Kirill’s eyes flew open. The curtains tented above his bed played tricks on his mind, for a moment making it appear as though he were gazing into a swirling, bottomless void. He saw Evgeni’s face in that void, his eyes burning, his voice sharp and tinged with the unmistakable ring of panic. For a second, Kirill thought he felt his own heart beat, one, solitary thud. Or perhaps that was just another memory.

Steel dagger, small vial of holy water, dragon’s saliva…

Kirill ran his fingers over the weapons under his pillow. Each one was smooth, familiar, comforting. The memory of Evgeni, the reminder of the betrayal he hadn’t thought of in ages, settled against his skin like acid, burning, eating through his flesh. Kirill remained still, staring unblinking up at the curtains, peering into that false, swirling void.

“The past must remain untouched,” he whispered. “No one can turn back time.”

Over and over he caressed his weapons, searching for the comfort their presence usually brought him. He weapons were security, protection. But not against ghosts.

“Today you will be visited by three spirits. Listen to them, Kirill. Hear what they have to say. They may be your last chance.”

This ghost had reached into the past with unerring accuracy and pulled forth perhaps the one true regret Kirill had. There had been many betrayals in his past, many times he’d used a loophole to escape from one bargain to enter into a more beneficial one. It was strategy, pure and simple. He made the decisions that would benefit him the most, and by benefitting him, benefit his people. But no betrayal had ever haunted him like that first one. Like Evgeni. Perhaps it was no coincidence that he hadn’t had a friend since.

Kirill closed his eyes again, willing his body to die, to spill him back into the dreamless darkness. The undulating heat and sickness that writhed inside him, letting him know the sun was high in the sky, grew warmer. The spark of consciousness inside him flickered and began to fade as he died for the second time that day.

It seemed he had scarcely had a moment’s peace when the rustle of feathers assaulted his ears like the mad flurry of a flock of crows. The bed dipped again, farther this time, Kirill’s entire body tilting with the sudden weight on the end of his mattress. Kirill opened his eyes, resigned to another visit and determined not to let this ghost best him as the last one had.

“The Ghost of Koliada Present, I presume?” Kirill paused, considering. The first ghost had taken the form of Etienne. And now he heard rustling feathers and felt a great weight pressing down on the space before him. “You’ve taken the form of the angelic prince of Meropis,” Kirill guessed. “Interesting.”

Patricio’s chiseled face met Kirill’s gaze as he opened his eyes, the angel’s blue stare as piercing as always. His enormous white wings were so bright compared to the rest of him that they seemed almost disembodied, towering limbs of light on a figure carved from shadow.

“Do not mistake my lack of rancor for absolution,” Patricio told him, his voice sounding deeper in the darkness.

Kirill sat up slowly. He focused on the blue eyes glowing slightly in the darkness, a more ethereal glow than the gold of the werewolf. Patricio did not offer anything further, merely sat there silently. Waiting.

“I need no one to absolve me,” Kirill said finally, keeping his voice calm and even. “Absolution is for sinners. I am merely a practical man building a future for himself and his people.”

“You think because I never judged you as violently as I did the demon that your soul is not as dark as his. Some part of you believes that my lack of condemnation on your part is a sign that you are not as evil as you fear you are.” The ghost that wore Patricio’s form spoke as the angel did, plain and unapologetic.

Kirill bristled. “I have no soul for you to judge.”

Patricio shifted on the bed. “That would be easier, wouldn’t it? If you had no soul to sully, you wouldn’t have to worry. You could do whatever needed to be done, no thought to what danger you put your immortal soul in.”

“I have no soul,” Kirill repeated, cursing himself for the unnecessary intensity. Even to his own ears he was protesting too strongly, the emotion in his voice giving away far too much. He closed his eyes, mentally cleared his mind. The ghosts were here to show him the error of his ways, to twist his mind into painful shapes and make him regret his decisions. He had to be firm, calm. He’d had good reasons for everything he’d done, there was no reason to be ashamed of them now.

