Kit stood and watched the smoke rising in the distance through the window of the room he shared with Ty.

At least, he assumed he shared the room with Ty. His bag was here, tossed into a corner, and nobody had ever bothered to tell him whether he was supposed to be in a different room. He’d gotten dressed in the bathroom that morning and emerged to find Ty pulling his T-shirt on over his head. His Marks seemed unusually black, probably because his skin was so pale. He looked so delicate—Kit had to glance away from the shape of his shoulder blades, the fragility of his spine. How could he look like that and be strong enough to fight demons?

Now Ty was downstairs, with the rest of his family. People tended to cook when someone died and Shadowhunters were no exception. Someone was probably making a casserole. A demon casserole. Kit leaned his head against the cold glass of the window.

There was a time he could have run, Kit thought. He could have run and left the Shadowhunters behind, lost himself in the underground world of Shadow Markets. Been like his father, not part of any world, existing between them.

In the reflection of the window glass, Kit saw the bedroom door open and Ty come in. He was still wearing his mourning clothes, though he’d taken off the jacket and was just in a black long-sleeve T-shirt. And Kit knew it was too late to run, that he cared about these people now, and specifically Ty.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Ty sat down on the bed and started unlacing his shoes. “I wanted to talk to you.”

The door was still slightly open and Kit could hear voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. Helen’s, Dru’s, Emma’s, Julian’s. Diana had gone back to her own house. Apparently she lived in a weapons store or something like that. She’d gone back to get some kind of tool she thought could fish the splinters out of Julian’s bleeding hands.

Ty’s hands were fine, but he’d been wearing gloves. Kit had seen Julian’s when he’d gone to rinse them out at the sink, and they’d looked like shrapnel had blown into his palms. Emma had stood nearby looking worried, but Julian had said he didn’t want an iratze, that it would just heal the skin closed over the bits of wood. His voice had sounded so flat, Kit had barely recognized it.

“I know how this is going to sound,” Kit said, turning so his back was against the cold glass. Ty was hunched over, and Kit caught the gleam of gold at his neck. “But you’re not acting the way I expected.”

Ty kicked his boots off. “Because I climbed up the pyre?”

“No, that was kind of actually the most expected thing you did,” said Kit. “I just . . .”

“I did it to get this,” Ty said, and put his hand to his throat. Kit recognized the gold chain and the slim disk of metal attached to it: Livvy’s locket, the one he’d helped her put on before the Council meeting. He vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched.

“Livvy’s necklace,” he said. “I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would . . .”

“Cry?” Ty didn’t look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. “‘Everybody is supposed to cry. But that’s because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don’t. I don’t accept it.”

“What?”

“I’m going to get her back,” said Ty.

Kit sat down heavily on the windowsill. “How are you going to do that?”

Ty let go of the necklace and took his phone out of his pocket. “These were on Julian’s phone,” he said. “He took them when he was in the library with Annabel. They’re photos of the pages of the Black Volume of the Dead.” He looked at Kit with a worried frown. “Will you come and sit down next to me so you can see them?”

Kit wanted to say no; he couldn’t say it. He wanted this not to be happening, but it was. When he sat down next to Ty on the bed, the mattress sagged, and he knocked against Ty’s elbow accidentally. Ty’s skin felt hot against his, as if the other boy had a fever.

It had never crossed his mind that Ty was lying or wrong, and he didn’t seem to be either. After fifteen years with Johnny Rook, Kit was pretty familiar with what bad spell books were like and this one looked decidedly evil. Spells in cramped handwriting littered the pages, along with creepy sketches of corpses crawling out of the grave, screaming faces, and charred skeletons.

Ty wasn’t looking at the photos like they were creepy, though; he was looking at them like they were the Holy Grail. “This is the most powerful spell book for bringing back the dead that’s ever existed,” he said. “That’s why it didn’t matter if they burned Livvy’s body. With spells like these she can be brought back whole no matter what happened to her, no matter how long—” He broke off with a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to wait. I want to start as soon as we get back to Los Angeles.”

“Didn’t Malcolm kill a lot of people to bring Annabel back?” said Kit.

“Correlation, not causation, Watson,” said Ty. “The simplest way to do necromancy is with death energy. Life for death, basically. But there are other sources of energy. I would never kill anyone.” He made a face that was probably supposed to be scornful but was actually just cute.

“I don’t think Livvy would want you to do necromancy,” Kit said.

