When the powerful confirm the truth, I can see it: how we will have to run and hide. Or how we will fight for our survival against the entire human race.

“I beg you to lay low,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “I beg you to try to repair the damage done. Don’t let it escalate.”

Beneath the table, I feel Alivia reach for my hand and squeeze it tight in support.

“After all these years, you still hide in fear?”

Moab sits forward, resting his forearms on the table, glowering at me. His dark green eyes spark with red embers. “With everything we are capable of, with everything you can do. With all the numbers we now possess, you still wish for them all to hide?”

I look away from him. I fix my eyes on a tapestry that hangs from the wall across from me.

There’s nothing, absolutely nothing I can say that will make a difference to Moab.

“I truly do not understand how you and your husband remained in power this entire time, when the both of you have lived in such fear,” Moab seethes. I feel it. A monologue coming on. We’re in for a long speech. “The world does not respect cowards.”

There’s an even louder whack at the door, and I hear wood splinter. Moab’s guards at the door stand in front of it, their swords held at the ready.

Moab hasn’t stopped talking, though. He continues his speech. Ranting on and on.

There’s another crack against the wood, and a two-foot long splinter goes sailing across the room, narrowly missing one of the guards.

I tighten my grip around the sword.

I look at the camera.

Can I do it?

Can I take advantage of his distraction and kill him on live TV? Because I know there are people watching. I know millions will see it.

Can I slaughter him in front of the camera?

There’s another shattering boom, and I hear the air rush as it sucks into the Hall.

Moab shoots to his feet, drawing his sword, watching the door.

I don’t see anyone. But someone tosses some kind of…device inside. It hits the stone floor with a metallic tinkle. My stomach drops when there’s a beep, followed by three others.

And then it explodes.

Not with fire and shrapnel.

Gas.

It billows out of the device, filling the air, filling the hall at rapid speed.

It has a faint green hue to it, and the air instantly has the smell of toxic fumes.

Two seconds after it detonates, the very last person I ever expected climbs through the destroyed door.

“Eli?” I gasp, sucking in a breath, trying not to breathe.

His eyes lock on mine, wide and wild.

But my gaze shifts to the two others who crawl through the door immediately behind him.

Larkin slaughters one of the guards, instantly followed by Cyrus, who takes out the other.

A cough draws my eyes back toward the situation I’d found myself in.

Moab has one hand drawn to his throat, and he coughs again. His eyes are confused, angry. He coughs once more, as if trying to clear his throat. He shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake it off. With an angry growl, he grabs Alivia by the arm, yanking her into his chest, and presses his sword against her throat.

“Cy…” he growls, but it sounds wheezy, like he can hardly breathe. “Cyrus.” He glares death at my fiancé, even as I see a strange, greenish vein rise from the collar of his shirt, stretching up his neck.

“Moab,” Cyrus glowers as he steps forward, his sword at the ready. “It’s been some time.”

Moab coughs again, and Alivia cringes as he coughs all over her. She has a tight grip on his arm, fighting against his grasp. “I had hoped to end this between us, once and for all,” Moab says. His voice grows rougher by the moment. There are now green veins stretching out onto his hands, more climbing his neck to his jaw. “But it seems I’ll just have to lock you deep in a hole somewhere, and let you starve into agony.”

Cyrus smiles, and oh, if it isn’t the most wicked thing I’ve ever seen. “Oh, you may speak all the threatening words you like, my wayward grandson. But you barely look able to stand, much less attempt to take me to a dark prison.”

Moab coughs again, and I see his hand holding the sword to Alivia’s throat tremble.

I take a breath, testing the air.

It tastes bad. Like there’s too much cleaner in the room.

But my lungs don’t burn.

I dare a glance down at my arms. I don’t see any toxic-looking veins rising to the surface.

As I look around, everyone else looks fine, too. Whatever that chemical was, it only seems to be affecting Moab.

