“Long live the Bitch Queen!”

  Ah, the Mortasheen. Slick-haired conmen to their fangs—and proud of it. Once they got someone talking, they never shut up. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Incapable, really.

  Gossip wasn’t just bloodsport to them. It was business. Played with charm, scandal, and a glass of something stolen. The kind of people who’d gamble your teeth away and send flowers after.

  Their objective tonight was simple: stoke the rumor mill. Better to keep the mortals busy whispering nonsense than let them stumble onto anything real. Let them think they were “in” on some exclusive scandal—an affair, a feud, a betrayal no one else knew.

  Even if they made it up on the spot.

  If vampires had to be a myth, they might as well write it themselves. So Sullivan hired the best in the business.

  Especially now that absurdity had decided to poison the well. Apparently his guests had taken to whispering that the Crystal Princess was a changeling spy.

  These people would believe anything, wouldn’t they?

  What use would a spy be when caged within the Sanctum’s walls, perched on her husband’s arm like fine art on loan? Ilios didn’t need some delicate doll for information—he had Sullivan on speed dial. Allies didn’t require spies. They required proximity.

  Still, the rumor spread. And that, more than anything, annoyed him.

  Thankfully, the Mortasheen were already cutting such lies off at the heel, their velvet smiles trimming the threads before they tangled too far.

  But they weren’t just gossips. No—Mortasheen were dealmakers in velvet coats, fixers with pretty words and prettier knives. Exactly the kind of people he needed to shore up ties to the black market.

  Evie could only do so much on her own. And, for some reason, she seemed to have caught their attention tonight. The conmen had roped his niece into a conversation with a notorious loan shark.

  Sullivan didn’t like that. But he was in no position to interfere. Not here in their gilded prison, no matter how drunk on celebration their wardens were.

  Thanks to the Glass Chapel’s chokehold, he and his fellow bloodletters were nothing more but well dressed inmates. Yet the generous mortals were more than willing to let them eat cake.

  Cake that was too scarce to share and too devoid of substance to sustain them. There wasn’t room to argue either. Eight vampire seats against one hundred and fifty-two mortal ones.

  A farce of fairness toward the monsters on the hill, but there was no other choice than to play their games. So, Sullivan made sure his court never missed a single meeting.

  And what a Court to lead. The sanctions were tighter than ever—barely a handful of donors authorized per month. Anything more was called a breach, an uprising. Mortals acted like vampires would slaughter them the instant they lost control.

  Sullivan wasn’t sure if he cared whether they were right or not.

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  All he could think of was hunger. Pressing. Endless. Hunger stacked on hunger until even his bones starved.

  And how exquisitely cruel that the answer to that craving sat right beside him.

  Sullivan took a sip of his whiskey, the familiar smokey flavor helped to ground him the way his leather gloves normally did. He hated the silk gloves. He had almost dropped the glass twice already.

  Once the burn of alcohol faded, abyssal black eyes drifted to Oliver amid the drunken horde. He had already made his move. All it took was a kind word, a well-timed laugh, and the smile the devil personally gifted him. And just like that, the elf fell helpless under his spell.

  Oliver, like the Virelai, was tasked with much the same thing—only with a more delicate objective.

  Ailuin Silverthread.

  The youngest sister of the Silverthread twins, Myriil and Cailou. The elves were always the hardest to breach—too proud, too rooted in tradition, too willing to let the world break before bending with it. But if Oliver could win Ailuin’s favor, even charm her into his pocket, it would be the first crack in the dam. A foothold. A thread pulled loose.

  And once you had one thread, you’d soon have the whole sweater as the dwarves would say. At least, that was the plan. Knowing those two, they’d sooner disown her than form any alliances with leeches.

  Sullivan watched her fingers ghost over Oliver’s arm, tapping lightly whenever she laughed at his terrible jokes. With fluttering lashes, she matched his charm with a bewitching smile, lined with lipstick as red as her blood. And Oliver lapped it up like a cat with cream basking in the push and pull of courted attention.

  So far, so good.

  If this worked, they’d have a foot in the door with the Elven Concord. The head twins were nearly impossible to get close to, but their younger sister would be easier to sway. Nepo babies always had something to prove.

  Oliver’s gaze flicked to Sullivan. He offered a quick, infuriatingly cheerful nod up—his usual friendly greeting. Then pointed toward the band. The song of Sullivan’s utter contempt was still going. Still blaring. Still obnoxious.

  With a rapid series of nods, eyebrows raised, he flashed a thumbs-up—his Cheshire grin glowing like a beacon in the darkness.

  Sullivan’s nose flared. His disapproving scowl darkened his features as realization sank in like a lead weight. If there were any justice in this world, his gaze would’ve killed his cousin where he stood.

  Oliver was the reason the band was playing this abhorrent song. It wasn’t enough that Oliver constantly undermined him with his foolish, childish pranks.

  No, Sullivan had to be tortured as well!

  The Vampire Lord didn’t so much as twitch, but the glass in his hand cracked. Spiderwebbing. Thankfully, no one noticed.

  Except Oliver.

  Who grinned wider.

  Disturbingly so.

  Sullivan reached to refill his drink—only to feel it seep through the fractures, soaking into his glove. The phantom fire beneath his skin flared, vicious and bright. He shook it, once. Twice. Futile.

  So, he had a decision to make.

  He could either smash the glass in Oliver’s face, or simply squeeze until the shards made him bleed. Then at least he could quell the fire instead of burn in his growing fury.

  It never ceased to amaze him how Oliver could charm elves with the same tongue he used to torment his kin. Some cosmic jest, no doubt, that the clan’s most vexing imp had also inherited its brightest smile.

  He took in a breath. One would surely suffice. Then with a tilt of his head and a slow exhale, he let it go.

  He whistled for a shadebound to bring him another, unbroken, glass.

  Once it arrived, he poured. He drank. The bitter burn became a welcome distraction since killing both the band and his cousin would be an indelible faux pas.

  So Sullivan sat silently incensed, once again.

  Just one hour. One measly little hour and he’d be free.

  Free to do something else.

  Anything else.

  Public appearances were a necessary evil after all. As brief as they were, they kept these walking liabilities from running the whole goddamn city into the ground. Morons who would sell Earth’s Last Stand for a single cornchip if it meant they could kiss the devil on the mouth.

  It was enough to drive a man to drink.

  Sullivan exhaled his frustrations into his glass.

  He could endure this. He could survive. He always did.

  But it was always easier with a full glass. For now, he could only be grateful the rain outside was made of water.