Ty put his phone away. “I don’t think Livvy would want to be dead.”

Kit felt the words like a punch to the chest, but before he could reply, there was a commotion downstairs. He and Ty ran to the top of the stairwell, Ty in his stocking feet, and looked down into the kitchen.

Zara Dearborn’s Spanish friend, Manuel, was there, wearing the uniform of a Gard officer and a smirk. He was shrugging, and Kit leaned forward more to see who he was talking to. He caught sight of Julian leaning against the kitchen table, his face expressionless. The others were ranged around the kitchen—Emma looked furious, and Cristina had her hand on the other girl’s arm as if to hold her back.

“Really?” Helen said furiously. “You couldn’t wait until the day after our sister’s funeral to drag Emma and Jules to the Gard?”

Manuel shrugged, clearly indifferent. “It has to be now,” he said. “The Consul insists.”

“What’s going on?” Aline said. “You’re talking about my mother, Manuel. She wouldn’t just demand to see them without a good reason.”

“It’s about the Mortal Sword,” Manuel said. “Is that a good enough reason for all of you?”

Ty tugged on Kit’s arm, pulling him away from the stairs. They moved down the upstairs hallway, the voices in the kitchen receding but still urgent.

“Do you think they’ll go?” Kit said.

“Emma and Jules? They have to. The Consul’s asking,” said Ty. “But it’s her, not the Inquisitor, so it’ll be all right.” He leaned in toward Kit, whose back was against the wall; he smelled like a campfire. Kit realized it was probably sap from the pyre wood, and his stomach lurched again. “I can do this without you. Bring back Livvy, I mean,” he said. “But I don’t want to. Sherlock doesn’t do things without Watson.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No.” Ty had pulled the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands and was worrying at the fabric with his fingers. “I know it has to be a secret. People wouldn’t like it, but when Livvy comes back, they’ll be happy and they won’t care.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Kit said, feeling dazed.

“Yes.” Ty wasn’t looking directly at Kit—he never did—but his eyes lit up hopefully; in the dim light of the hallway, the gray in them was so pale it looked like tears. Kit thought of Ty sleeping, how he’d slept the whole day of Livvy’s death and into the night, and the way Kit had watched him sleep in terror of what would happen when he awoke.

Everyone had been terrified. Ty would fall apart, they’d thought. Kit remembered Julian standing over Ty as he slept, one hand stroking his brother’s hair, and he’d been praying—Kit didn’t even know Shadowhunters prayed, but Julian definitely had been. Ty would crumble in a world without his sister, they’d all thought; he’d fall away to ashes just like Livvy’s body.

And now he was asking Kit for this, saying he didn’t want to do it without him, and what if Kit said no and Ty crumbled from the pressure of trying to do it alone? What if Kit took away his last hope and he fell apart because of it?

“You need me?” Kit asked slowly.

Ty nodded. “Yes.”

“Then,” Kit said, knowing already that he was making a huge mistake, “I’ll help you.”

The Story Begins . . .

There was once an inn that sat peacefully on the bank of the Thames at Radcot, a day’s walk from the source. There were a great many inns along the upper reaches of the Thames at the time of this story and you could get drunk in all of them, but beyond the usual ale and cider each one had some particular pleasure to offer. The Red Lion at Kelmscott was musical: bargemen played their fiddles in the evening and cheesemakers sang plaintively of lost love. Inglesham had the Green Dragon, a tobacco-scented haven of contemplation. If you were a gambling man, the Stag at Eaton Hastings was the place for you, and if you preferred brawling, there was nowhere better than the Plough just outside Buscot. The Swan at Radcot had its own specialty. It was where you went for storytelling.

The Swan was a very ancient inn, perhaps the most ancient of them all. It had been constructed in three parts: one was old, one was very old, and one was older still. These different elements had been harmonized by the thatch that roofed them, the lichen that grew on the old stones, and the ivy that scrambled up the walls. In summertime day-trippers came out from the towns on the new railway, to hire a punt or a skiff at the Swan and spend an afternoon on the river with a bottle of ale and a picnic, but in winter the drinkers were all locals, and they congregated in the winter room. It was a plain room in the oldest part of the inn, with a single window pierced through the thick stone wall. In daylight this window showed you Radcot Bridge and the river flowing through its three serene arches. By night (and this story begins at night) the bridge was drowned black and it was only when your ears noticed the low and borderless sound of great quantities of moving water that you could make out the stretch of liquid blackness that flowed outside the window, shifting and undulating, darkly illuminated by some energy of its own making.

