Page 76 of Claimed

‘Yes.’

Even as the reality of it sings through my blood, I cannot fully comprehend… or accept the truth of it. ‘Was she merely a vessel or the procreator?’

‘I don’t know.’

The answer hits the room like an insult. My lips peel back from my teeth. ‘Not good enough, witch. Try again.’

‘I can read the result, Valentin, not pluck the hand that crafted it out of smoke. There are signatures in your blood, layered and old. The curse is one, the mark is another. Her blood is a third. And this may be a pure guess, but it looks like the poison sits beneath all three like a black thread sewn into red silk.’

‘You knew enough to name someone. Selphine Rousseau.’

Rowan’s expression changes by a fraction. Recognition with teeth.

‘What do you know of her?’ I press.

‘Enough to wish I knew less.’

‘Witch. Do not play games with me. This is neither the time nor the place.’

She smiles without warmth. ‘You think I’m not aware of that… vampire?’

The lamps flicker and Rowan exhales through her nose.

‘Selphine Rousseau is old. Older than most witches who still keep names mortals can pronounce. She moves through records like a woman avoiding mirrors. New Orleans knows her as a shopkeeper, charm-worker, midwife to desperate supernatural bargains. Older circles call her a borrower of impossible debts. Some claim she served courts before your Tower was built. There are rumours that she once loved a monster and learned every art necessary to keep him chained. Witchlore makes liars of old women and prophets of drunk men, so choose your favourite version and be disappointed by it later.’

‘Speculation. Is that what you’re offering me?’

There’s no apology in her face or tone when she replies, ‘For now? Yes.’

My fists bunch and I smell the blood drawn from my own claws. ‘I require fact.’

‘Then find me a century she has not hidden from.’

My temper lashes outward before I can fully contain it. The glass on the bedside table explodes. Shards glitter across the floor between us like little frozen stars.

Rowan does not flinch.

‘You are telling me an unknown witch placed a gag inside Eira’s mouth, veiled her blood, sent her to me carrying something that feeds my curse, and all you have is folklore?’

‘I’m telling you the witch is not unknown. She’s obscured. There’s a difference, and if you were less busy bleeding pride through the floor, you would appreciate it.’

One moment I stand near the bed. The next I am in front of her, my hand around her throat, not squeezing yet. Her skin is cold beneath my fingers. Witch-cold. Power gathers under it, sharp as centuries-old frost, but Rowan’s eyes remain steady.

‘I can break you,’ I warn.

‘Indeed.’ Her voice is calm against my palm. ‘And then you can interrogate my corpse about curse-work, blood-veils, and the woman you have locked in your dungeon when the old vampire I know would’ve killed her by now.’

The room tightens around her last words.

Killed her by now.

My hand flexes. Rowan watches the movement with far too much comprehension. ‘Why does that upset you?’ she asks.

‘Be precise.’

‘Gladly. A human hunter deceives you, withholds essential information, refuses explanation when you offer her one final chance. Usually you would’ve snapped her neck before she uttered her second lie. Instead, you sent her below with guards, not executioners.’

‘Because she may possess information required to save my life.’