His breathing now comes in struggling pulls, wheezing and gasping. Alivia yanks his arm away from her, doing a twist and turn, yanking the sword from his hands. She takes four steps away, pointing the blade back at him.

Moab looks up with confused, panicked eyes.

It’s the first time that I notice Jersey Adams has turned the camera, making sure to capture whatever is happening to Moab. She watches with wide, fearful eyes, but there’s a little gleam in them. She’s uncovered the most groundbreaking story in the history of the planet Earth.

Moab makes a hacking cough, and drops to his knees. He spits on the floor, and it’s mostly blood.

“I have a very dear friend who lives in the charming city of Boston,” Cyrus says as he takes a casual step forward, the tip of his sword dragging lightly against the stone floor. “She’s a fascinating person. Utterly human. Calm and composed as a butterfly. But she has these skills. She understands chemistry like no one I have ever met before.”

Elle.

My eyes widen as it all begins to make sense.

I’ve heard stories about Ian Ward’s little sister. The woman currently taking guardianship of my little brother.

She has a degree in botany and chemistry. She’s made things specific to vampires before.

Looking over at Rath, I understand. He and Alivia took forever in arriving to aide because they had to make a side trip to Boston.

For some very specific chemical warfare.

“She’s made many fascinating creations before,” Cyrus continues as he closes the distance between him and Moab, who is on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. His entire body is covered in those toxic green veins, his body looking as if it’s bulging, about to explode. “She can even target specific DNA,” Cyrus says as he stops right in front of Moab. “There are genetic differences between vampires and humans. And she even managed to design it to recognize my DNA, Sevan’s DNA, and the DNA of any descendants of Dorian or Malachi. But any foreign DNA? Anyone outside of those specific bloodlines?”

Cyrus makes a tsk sound. I watch him carefully, noting his relaxed shoulders. The grip he has on his sword. His pursed lips.

I know what is about to happen.

What I don’t expect is the sound of a distant explosion. It comes from the direction of the canyon. But Cyrus does not seem worried.

“That is the sound of all your soldiers dying this same painful death,” Cyrus says, his voice low and intimate. He goes down on one knee beside Moab, who glares death up at the King. Even his eyes are stained now with that sick green color. “Every one of your soldiers within the castle is now lying on the floor, wondering why they ever thought they could betray a system that has been in place for two thousand years.”

Cyrus reaches forward, cupping Moab’s face. Almost like a father looking into his son’s eyes.

But even though Cyrus loved our son fiercely, even until the day he killed him, that love was tainted by action. Cyrus never found it in him to love anyone ever again, save me.

Cyrus does not love his grandson.

“I have a very good relationship with this incredibly talented chemist,” Cyrus says, his voice clear and steady. “We have more, and I know she will provide us with more once we run out, if it means taking care of the issues you have caused. You may have shifted the landscape forever, Moab,” Cyrus says as he straightens, standing. “But I am still King.”

With a quick, clean motion, Cyrus swings his sword.

Moab’s head hits the floor with a small crack. The rest of his body collapses to the ground a moment later.

A tear breaks free and streaks down my face.

I can’t identify the exact reason I’m crying. There are a lot of big reasons. All the emotions and fears and the anger I’ve been feeling for days and weeks, months and lifetimes, pushes out that one tear.

Cyrus turns and looks back at me.

Relief.

I see it there in every inch of his stature.

Moab has been a threat to us since the dawn of our time. Always there in the back of Cyrus’ mind.

And now he’s finally dead.

I drop my sword and walk to Cyrus, as more emotions bubble up inside me.

Pain. Fear. Grief.

Cyrus lets his own sword fall to the ground and he gathers me up in his arms, pulling me tight to his chest.

I can’t hold it anymore.

I cry.

I sob.

I let it all go, finally.

This isn’t over. We may have defeated Moab. But Lorenzo Saint Claire swore to kill me.

Moab is dead. His soldiers are dead.

It’s a victory. A battle won.

But, I’m just so tired of war.

So I cling to Cyrus, and I let it all out.