My Diary

20 September 1996

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel.
        Is this normal? He’s an adult. He’s twice my age.
There’s no way… No. There’s no way. But OH GOD.
I wish there was.

Dear diary:
I think I’m in love with my English teacher.

Prologue

24 March

DC Rose Pelham kneels down; she can see something behind the kitchen door, just in front of the bin. For a minute she thinks it’s a bloodstained twist of tissue, maybe, or an old bandage. Then she thinks perhaps it is a dead flower. But as she looks at it more closely she can see that it’s a tassel. A red suede tassel. The sort that might once have been attached to a handbag, or to a boot.
        It sits just on top of a small puddle of blood, strongly suggesting that it had fallen there in the aftermath of the murder. She photographs it in situ from many angles and then, with her gloved fingers, she plucks the tassel from the floor and drops it into an evidence bag which she seals.
        She stands up and turns to survey the scene of the crime: a scruffy kitchen, old-fashioned pine units, a green Aga piled with pots and pans, a large wooden table piled with table mats and exercise books and newspapers and folded washing, a small extension to the rear with a cheap timber glazed roof, double doors to the garden, a study area with a laptop, a printer, a shredder, a table lamp.
        It’s an innocuous room; bland even. A kitchen like a million other kitchens all across the country. A kitchen for drinking coffee in, for doing homework and eating breakfast and reading newspapers in. Not a kitchen for dark secrets or crimes of passion. Not a kitchen for murdering someone in.
        But there, on the floor, is a body, splayed face down inside a large, vaguely kidney-shaped pool of blood. The knife that had been used is in the kitchen sink, thoroughly washed down with a soapy sponge. The attack on the victim had been frenzied: at least twenty knife wounds to the neck, back and shoulders. But little in the way of blood has spread to other areas of the kitchen – no handprints, no smears, no spatters – leading Rose to the conclusion that the attack had been unexpected, fast and efficient and that the victim had had little chance to put up a fight.
        Rose takes a marker pen from her jacket pocket and writes on the bag containing the red suede tassel.
        Description: ‘Red suede/suedette tassel.’
        Location: ‘In front of fridge, just inside door from hallway.’
        Date and time of collection: ‘Friday 24 March 2017, 11.48 p.m.’
        It’s probably nothing, she muses, just a thing fallen from a fancy handbag. But nothing was often everything in forensics.
        Nothing could often be the answer to the whole bloody thing.

2 January

Joey Mullen laid the flowers against the gravestone and ran her fingertip across the words engraved into the pink-veined granite.

SARAH JANE MULLEN
1962–2016
BELOVED MOTHER OF JACK AND JOSEPHINE

        ‘Happy new year, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you yesterday. Alfie and I had shocking hangovers. We went to a party over in Frenchay, at Candy’s new flat. Remember Candy? Candy Boyd? She was in my year at school, she had all that long blond hair that she could sit on? You really liked her because she always said hello to you if she passed you on the street? Anyway, she’s doing really well, she’s a physiotherapist. Or… a chiropractor? Anyway, something like that. She cried when I told her you were dead. Everyone cries when I tell them. Everyone loved you so much, Mum. Everyone wished you were their mum. I was so lucky to have a mum like you. I wish I hadn’t stayed away for so long now. If I’d known what was going to happen, I would never have gone away at all. And I’m sorry you never got to meet Alfie. He’s adorable. He’s working at a wine bar in town at the moment, but he wants to be a painter-decorator. He’s at his mum’s now, actually, painting her kitchen. Or at least, he’s supposed to be! She’s probably made him sit down and watch TV with her, knowing her. And him. He’s a bit of a procrastinator. Takes him a while to get going. But you’d love him, Mum. He’s the cutest, sweetest, nicest guy and he’s so in love with me and he treats me so well and I know how much of a worry I was to you when I was younger. I know what I put you through and I’m so, so sorry. But I wish you could see me now. I’m growing up, Mum. I’m finally growing up!’
        She sighed.
        ‘Anyway, I’d better go now. It’ll be getting dark soon and then I’ll get really scared. I love you, Mum. I miss you. I wish you weren’t dead. I wish I could go to your house and have a cup of tea with you, have a good gossip, have a bitch about Jack and Rebecca. I could tell you about the gold taps. Or maybe I could tell you about the gold taps now? No, I’ll tell you about the gold taps next time. Give you something to look forward to.
        ‘Sleep tight, Mum. I love you.’