He faced the angel once again. The ghosts seemed to mimic the other princes so perfectly. Perhaps that was the key to speaking with them. After all, he knew the weaknesses of his fellow princes. “Are you finally done with the demon then, and ready to move on to judging me? Will Saamal be next? Have his bloodthirsty ways finally snared the attention of the avenging angel?”

Patricio snorted. “So eager to throw another victim into my path. What would Irina say?”

Kirill stiffened. “Leave my wife out of this.”

“Leave her out of it, hmmm? Well, why don’t we see how long you can hold on to that?”

The change in scenery didn’t shock Kirill this time, didn’t disorient him as the last ghost had. Perhaps it helped that this time he was taken to somewhere more recently familiar, and obviously not in the past. He was standing in the palace of Nysa, in the rooms that the king and queen had allocated to Adonis. A large easel stood in the middle of the room, holding up a giant canvas on which two figures were swirling colors around like mad.

A red blob of paint hurtled through the air, passing through Kirill’s body as if he weren’t there. He arched an eyebrow at the source of the flying colors, noting with amusement that Adonis had managed to smear paint clear up the length of his horns. Spatters of green, red, silver, and gold made the curving points sparkle in the blinding light coming from the woman standing beside him at the canvas. She glowed as though she’d swallowed the sun, as if the heavenly body was trying to escape through her pores. Even that glow paled in comparison to the brilliance of the smile lighting up her face, which was also smudged with a rainbow of colors matching those on the canvas in front of her.

“Do you think he’s going to show?”

The woman—Ivy, Adonis’ wife—squinted at a pine tree she’d painted on the canvas. She swiped at it a few more times with her brush, filling out the boughs until the tree seemed to bow with the weight.

“It’s hard to tell with Kirill,” Adonis answered, swirling his paintbrush over a castle tower, spreading silver over the ramparts until they sparkled like fresh snow. “This looming contract with the dragons has him working pretty hard. Usually he can find sneaky ways to force people to sign alliance contracts with him, but the dragons don’t care about anything they can’t add to their treasure pile. Kirill’s had to make the rounds of all his mines personally to get the dwarves working overtime to get all the riches he needs to tempt the scaly beasts.”

“I’m surprised he has to keep such a close eye on them,” Ivy commented. “I thought dwarves loved to work.”

“Oh, they do. But you don’t understand how much Kirill needs. Even dwarves have to sleep sometime. Mining isn’t exactly light work.”

Kirill frowned. He allowed the dwarves plenty of sleep.

“So you think he’ll skip Irina’s Saturnalia dinner to keep working?”

Adonis shrugged and rubbed at one of his horns, smearing a fresh layer of scarlet up the bony protrusion. “It’s possible. Kirill isn’t really one for celebrating. Even when he has a reason to celebrate, he tends to just move on to the next goal.” He shrugged. “It’s probably why he’s as powerful as he is.”

“Poor Irina.”

Kirill and Adonis both turned to Ivy, brows furrowed.

“Why poor Irina?” Adonis asked.

Ivy put her paints down and slid her arms around Adonis’ waist. He welcomed her into his arms, wrapping his wings around her for good measure as she cuddled against him.

“I think it’s sad. She loves him, and she’s married to him, but he doesn’t spend time with her.”

“He spends time with her.” Adonis waggled his eyebrows. “Quality time.”

Ivy rolled her eyes and slapped her husband on the chest. “There’s more to a marriage than sex, husband of mine.” She gestured to the painting. “How would you feel if I never wanted to paint with you? If other than sex, I just ran around pursuing my own interests and left you to amuse yourself? Would you really be happy if you only saw me when we went to bed, or when we had a formal function to attend together?”

Adonis frowned. “You think Irina’s unhappy?”

Ivy settled against his chest, stroking Adonis’ bare skin almost absent-mindedly. “If she’s not now, she will be. I’ve met Irina, Adonis. She’s much too friendly and outgoing to be content with a husband who doesn’t care about her friends. She’s a social person. She thrives around other people. People like her aren’t meant to be alone. If Kirill can’t be part of that life…”

Adonis laid his cheek against the top of Ivy’s head. “Poor Kirill.”

