The Vampire's Luna

Damien arched a brow. "Well," he said slowly, "you do realize she carries my child."

"I still will kill her," she replied with the kind of calm that was far more terrifying than screaming rage. She tapped his chest softly. Then, without waiting for his answer, she turned on her heel and walked down the hall. She pushed open doors to Magnus's room.

Damien exhaled slowly, staring after her. A part of him wanted to run after her, to reason with her. But another part knew better. Not when she was still basking in her near-victory, the adrenaline still high in her veins. So, he chose silence.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head—goddess, she would be the end of him, one way or another.

*****

Thessa stood at the far borders of vampire territory, the night chill wrapping around her. She kept her hood up. When the SUV rolled to a stop and the door opened, she saw him—Sage Veyron. The moment his boots hit the dirt, she darted forward, her arms flinging around his neck.

"Didn't know you missed me," Veyron chuckled.

"Oh, I did," Thessa murmured, pulling back enough to look at him. "Trust me. I've been through hell with the heir. Sometimes, I wish you were there just to tell me it was going to be okay. Or, at least, to remind me I wasn't going insane."

Veyron smirked. "You did good, Thessa. Very good. More than I ever expected." His gaze flicked over her face.

Thessa's chest warmed with the praise. She slid the strap of his bag off his shoulder and hoisted it onto her own. She gestured toward the brush where she'd hidden her car. "Come on. Before someone decides to tail us."

"The battle never ends in Blood City, eh?" Veyron said.

Thessa gave a tired smile, one hand still clutching his bag. "No, it doesn't," she replied. "But did you find a way?"

Veyron's mouth curved into a grim line. "Took a lot of research—which is no small feat in exile. Hard to dig through centuries of archives when everyone thinks you're a traitor. But with the king's seal, I got access."

She let out a slow sigh, her lips curving. "Hopefully, after this battle, we can take a breather."

*****

The next morning, the heart of Blood City throbbed with anticipation. Damien stood tall beside his queen at the execution grounds, the wide square filled with the thunder of hundreds of feet, the excited murmurs of a spectacle long denied.

Both of them feigned their annoyance well, every tilt of Luna's chin and every furrow of Damien's brow a carefully rehearsed act. It was a show meant for Isolde, who lingered at the opposite end of the square with the other spectators.

There hadn't been a werewolf execution on vampire grounds in centuries. Today, history itself seemed to hold its breath. Citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder, craning for a glimpse of history reborn.

They waited. The crowd roared louder as the guards marched toward the platform where the guillotine gleamed in the sun.

Of course, the king and queen knew Talon would not be found. They had moved their pawn long before this theater began. But the court demanded performance, and performance was what they gave. The prison warden scurried forward.

He made a dramatic show of whispering into Lord Richard's ear, and Damien almost rolled his eyes at the theatrics. But the effect was immediate. Lord Richard blanched, his entire body jerking back. He knew what this meant—knew that the queen's hand, subtle but ruthless, had orchestrated the escape.

If the queen had orchestrated the escape, Richard thought, she was certainly not making it easy for him to continue standing at her side.

Lord Richard crossed the square. He kept his hands folded in front of him. "Your Highness," he said.

Damien's eyes narrowed. "Where is the prisoner?" he demanded. He needed the council to believe in his anger as much as their enemies did.

Richard's fingers twitched. He swallowed. "He… he escaped." A ripple of incredulous whispers swept through the stands.

Damien turned slowly toward the queen. Luna stood: chin raised, eyes cool, the perfect portrait of indifference. Her posture said more than words: she was coldly complicit.

"Your Highness," Richard pressed on. He tried gentler tones. "Maybe—perhaps—this is a good thing. The werewolves are at our walls. We are—" he swallowed the thunder in his own throat,

"—we are preparing for war. The truce between our kingdoms is in ashes. Please, consider the queen—she is a werewolf, too. Your Highness, have mercy. Think on what your actions will cost us."

Damien let Richard's words wash over him—a necessary performance of being swayed, of weighing consequences. Then, with a voice that rolled cold and absolute, he turned to the guards. "Seize the queen." Luna's head whipped around as if struck. Her eyes were lightning in a storm.

"Lock her up."

Luna straightened, the flare of her nostrils the only sign of the storm inside. "I don't care what you do to me, Damien," she spat once the men's hands were on her wrists. "I am done with you. Done. Once this is over, I am returning to my people—with my child."

He ignored her words as she was hauled away, the small sound of the crowd's gasp following. He lifted his chin. "Send a message to the Werewolf King," he ordered. "Tell him the queen will remain imprisoned until Talon is produced and executed on our grounds."

"Your Highness, please! We go to war tonight! Is this really worth it?"

Damien held Richard's eyes a moment longer. "Do as I say, Lord Richard," he ordered. Then, careful as a man hiding a blade, Damien stole a glance toward Isolde. The woman's smile was small and sharp. Watching the queen being hauled away, Isolde's lips curved as if she'd been given a gift she'd longed for.

Damien's gut turned with disgust; this performance was working.

*****

" My lady? Where are you going?" Natasha asked quietly, falling into step behind Isolde.