Chapter 7

The next morning, the maid came to dress me — in a long red gown. The color elves hate most. Red is the color of slaughter and betrayal.

"There's a Blood Moon Feast tonight. The Luna asked for you by name."

The Blood Moon comes once a year. It is the largest of the wolven festivals — and the most fitting night for executing traitors and offering sacrifices.

The feast was set on the altar grounds behind the keep. The bonfire towered four stories high. Four hundred wolves circled it, drinking. Elves fear fire. Sixty feet from the flames, my skin began to blister. By the time I was standing beside Ophelia, my left ear had already started to peel.

Ophelia came toward me in a long white gown, took my hand, leaned in close to my ear: "Do you like the dress? It was dyed in Nyssa's blood."

Damien stepped down from the high seat. He stopped in front of me and said to Ophelia, "She doesn't look well. You're carrying — blood near you tonight is bad luck. Have her taken back below."

Ophelia hooked her arm through his and shook her head, soft. "Darling, Elara is the one who saved me. I want her at my side until the end of the feast." She turned to the elders. "Begin."

The old Beta lifted a cup. "To Thorne pack. To the seven Elf sacred trees we burned this year." Four hundred wolves raised their cups.

Two guards carried up a wooden chest. They opened it. Inside were Elf light-wings — hundreds of pairs. The pair on top had a silver-blue base — the color of my aunt's bloodline.

Ophelia walked over, drew that pair out, and held them up toward the fire. "As Luna, I offer these to the Moon Goddess."

I lunged. My open hand caught her across the face.

Damien's Alpha-aura crashed down. I was thrown back against the stone pillar of the altar and coughed up blood.

He went down on one knee in front of Ophelia. "Are you hurt?"

Ophelia shook her head, eyes red-rimmed. "Darling, I'm fine. Elara couldn't help herself." Then she smiled, suddenly. "Actually — I've been wanting to design a Luna gown. I'm short a pair of hands. Let Elara help. Call it… penance."

Damien looked at her. I saw his fingers curl in. "Fine."

He stood. He finally turned and looked at me — the way you look at a stranger — then walked Ophelia away.

The instant he turned to leave, I saw his hand at her waist. The fingers had clenched. The veins on the inside of his wrist stood out under the cuff. An Alpha only does that when he is fighting himself down hard.

I closed my eyes. So you can't hold it together either, Damien. But that's not my problem anymore. Tomorrow I dissolve into light.

The guards dragged me after Ophelia, toward the workroom.

Sandalwood was burning in the room. It couldn't quite cover the smell of blood underneath. In the center stood a dressmaker's mannequin, a half-finished Luna gown on it — the bodice deep red, the skirt empty.

"This skirt," Ophelia said, sketching the line in the air, "I want it made of light. Elf light-wings — light, sheer, beautiful. No Luna in the North has ever worn a gown like that." She turned. "You still have one wing left. Don't you?"

I didn't answer. Two guards forced me to the floor. The maid stepped forward with a pair of cold-iron shears and aimed them at the cluster of light-wing still rooted on my right side.

The shears closed — snip — a small, dry sound. Blood ran down from the corner of my mouth, mixed with saliva, pooled on the marble. The hem of Ophelia's gown caught its reflection.

When she had cut the first piece, Ophelia cradled it in her palm. "Not enough. A skirt like this needs at least five. Bring up the others."