The Blood Debt (Part 2)

I didn't pack much. A suitcase of clothes I’d likely never wear again and the silver dagger hidden against my thigh. As I walked out of the Vance manor, my father didn't even come to the door to say goodbye. He stayed in his study, probably already pouring a fresh glass of bourbon to celebrate his survival.

The car waiting for us wasn’t a standard limousine. It was a matte-black armored beast with windows so dark they looked like polished obsidian. Dante held the door open, but he didn't offer his hand. He stood back, his posture stiff, watching me with those predatory silver eyes.

I slid into the leather interior, and he followed, sitting as far away from me as the wide seat allowed.

"You're afraid," he noted as the car pulled away from the curb. He wasn't looking at me; he was staring at the partition separating us from the driver.

"Any sane person would be," I snapped, clutching my purse. "I've been sold to a man who treats people like currency and controls the shadows. I’m not exactly thrilled."

"Currency is stable," Dante said, his voice cold. "People are volatile. I prefer stability."

"Is that why you need a wife? For stability?"

He finally turned his head. Up close, the power rolling off him was suffocating. It felt like standing near a high voltage wire a hum in the air that made my skin prickle. "I need your bloodline, Elara. The Vances are the only ones left with the 'Scribe's Mark.' You can touch the past. I need you to find something that was stolen from my family decades ago."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then your father's debts will be settled in blood instead of marriage. I believe he owes roughly four liters. Would you like to start with his heart or his head?"

I bit my lip, turning to look out the window. We were leaving the city center, heading toward the cliffs where the "Old Money" and the "Old Magic" lived.

We eventually pulled up to Vane House. It was a fortress of black stone and ivy, perched on a jagged cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It looked less like a home and more like a tomb.

"Welcome to your new cage," Dante said as the door was opened by a silent, pale-faced butler.

Inside, the house was silent and freezing. Every surface was made of cold marble or dark metal. As we walked through the foyer, I accidentally brushed my hand against a bronze statue of a weeping angel.

Static.

I saw a woman screaming. I saw Dante as a boy, his hands glowing with a terrifying, violet light as he accidentally withered the flowers in a garden just by walking past them. I felt his loneliness a vast, echoing void of never being able to be touched.

I gasped, pulling my hand back, my breath hitching.

Dante stopped walking. He looked at the statue, then at me. His eyes narrowed. "You saw something."

"You... you can't touch anyone," I whispered, the realization hitting me harder than the vision. "The stories are true. Your touch is lethal."

Dante’s expression didn't change, but the shadows in the corners of the room deepened, creeping across the floor toward my shoes. "My touch brings decay. To humans, it is agony. To my own kind, it is a slow death. It is the price for the power I wield."

He stepped toward me, and I backed up until my hit the cold stone wall. He didn't touch me, but he leaned in, pinning me with his gaze. He placed his hand on the wall right next to my head.

I watched in horror as the gray stone beneath his palm began to turn black. Tiny cracks spider webbed out from his fingers, the rock literally crumbling as if a thousand years of erosion were happening in seconds.

"I am a king of ruins, Elara," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "Do not mistake my lack of touch for a lack of desire to break you if you cross me."

I looked from his hand to his eyes. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but a strange spark of defiance the "Iron" in my own blood flared up. I reached out, my hand trembling, and pointed toward his chest.

"Then why did you bring a 'Scribe' into your house, Dante? If you touch me and I die, you lose your key. You're just as trapped as I am."

For a second, the air between us felt like it was going to catch fire. The tension was so thick I could taste it bitter and electric.

Dante looked down at my hand, then back to my face. A low, dark chuckle escaped his throat. "It seems my wife has teeth. Good. You'll need them. The Syndicate members are coming to meet the new 'Queen' tomorrow night. If they smell your fear, they will tear you apart."

He straightened up, the shadows receding back into the darkness.

"Rest, Elara. Tomorrow, your training begins. And remember: touch nothing in this house unless you want to see the ghosts of everyone I’ve killed."

He turned and walked away, his long black coat billowing behind him like wings. I stood there in the cold hallway, my hand still shaking, watching the black, crumbled stone where his hand had been.

I was the wife of a monster. But as I felt the weight of the dagger against my leg, I knew one thing for certain.

Monsters can bleed. And I was going to find out if Dante Vane was an exception.