Page 24 of In the Ravenous Dark
My father says, disapproval still plain, “The problem is—which isn’t a problem to anyonehere—the necropolis is then forced to recruit from the lower classes.”
Bethea, I think, with a stab of pain. I haven’t known Bethea for long, but I still hope that the threat to send her to the necropoliswas an empty attempt to scare us both into confessing, and that the wards simply let her go after they found what they wanted in me.
“The royal family sometimes flouts tradition even further,” Japha says. “Case in point: my lovely aunt Penelope. My mother, Princess Maia, receivedhermother Rhea’s bloodline at twenty, and so Penelope was supposed to have served in the necropolis as the third runt of the king. But as a child she was allowed to train in combat alongside her brother, Crown Prince Tyros. Then Penelope became pregnant at eighteen to avoid her fate. Rather than strip her child, Crisea, of her mother, King Neleus allowed Penelope to continue her martial studies. She’s now a high-ranking military officer. The mother is the warrior indeed, in her case.”
“Which was why the princess was as yet unwed when I was brought to the palace,” my father mutters.
“Good for her,” I snap, and then turn back to Japha. “So what happened with you and your sister?” They’ve been cleverly steering us away from the original topic of conversation.
“That is a story for another day,” Japha says, and then they announce theatrically, “For we have arrived!”
I look up and nearly gasp.
The three who stand before us are beautiful. Beyond beautiful. The crowd gives them a wide berth out of respect—or perhaps fear—where they stand before the dais. They all wear white shrouds in differing materials, and crowns of black roses with tiny skulls set in the center of each.
The twins are obvious, but only because of their age and the shape of their faces. Otherwise they’re like night and day. The young man has hair like glinting pewter, his skin tanned and lightly freckled from the sun, and silver-gray eyes as sharp as gleaming knives. His broad shoulders and muscular build, as well as the gold-sheathed sword at his hip, tell me exactly who received the warrior’s training… and who’s to be the nextcrown prince. His twin, and the one who received Cylla’s bloodline, is equally stunning, but she has hair like a raven’s wing, skin as luminous and pale as the moon, and countless blood-red symbols tracing the lines of a lithe body barely concealed under white gossamer even thinner than mine. The third child of Cylla’s, a girl a little younger than me, has a mass of curly hair as white as snow, complete with a light blue sheen as if reflecting the sky, pure silver eyes that nearly glow, and a smile as sweet as a songbird’s trill. Somehow, I know she’s the spitting image of her mother. Her looks are simply too Skyllean.
As striking as she is, it’s the elder, dark-haired sister who is undeniably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I distantly hope I’m not staring.
“My dear cousins,” Japha continues, “may I present Rovan Ballacra, the newest addition to our most esteemed family. Rovan, this is Kineas, Lydea, and Delphia.”
Lydea.The name sinks into me like claws.
“PrinceKineas,” Kineas corrects, squaring his muscular shoulders in a subtly aggressive stance. His cold steely eyes carve me as if I’m a slab of meat at the butcher’s. Not in a lecherous way, more methodical and categorizing. Breasts—slice—stomach—slice—thighs… I try not to squirm. “So you’re the one we’ve all been waiting for,” he says in an exaggerated drawl, as if I’m not living up to anyone’s expectations, let alone his.
I suddenly wonder if Japha is being supportive, introducing me like this, or feeding me to the lions for sport.
Lydea’s dark gaze hasn’t left me, either, but the look in her eyes is very different from her twin’s. One corner of her red-tinted lips curves upward. “Oh, Kinny, I think she’s rather magnificent.”
So, I think,Kineas is the sword, attacking from the front, while Lydea is the dagger from behind.
Delphia smiles at me timidly. She looks as fragile as ice crystalsunder her cloud of white hair, as if one harsh word will scatter her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rovan.”
And she, the runt of this litter, must be hopelessly kind—a trait born of desperation. If she pleases the others, maybe they won’t eat her alive.
I’mnotgoing to try the same tactic. If I’m in the lions’ den, I might as well bare steel.
“I see only one of you got your mother’s hair and eyes.” I give Delphia a genuine smile, then I turn that smile on Lydea, twisting it like a blade. “You must take after your father. In temperament, as well as looks, I wonder?” I eye Kineas speculatively, tapping my lip with a finger. He can’t help but stare at my mouth, which has been painted especially full. I don’t mind his attention ifI’mthe one directing it. Besides, he’s not going to be appreciative for long. “And you… you’re somewhere in between, like me. A little muddied.”
Kineas sputters. “I amnothinglike—”
“Indeed, your gray hair makes you look a lot older.”
“I beg your—”
Lydea’s bark of laughter cuts him off. “Ireallylike you,” she says, looking at me as if sizing up a competitor. And yet something in her gaze once again makes me flush.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Japha nearly sings. “I can’twaitfor us to become better acquainted.”
“Indeed,” says a disembodied voice to my left. I jump, turning, and there’s the dead man. I meet his eyes unintentionally, but then I can’t look away. It’s like staring down the bottom of a well, the black depths of his gaze. “Crown Prince Tyros is coming. Silvean is already aware of this fact, but the man can be… unpleasant. Please don’t do anything rash.”
The dead man retreats. Japha has noticed me twitch and watches me carefully as another man steps into view, taking the shade’s place.
Everyone bows, even my father, and I belatedly follow their lead. When I lift my head, I’m facing the crown prince. Tyros is a man in his fifties, perhaps, his hair gray and black in equal measure. His stony face is lined, but less with age and more like his unyielding expression has simply… settled. Whereas Kineas’s eyes are like sharpened daggers, his father’s are the blunt iron of chisels.
“So you’re the girl,” Tyros states more than asks. “At least you’re something to look at.”
My lips part in shock, and my mouth nearly falls all the way open when Lydea says, “Now, Father, surely she’s more thansomething, but let’s not be crude.”