Joey climbed the steep lane from Lower Melville to the parade of houses above. Even in the sodium gloom of a January afternoon, the houses of Melville Heights popped like a row of children’s building blocks: red, yellow, turquoise, purple, lime, sage, fuchsia, red again. They sat atop a terraced embankment looking down on to the small streets of Lower Melville like guests at a private party that no one else was invited to.
        Iconic was the word that people used to describe this row of twenty-seven Victorian villas: the iconic painted houses of Melville Heights. Joey had seen them from a distance for most of her life. They were the sign that they were less than twenty minutes from home on long car journeys of her childhood. They followed her to work; they guided her home again. She’d been to a party once, in the pink house, when she was a student. Split crudely into flats and bedsits, smelling of damp and cooked mince, it hadn’t felt bright pink on the inside. But the views from up there were breathtaking: the River Avon pausing to arc picturesquely on its mile-long journey to the city, the patchwork fields beyond, the bulge of the landscape on the horizon into a plump hill crowned with trees that blossomed every spring into puffballs of hopeful green.
        She’d dreamed of living up here as a child, oscillated between which house would be hers: the lilac or the pink. And as she grew older, the sky blue or the sage. And now, at twenty-six, she found herself living in the cobalt-blue house. Number 14. Not a sign of a lifetime of hard work and rich rewards, but a fringe benefit of her older brother’s lifetime of hard work and rich rewards.
        Jack was ten years older than Joey and a consultant heart surgeon at Bristol General Hospital, one of the youngest in the county’s history. Two years ago he’d married a woman called Rebecca. Rebecca was nice, but brittle and rather humourless. Joey had always thought her lovely brother would end up with a fun-loving, no‑​nonsense nurse or maybe a jolly children’s doctor. But for some reason he’d chosen a strait-laced systems analyst from Staffordshire.
        They’d bought their cobalt house ten months ago, when Joey was still farting about in the Balearics hosting foam parties. She hadn’t even realised it was one of the painted houses until Jack had taken her to see it when she moved back to Bristol three months ago.
        ‘You bought a painted house,’ she’d said, her hand against her heart. ‘You bought a painted house and you didn’t tell me.’
        ‘You didn’t ask,’ he’d responded. ‘And anyway, it wasn’t my idea. It was Rebecca’s. She virtually bribed the old lady who was living here to sell up. Said it was literally the only house in Bristol she wanted to live in.’
        ‘It’s beautiful,’ she’d said, her eyes roaming over the tasteful interior of taupe and teal and copper and grey. ‘The most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.’
        ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Jack had said, ‘because Rebecca and I were wondering if you two would like to live here for a while. Just until you get yourselves sorted out.’
        ‘Oh my God,’ she’d said, her hands at her mouth. ‘Are you serious? Are you sure?’
        ‘Of course I’m sure,’ he’d replied, taking her by the hand. ‘Come and see the attic room. It’s completely self-contained – perfect for a pair of newlyweds.’ He’d nudged her and grinned at her.
        Joey had grinned back. No one was more surprised than she was that she had come back from Ibiza with a husband.
        His name was Alfie Butter and he was very good-looking. Far too good-looking for her. Or at least, so she’d thought in the aqua haze of Ibizan nights. In the gunmetal gloom of a Bristol winter the blue, blue eyes were just blue, the Titian hair was just red, the golden tan was just sun-damage. Alfie was just a regular guy.
        They’d married barefoot on the beach. Joey had worn a pink chiffon slip dress and carried a posy of pink and peridot Lantanas. Alfie had worn a white T‑​shirt and pink shorts, and white bougainvillea blossom in his hair. Their marriage had been witnessed by the managers of the hotel where they both worked. Afterwards they’d had dinner on a terrace with a few friends, taken a few pills, danced until the sun came up, spent the next day in bed and then and only then did they phone their families to tell them what they’d done.
        She would have had a proper wedding if her mother had still been alive. But she was dead and Joey’s dad was not really a wedding kind of a man, nor a flying-out‑​to‑​Ibiza kind of a man, and Joey’s parents had themselves married secretly at Gretna Green when her mum was four months pregnant with Jack.
        ‘Ah, well,’ her father said, with a note of relief. ‘I suppose it’s a family tradition.’

Name: Nasir Alexander “Nax” Hall

Admission Status: Denied

I’ve been at Ellis Station Academy for exactly twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours, and I’ve already washed out.

