Page 130 of Claimed

The dead cannot stay buried when blood calls them home.

My pulse kicks as the room draws closer around me. ‘Right. Cryptic it is. Wonderful. Everyone in this Tower has the communication skills of a locked mausoleum.’

Eira.

Valentin’s voice enters my mind with such sudden intensity that I gasp.

The bond opens in a rush, dark and immediate, threaded with apprehension so sharp I know he has sensed something. Maybe the Glass. Or me. Or the decision forming in my chest like a blade.

What are you doing?

I stare at the Glass. Having a tête-à-tête with your emotionally constipated mirror.

That is not an answer.

It’s the only one either of you deserves.

His presence sharpens, as does his pensive silence. What did it say?

The Glass pulses again, as if enjoying this. I tilt my head. That is between us, vampire.

I feel the quick flare of his irritation, then something else.

Elation. Startled, unwelcome, unsettlingly bright.

His Glass is speaking to his⁠—

The thought cuts off. I don’t chase it. Can’t afford to, because if I pull on that thread, I may unravel before I reach the one I actually need.

Instead, I look at the fractured mirror, at the girl who used to be me and the woman I built over her bones.

Eira Cross.

Lyra Hannigan.

Hunter.

Runaway.

Bargain.

Bait.

Weapon.

Key.

My hand lifts to my throat. It may have been temporarily loosened, but I know Bride’s Mercy sits beneath my tongue.

Waiting.

And I know what I have to do.

The thought arrives without drama, and that frightens me more than panic would have. Maybe this is what happens when every wall collapses and clarity is simply what remains after the fire has burned through the furniture.

I begin inside my own head. Then I wriggle my tongue. Open my mouth. ‘Ly⁠—’

Pain snaps through my throat. I choke. Blood floods my mouth instantly, hot and metallic.