Page 8 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Gritting my teeth, I replayed that moment—that hair's breadth of hesitation as she flashed that cocky wink and sailed out the two-story window. Like she knew I wasn’t gonna shoot her.

I knew better than to hesitate. Knew the price that so often accompanied it was steeper than my skin cared to pay. But as I barreled into that room, the last thing I expected to see was a mortal-sized female wearing a Paladin uniform—the same as the ones my parents wore in old photos. Unable to articulate any of that in a way that wouldn’t send the King’s temper flying, I flatly admitted, “Nais pas. I can only verify that I saw one soul flee out the east window with one folder in hand.” I glared at my mother, who still said nothing. Who was blatantly not discussing whatever was terrifying her into silence. She knew something.

When her bright blues landed on me, I asked, “Anything you feel like sharing with the coven?”

My dad’s dark eyes flicked to her, a scowl in place as she tongued at a molar. “Not at the moment,” she drawled, back in possession of her usual level of disdain. Nearly growling, Dad began to pace, hands braced behind his back. This was personal. Because Ciaran Stuart was The Seer of The South. His place at the head of this hierarchy was largely based on oversight. Despite his gifts, not even Dad saw this coming.

“How the hell did we miss this?” Mom piped up, scowling as her eyes tracked Dad’s pissed-off circuit through the space between us. The ‘we’ was kind, considering we all knew it was a ‘you’ in her question.

“Didn’t see shit. Nothing. Not a devil-damned warning. The threads have been manic since the battle up north. Changing much too quickly to keep up with. There was a flicker of chaos the night before last, but nothing solidified. Even then, it was wisps of darkness, like some kind of phantom.”

Slowly, nearly motionless, I raised only my eyes as realization dawned in my chest. Not a phantom. A decade before my lifeline, Mom had a friend. A friend the legends painted with a proclivity for theatrics, combined with brutal efficiency. At least, when she wanted her target to know what she was up to. If subtlety was the name of the game, there wasn’t a legend more adept at entering and exiting undetected, without shadows.

…A friend her estranged sister’s men dredged out of the East River, throat slit ear to ear. Mom’s glare could have incinerated me where I stood, leaving me to wonder what the fuck she had gotten us into.

Eyes flicking to my pacing father, I supplied simply, “The Wraith.”

THREE

THE GUARD

CYRUS

My mother’s snarled protests echoed in my mind as I watched the war room fill, one seat at a time.

“Don’t be preposterous,” she’d barked. “The Wraith was slain three decades ago.”

“Which gives her just enough time to recirculate and ascend,” I countered, my tone bored.

“Your mother and Miss Lamb were friends,” Dad argued, a pinch of concern settling between his dark brows. While my mother had reduced herself to feral pacing, our king had returned to lethal stillness as they took turns belittling my theory.

“Right—until she turned up dead in the water, and you dismissed it as coincidence⁠—”

My rebuttal was cut short by a barked, “Enough!” My mother’s power snaked its way to the surface, her words edged in command. Not enough to bring me to a knee, but enough to remind me she was a breath away from forcing me to heel. She had never been shy about wielding her gift, and neither Calypso nor I were exempt from her wrathful enchantments. I wasn’t naïve enough to think we didn’t get away with more than her subjects, but that didn’t ease the anger simmering in my veins at being silenced. For a woman devoted to balance, she had a hell of a knack for silencing information she didn’t want to hear—unless, of course, it came from Calypso, her precious heiress.

I should have known better than to present my idea myself, but time was of the essence.

I glanced at my sister, who merely shrugged, resigned.

On my own. Got it.

Clenching my jaw, I gave a quick nod, eyes cast to the floor as I followed them to the gatehouse. Conversation over. Time to present a unified front as the ruling family.

Every hierarchy leader had a back way through their gate, and the gothic mansion on the edge of town and marsh was ours. Much too formal for daily use, the monstrosity loomed with spires and stretched cathedral windows, eerie in its silence. Locals believed it was haunted, and we did nothing to dissuade the rumors. If anything, as children, we used them to our advantage—terrorizing our peers, feeding the myths.

We might’ve been assholes, but we weren’t entirely wrong—a fact I was reminded of as the haunting melody of a cello and harmonized vocals rang out from the attic.

Goosebumps rippled across my skin as the familiar chill of something other dropped the room’s temperature by at least ten degrees. Restless spirits rarely left without guidance, and since the only clan capable of escorting them to the next life wouldn’t do house calls without a hefty price, we were left with their company.

Bracing one arm beneath my elbow, I ran my opposite hand over my mouth, then along my jaw, grounding myself in the sensation, even as irritation churned beneath my skin.

I hated this place.

More than the house, I hated these meetings. Hated watching my mother’s Guardians rush to her side, no longer convinced my father’s presence alone was enough to ensure her safety. How my father allowed any of them to draw breath was beyond me.

I loathed the arrogance of our swaggering Wings—Paladin’s most elite warriors, their familiars’ blessings imbued into their flesh like ink—as they exchanged greetings and somber handshakes.

Only the worst kind of trouble brought the Wings back to Luminark Manor, and whoever—or whatever—had burned Uptown had just declared war.