Honestly, I’m not even surprised.

I shove a wadded-up, still-clean pair of boxers into my travel bag, right next to the brand-new Academy T-shirt I just bought yesterday. May as well burn it now. Maybe I’ll light it on fire and hoist it up the flagpole at Command once I’m back on Earth soil.

A cluster of guys sprawls across the back wall of the barracks, laughing as they pass their exam scores around. They’re either too oblivious to know how loud they are or they just don’t care, but I hear every word of their conversation.

“Why’d he even bother unpacking? He thought he was such hot shit in the cockpit, but y’all saw how that went.”

My flight papers crumple in my hand, and I breathe in, slow and deep, barely resisting the urge to put my fist right in the asshole’s face. Like I really need a reminder when my brain keeps up a constant lecture on how much of a screwup I am.

Only one other person from my high school made it to the Academy, and of course it had to be Tucker Fineman. Somehow this guy, who once got high in a cornfield on laughing gas stolen from his mother’s dental practice, is worthy of being an Academy pilot. And I’m not.

I thought I hated him back home, but apparently his douchery hadn’t yet achieved its greatest heights. He waltzed into the exam room this morning with a fake smile and a cheesy handshake, like some kind of wannabe politician. I held my breath through his whole entrance interview, waiting for him to spill all my dirt, tell the examiners every reason they should send me home.

He never did. Turns out I didn’t need his help getting kicked out anyway.

But if asshats like Tucker are what they’re looking for in future colonists, then it’s no wonder they decided to pass on the cow-town failboat. Me.

I dump a pile of travel-sized toiletries on top of my packed clothes and tug at the zipper. It resists me, of course, because nothing would make this day better than missing the shuttle back to Earth because I’m too incompetent to even zip my bag. I yank it once, twice, and it closes bit by bit . . . until finally it breaks altogether.

I stare at the bag. The bag stares back.

Finally I pick up it up by the shoulder strap and storm out of the room, followed by snickering whispers and a trail of leaking mouthwash.

Left turn, then right turn, past staff-only doors and high voltage area warnings. Eyes up and forward. Don’t meet anyone’s gaze. Something hot and terrible burns in my chest every time an Academy student walks by with squared shoulders and straight back, laughing, the Academy logo prominent on their chest and sleeves. I count air vents in the ceiling and breathe.

Uniformed instructors and students slowly give way to working officers and plainclothes citizens as I cross from the Academy wing into the common area of Ellis Station. Behind me, new students settle in for their training—six months for civilians relocating to the colonies, and anywhere from one to four years for pilots and officers. Ahead of me, people who have completed their training prepare for their one-way trip out into the black, looking forward to their new lives.

I get neither option. I get awkward parental silences and overly formal politeness instead. Whoo.

The terminal for Earth-bound shuttles isn’t far, but my ride is supposed to arrive any minute, so I break into a light jog. My deodorant bounces out of my open bag and clatters to the floor behind me, but I’ve got no shits left to give for it. Honestly, if I miss this shuttle, I think I’d rather swim back to Earth without a vacuum suit than stay here for a second longer. The bright outline of Earth glows through the viewports like a taunt, casting eerie shadows over the craggy lunar terrain beyond. The silhouettes of the old cargo tunnels connecting the station to the abandoned first settlement slice through the light like something out of a nightmare. They seemed massive and beautiful when I arrived this morning.

Now they’re just ugly.

One more left turn, and I’m there. Through the enormous bay window, the arrival/departure board glows with a single flight status: mine, marked as ARRIVING SOON. I haven’t missed it. I’d be thankful, but I was actually starting to look forward to that little vacuum walk. Probably better than showing my face back home after screwing up yet another thing.

My parents will be nice enough about it, like they always are, but “nice” and “disappointed in their loser son” aren’t mutually exclusive. Nothing like a lecture about good life choices with a side of motherly weeping in the morning. Can’t wait. They watched me play pilot while herding the goats out in the field behind the house from age five until embarrassingly recently. Now that future is impossible. Their pity will be excruciating.

At least the golden boy won’t be there to witness my grand return and scold me like a child. Malik actually got hisone-way ticket to life in the colonies. Of course. It’s cool, I’ll just live with my ammi and dad for the rest of my life, feeding the chickens and flying simulators.

