Page 62 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Camilla wandered onto the dance floor, where a Rusan man swept her into his arms, and she laughed as they spun to the next jaunty tune. Emillie watched for a long minute before Ariadne pushed a small glass into her hand, tapped it with her own, and downed the liquor before raising her eyebrows expectantly. She sighed and shot it back, the fiery tang burning her throat as she swallowed. It pooled in her gut like lava.

“How are you drinking this?” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

Ariadne laughed. Gods be damned, she laughed and ordered another for each of them. With the quick healing of a Caersan, they did not need to worry too much about alcohol’s effects. That did not mean they could not get drunk. It just took twice as much as a typical Rusan. The greedy bartender lingered nearby, racking up their tab with each glass.

After three more, Emillie’s head felt lighter. She turned back to the dancers, and before she knew what was happening, Camilla grabbed her hands and dragged her forward.

“This is Kyra,” her friend said, introducing her to a beautiful, round-faced Rusan woman with long, fiery red hair and dark, enchanting eyes. “Kyra, this is my very dear friend, Emillie.”

Kyra’s smile lit up her features and revealed dimples in both cheeks, sending a jolt of lightning straight through Emillie’s core. “Miss.”

Camilla clicked her tongue. “No formalities here.”

With a wink, Kyra held out her hand and, after a moment of hesitation, Emillie accepted. The Rusan pulled her against her soft body. Emillie’s breath caught, and Kyra led her through the first steps of a commoner’s dance she did not know. It was at once terrifying and thrilling.

It took only a few steps before Emillie’s shoulders eased away from her ears, and she knew without a doubt that this—dancing with a beautiful woman—was what she was meant to do. Not once in her long life had a man’s touch ever elicited such a heated response in her blood. Kyra had only held her for a few heartbeats, and Emillie never wanted to leave again.

When Nels, a young Rusan kid, appeared at the servants’ entrance to the Harlow manor shaking and white-faced, Azriel knew without needing to be told that trouble had found Madan and his three charges. He’d asked to be left home—the women couldn’t have possibly needed two guards for a turn about Laeton—and now regretted his decision.

“Madan needs you,” Nels squeaked and pointed in the direction of Lake Cypher. “He sent me on his horse to—”

“Fuck.” No one touched Rune if Madan could help it. That he’d sent a pre-transitioned vampire on his stallion to collect him told Azriel all he needed to know. He launched forward, and the kid shrank out of his way, eyes wide with awe. “Where are they?”

“The Drifter’s Bistro.” Nels followed, hot on his heels.

“What’s happened to them?”

Nels froze at the barn doors to gape, wide-eyed as Azriel buckled his sword on his shoulder. “He told me to get you, sir. Nothing else.”

“Where’s this place?” He’d heard of the infamously raucous bistro before but had yet to investigate himself.

Thom the stablehand, in all his wisdom, already tightened the straps for Jasper’s saddle. The black stallion huffed and shifted his weight in anticipation of a fast ride. Azriel swung up into the seat and pulled the reins around to face the exit.

“West Shore.” Nels hauled himself into Rune’s saddle, almost falling off the far side.

Azriel squeezed his legs, and Jasper launched forward. Rune did his best to keep up. Nels’ poor handling, however, held the stallion back.

Azriel wasn’t certain at what point he lost the kid, but it was somewhere near the heart of Laeton. If he’d thought at any point the women would stray from their plans, he’d have joined them. As it were, he’d worked too hard to keep his distance from Ariadne to ruin the microscopic progress he’d made in taming the bond.

Shoppers hurried out of his way and cursed him as he passed without slowing. Caersan, Rusan, mage, and fae parted like a river around a boulder. Without more information from Madan, he had no idea what to expect when he arrived at the Bistro. He couldn’t risk taking his time.

Reining in Jasper, the stallion pranced to a stop mere feet from the familiar grey carriage outside the bistro. Azriel handed the reins off to the driver and stalked to the front door. It wasn’t until he laid his hand on the knob that he finally saw Nels, clinging to Rune, appear around the far corner. At least he’d made it back in one piece.

Inside, Azriel reeled to a halt. Music slammed into his ears, tobacco smoke choked his throat, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden dim light. Those sitting closest to the door turned to size him up, then quickly averted their eyes, much like the way Nels had stared in awe before focusing on the floor.

At least Azriel liked to believe it was awe and not horror or disgust.

He wove through the tables, scanning the room. A pair of provocatively dressed women eyed him with interest while a handful of Rusan men scattered about glared in silent challenge. Had Madan been met with such ire? He doubted it. Everyone loved him.

Then he saw the first of the trio closest to the bar. In one hand, she balanced a tall glass of amber liquid, and in the other, she poised a dart. The hem of her gown, hiked up high enough to reveal her thigh, was tucked into a leather belt she had likely gotten from the Rusan man with loose trousers she stood beside. Ariadne’s dark hair, braided into a knot at the nape of her neck, gleamed in the light of the chandelier overhead. At his entrance, she swung her oceanic gaze in his direction, and her rosy lips parted. Then the man said something, she grinned, and she threw the dart. It stuck in the outer ring of the board.

At the bar, Madan stood, his head on a swivel. Relief washed over his face at Azriel’s approach.

“Gods,” Azriel growled, “what the fuck is happening here?”

Madan shook his head. “They’re drunk, and I’ve never had such a difficult time getting them together—the elder Miss Harlow in particular. The barkeep has been watering down their drinks for the last hour.”

Azriel glanced at her again, collecting her darts from the board with the help of the Rusan. His blood roiled. “Where are the others?”

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