Page 26 of Given

“Absolutely, I do.” He leaned forward, too, and now his blue eyes burned with an intensity that lifted the hair on my nape. “I think more people need to know about your family, Your Highness.”

“Why—?”

The music changed suddenly, shifting from strings to a low, steady drumbeat. It was loud and primitive. Wild and unnerving. The floor under my slippers vibrated. The wine on the table shivered.

Tibern walked to the center of the hall. “All hail Laurent, King of Nor Doru and Vessel of the Sacred Blood.”

Chapter Eight

GIVEN

As one, the courtiers stopped what they were doing and faced the arched doorway. Those who were seated rose. With a wary glance at each other, Jordan and I did the same.

Laurent entered looking every inch a king. A black mantle rested over his shoulders and trailed on the floor behind him. Jewels winked on his fingers and the hilt of the dagger around his waist. A black crown circled his head. Night-blooming roses were engraved in the metal. Glittering rubies chased around the base. The black fur collar of his mantle framed his haughty, handsome face and brushed the metal bar in his ear.

“Some people are in pain all the time, even if we can’t see it.”

How badly was he hurting now? Whose pain did he never want to forget?

Vampires in black robes trailed him, their steps measured and sedate. I stifled a gasp. There were six males—three on each side of him. All were elderly, and each had a long beard that had obviously been stained by blood. The bristly hairs on their cheeks were white, but the long fall of hair from their chins to their chests was a dull, rusty red.

These could only be priests of the Sanctum, the temple in Lar Katerin where the vampires worshipped their pantheon of gods. And Laurent was a conduit for their prayers. Nor Doruvians believed the king possessed some kind of power over blood. The Brotherhood considered the vampire religion a form of sacrilege, so I was wholly unfamiliar with its blood rites.

But it looked like I was about to see one firsthand.

Laurent stopped in the center of the hall. At precisely the same moment, the priests and the drumbeat stopped too. Everything was still, as if no one dared to breathe without the king’s permission.

He stretched his hands wide like he meant to embrace the crowd. “We gather to celebrate life.”

The spell broke. Like the ripple of a current, the courtiers stirred and shifted. Heads nodded and people smiled. An approving murmur filled the air.

Laurent brought his hands together. His tone turned indulgent, almost teasing. “Forgive my tardiness. I know you’re all eager to celebrate. I could hear it from my rooms.”

This was met with titters and guilty smiles.

For some reason, I flicked my gaze to Varick. He’d pushed away from the wall, but his arms were still crossed over his chest. His eyes were locked on Laurent. He didn’t look happy.

“We begin,” Laurent said.

The drumbeat started again. One of the priests glided toward the table where the thralls stood with various degrees of trepidation on their faces. Another priest turned to Laurent and held out a silver tray draped with red…ribbons? The ends dangled off either side.

The first priest guided the thralls to Laurent and made them form a single-file line.

My throat went dry as a desert. My heart throbbed in my chest, all traces of the blood-wine’s lassitude gone. Apprehension tightened my muscles as I waited for the priest to summon me. Because that was going to happen, wasn’t it? I’d been lucky so far. I’d been treated differently. Like I was special. But that special treatment had to stop sometime.

Now was that time. I waited for it, a little voice in my head wondering if I could actually go through with it—if I could bow my head and let Laurent and his priests brand me a slave in front of his entire court.

With my gut twisting and my pulse pounding in my ears, I braced myself for Laurent to turn to me.

But it didn’t happen.

As he had in my bedchamber, he sliced his thumb on his fang. Bright-red blood welled. Slowly, he touched his thumb to each ribbon. The priests around him chanted in unison, speaking a guttural, hissing language I didn’t recognize. As their voices rose, the ribbons moved. It was just a twitch at first—so quick I wasn’t sure I’d seen it.

Then the ribbons started to writhe.

My heart beat faster.

Like snakes, the ribbons curled sensuously, lifting and swaying like they’d been caught in a phantom breeze. The movements were mesmerizing and unsettling. Obviously, ribbon shouldn’t move, but it was more than that. The strips of silk seemed sentient as they defied gravity. The priests’ chanting swelled, and the ribbons danced and dipped parallel to the floor. Laurent tipped his head back and closed his eyes. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. In all black with blood dotting his bottom lip, he was just as captivating as the ribbons.

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