The terminal door is blocked by a black guy about my age locked in conversation with none other than Dr. Herrera herself, the headmaster of the Academy. The guy stands straight and confident, his expression calm, with long English vowels smooth and reasonable on his tongue. His well-fitted polo shirt bears the crest of the School of Colonial Relations stitched over the right side.

Another wannabe politician type. Great.

“Surely there’s something we can work out,” he says, oozing charm, but apparently the conversation is already over. Dr. Herrera cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

“You made your choice, Rion. Now you have to live with it. Excuse me,” she says, glancing at her watch as she dashes away. The guy’s cool mask slides into a scowl, and he runs a hand through his dyed-red hair. I catch his eye and grin.

“Guess that means you’re with me,” I say with false cheer. “What’d you do to get kicked out?”

His lip curls. “Piss off, wanker.”

Ooh, never been sworn at in an English accent before. Can’t say I mind it.

The night was quiet. High above him, the snow-capped spires and rooftops of Bran Castle glistened faintly in the moonlight – the harsh, threatening appearance of the colossal citadel strangely softened by the frosty shroud of snow.

Perched high atop a rugged cliff, the ancient stronghold overlooked the hostile mountains and fertile valleys of his kingdom. For centuries, this fortress had served as a sanctuary to the pious, God-fearing kings who had born the Wallachian crown before him.

It was ironic that now, it was he who followed in their footsteps.

Tearing his eyes away from the ancient monument, the Prince continued along the ornately balustraded walkway, descending a sprawling flight of stairs to the vast platform that overlooked the castle’s formal gardens – Gardens that had been built on his command and which served only one purpose: To entrap those that he brought here to die.

Placing his hand on the snow-covered balustrade, he lowered his gaze to the maze that sat at the centre of the castle’s grounds. For the briefest of moments, his eyes lingered on the neatly cut hedges of the labyrinth, marvelling at their perfect symmetry, then they moved to the solitary figure of a woman that strolled along the gravel path.

Unaware of his presence, the blond beauty sauntered along the outer hedge of the maze, her green skirts billowing in the cold breeze. Idly, he studied her. She truly was a beauty, with skin so pale that it seemed almost translucent.

“You could show her mercy, allow her to live…” A voice said softly behind him.

“Clemency is God’s domain, not mine.” He remarked, not bothering to turn around to his visitor. “But I am sure you have not come here to lecture your Prince on morality Ștefan.” 

“No your Grace, I have not.” His guest replied, lowering his dark hood to reveal his short blond hair and icy blue eyes. “I have come here for another reason: Sultan Mehmed is preparing for war. He intends to punish you for your refusal to honour your allegiance to the Ottoman crown. We have months, maybe only weeks before his troops set foot on Wallachian soil.”

“Then the time has finally come.” The Prince said softly, his green eyes strangely inhuman as he stared into the night.

“Are you truly prepared to do this Vlad?” Ștefan asked. “Are you truly willing to imperil your crown, your kingdom, all we ever fought for, to fight a war you cannot win?”

The Prince moved ever so slightly and for a moment, the signet ring on his left glistened faintly in the moonlight. He looked down at it, his eyes tracing over the curling Ouroboros that adorned his crest – the sign of his power and his service to the Wallachian people.

“A monarch that bows to another, is not a king, but a pawn.” He replied, finally turning to his guest. “I will not subject my people to the Ottoman yoke, or let them die in Mehmed’s futile wars.”

“This is utter madness Vlad, this is not a game.”

The Prince chuckled mirthlessly. “I intend to turn it into one Ștefan: A magnificent game of power and revenge. I will tear down all that is precious to him and burn it in the fires of hell.”

The Prince studied his general for a moment, and there, lingering in the depts of his blue eyes, he could see what he was trying to hide: Fear, terror and revulsion. Soon, he would give him true reasons to fear him.

“You know what needs to be done. See to it that all is prepared.” The Prince said, his tone bearing the unmistakable air of command, making it clear that his decision was final. “You may leave.”

“Your Grace.” Ștefan bowed swiftly, taking two steps backwards, away from the Prince and then he turned, leaving his master to his gruesome business.

As his General strode away, Vlad directed his gaze back at his guest, watching her idly for a moment. She was dressed in a flimsy gown, her neckline cut so low that it left little doubt as to either her charms or her intentions. Even from a distance, he could see the gentle swell of her breast and the faint heaving of her chest against her corset. She was nervous, doubtlessly wondering whether the rumours she had dismissed so lightly could be true. Soon, she would learn that they merely scratched on the surface of the truth.