“Enough,” Kirill snapped, turning away from the couple. He wasn’t certain if it was the couple’s words or seeing them enjoying one another’s company with such ease that riled his emotions into a stormy sea, but he wanted no more of this place regardless. “I get the point, you’re trying to tell me I don’t spend enough time with my wife. Return me to my home.”

“It is interesting to me that you feel you have any control over this situation,” Patricio mused. “I will return you home in due time. Right now, there is something else you need to see.” Patricio waved an arm, wiping away their surroundings like a painter scrubbing a canvas clean.

The scenery changed again. This time they were standing in a hovel, surrounded by rickety furniture. Black dust covered virtually every surface in a thin, fuzzy coat. Kirill frowned as dwarves scurried around him, one or two passing straight through his incorporeal form. It was a strange and somewhat unpleasant sensation, and Kirill stepped back until he stood near a wall, giving the little men around him as much space as the cramped quarters allowed.

After a moment, Kirill recognized individual faces. These were the dwarves who had cared for Irina after he’d first found her, the ones she’d taken a particular shine to. They were practically family now—a fact that Kirill had lamented on more than one occasion.

“Couldn’t you have managed a bigger bird than that?” One of the dwarves, Ludmill, demanded, eyeing the pathetic creature being roasted on a spit over the fire. “That looks like it’s just come out of its egg!”

“If you want to go out and find another creature for Koliada dinner, you’re welcome to it!” the dwarf manning the spit snapped—Pasha, Kirill believed he was called. “This was all the traps caught. Perhaps you’d like to tell the prince that we’ve no time to work his mines because we’ve got to get a bird big enough for your gluttonous appetite!”

Ludmill’s face went pale, but he quickly covered it with a scowl. “Don’t burn it.”

A hand on Kirill’s arm made him turn and he followed Patricio’s long arm to a corner. A dwarf stood there, leaning over, one hand braced against the wall. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his eyes were scrunched closed, his face lined with deep creases. He breathed slowly through his nose, obviously in pain. Kirill tilted his head. He remembered that dwarf. His name was Ian. No… Ivan. A grumpy dwarf to be sure, but Irina always spoke fondly of him.

“What’s wrong with him?” He kept his eyes on Ivan even as he spoke to Patricio.

“Much, I’m afraid. His heart is weak, but he continues to work as hard as the others. Full of pride, that one.”

Kirill brushed away the sense of unease that tried to crawl up his spine at the sight of Irina’s friend in such pain. “Demyan could heal him easily. Why doesn’t he say something?”

Patricio arched an eyebrow. “Why doesn’t he march up to the palace and ask the prince’s royal healer to see to his illness?”

Kirill tightened his jaw, irritation chafing him. “He is dear to Irina. I would allow Demyan to help him.”

“He is dear to Irina, but not to you. He never speaks to you, because you never speak to him. In fact you make it quite clear that however Irina sees them, you see them as workers, no different than they have always been. The dwarves know Irina cares for them, but they also know she’s in love with you. They would never do anything to put her in an awkward position. I doubt it would have occurred to any of them to ask her for help.”

“If he cannot ask for help, then he will die, and he will have no one to blame but himself.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue, but Kirill steadfastly refused to take them back. He couldn’t be responsible for keeping up with every worker, every friend of Irina’s. If they couldn’t ask for help, it was on their heads, not his.

Patricio shook his head, blond hair sliding over his massive shoulders. “Remember those words when the time comes and your wife is wearing all black, sobbing into your arms over the body of her dead friend.”

The image came to Kirill’s mind as clear as the full moon on a black night, conjured by the power in the angel’s words. He could feel Irina’s tears soaking into his tunic, the trembling of her body as she cried. He could almost picture the small coffin, Ivan’s face finally absent of pain—and life.

He stumbled against the wall, but his hand failed to find the rough surface of the hovel’s interior. Instead his fingers brushed against soft fur. Kirill blinked and found himself back in his bed, hands pressed to the furs beneath him, staring at the same void in the curtains over his bed. The ghost was gone, leaving Kirill alone with his thoughts and the images that haunted him.