A cruel smile lingered in the corner of his mouth as he descended the stairs into the gardens. She did not hear him approach, only taking notice of his presence as he stepped into the faint moonlight. As she beheld him, she sank into a deep, reverent bow. 

He stepped closer, the hem of his crimson cloak trailing over the snow as he walked. Wordlessly, he offered her his hand. She grasped it without hesitation. Her hand was cold, but not as cold as his.

“I see that you are enjoying my gardens, Madame.” He said, studying her intently, his green eyes resting on her.

“They are beautiful, almost unworldly.” She replied, her eyes returning to the pale, snow-covered roses that were in full bloom in spite of the bitter cold – as if for some inexplicable reason, the seasons had no effect on them.

He chuckled softly, letting go of her hand and reaching out to pluck one of the roses from the hedge.

“Unworldly…” Vlad echoed, drawing out the word, letting it roll off his tongue as he held up the rose, studying it closely for a moment.

“I have never seen anything to compare. It is almost like magic.” She whispered, stepping closer to him, transfixed by the sight of the flower.

He chuckled softly, handing her the rose. “Illusions are by their nature sweet.”

Mesmerised, she stared at the flower, finally lifting her hand to brush the snow from its powdery white petals.

“Yes, they are.” She whispered.

He circled her, studying her silently, like a predator its prey. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the back of her neck and the throbbing vein that was visible just behind her ear, then he stepped closer to her, so close that he could feel the heat that radiated from her body.

Bending down, he traced his lips over the pulsing vein on her neck, his fingertips trailing gently along her arm until his hand closed around hers.

“But illusions fade, and when they do, we are inevitably faced with the harrowing truth that hides behind the mirage.” He murmured, closing his hand around hers, watching as the flower withered under his touch – its colourful beauty reduced to nothing but wilted, black leaves.

Terrified, she struggled against him, and he let her go, watching calmly as she staggered away from him. He could have made this easy for her, but he preferred the elaborate chase to the artless kill – it was so much more exhilarating.

“Go on, run.” He whispered, his eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments.

In utter terror, she stumbled away from him and then she turned, running into the maze in mindless panic. He smirked. She had already lost.

Waiting for the briefest of moments, he allowed her to venture deeper into the labyrinth. And then, slowly, he moved forward, stepping into the darkness – becoming one with it. 

His keen senses felt her fear as she fled through the maze, heedless that her desperate escape was precisely what he wanted. 

Following her, he strode through the darkness, idly passing the stone-carved effigies of winged demons and dragons that lined the maze. Stretching out his hand, he traced his fingertips over the pristine white marble of a statue and for a moment, it seemed as if the creature was coming to life under his touch, its lifeless body coiling and rippling faintly. Then he withdrew his hand, and the illusion was gone.

Closing his eyes, he listened to her ragged breathing and faith sobs as she fled through the maze, desperate to find a way out. But there would be no escape. Behind each turn, there would be just another alley, lined with snow-white marble statues and surrounded by impossibly tall hedges that trapped her inside the labyrinth.

He felt her racing heart, and her breathing that grew ever more laboured. The chase exhausted her. And then finally, she stopped, desperate to catch her breath. 

He waited a moment, watching her idly and then he moved, allowing her to hear him.

In utter terror, she fled again, stumbling through the maze in mindless terror – her long, blond hair catching in the branches, while the thorny bushes tore her expensive gown to shreds. And then, suddenly, she came to a dead end, the impenetrable hedge blocking her way, trapping her.

She wanted to turn back but stopped as she glimpsed him in the shadows. He waited, drawing out the moment, enjoying her fear. And then he moved, stepping out of the darkness, materialising like a spectre out of thin air. 

And as he stepped from the shadows, he gave up every last pretence of humanity. The intense viridian colour of his eyes seemed suddenly unnatural, his skin was no longer pale, but deathly white and the sharp, regal features of his face seemed no longer hard but cruel and inhuman.

He felt her fear – the deep primal fear that every living thing felt in the presence of death. And yet, she did not run, simply staring at him as if mesmerised by his presence. For the briefest of moments, everything was still, as if time and space were suspended in a void – as if nature itself was waiting for the inevitable in agonised suspense.

And then, the illusion shattered and her breathless awe gave way to utter terror. She staggered away from him, pressing herself against the hedge, desperate tears running down her face.

“Shh, you must not cry Countess.” He murmured, stepping closer to her. “Not yet.”