Lord Morbrae rose to his feet. He stretched, rolled his shoulders, worked his jaw as if rolling out a kink.

Eliana watched, her stomach turning. She leaned back in her chair and picked at her fingernails. “Feeling poorly tonight, my lord?”

He moved across the room, sank into a high-backed red chair beside the crackling fire, and watched her. Shadows masked him, drawing dark shapes across his face.

“I’m still hungry.” There was an exhaustion to his voice—and an anger, thin but simmering. “I’m always hungry.”

Eliana glanced at the table, heavy with their supper. “Then—”

“Food won’t help,” he interrupted. “Nothing helps.”

A new silence filled the room. Eliana resisted the urge to move, matching Lord Morbrae’s stillness.

“Come here,” he said at last, holding out his trembling hand.

Eliana forced out a breezy laugh, though her heart pounded with a swift, terrible fear. “My lord, I’m wearing two coats of mud and haven’t had the chance to bathe in—”

“Shut your mouth,” he bit out, “and get over here.”

She waited for as long as she dared, then stood and moved toward him, keeping her gaze on his face. Let him know, with a carefully crafted expression of disdain and boredom, that the thought of what he would do to her in that chair didn’t frighten her.

She was the Dread of Orline wasn’t she?

But she had never touched one of the Emperor’s men.

She settled onto Lord Morbrae’s lap and tried to turn her back on the pain in her heart where Harkan’s memory lived. But suddenly all she could think of was his laugh, his wide smile, the clomp of his boots on the terrace outside her window. How he had touched her, that first time, with shaking hands. How he had always held her afterward like she was something precious to be kept safe and warm.

Harkan, she thought, fear buzzing in her ears as she placed her palms against Lord Morbrae’s chest. Harkan, Harkan. What am I doing here?

He had asked her that same question many times, and her answer had always been the same: surviving.

Lord Morbrae’s legs were long and bony; the buttons of his uniform jacket strained against his protruding belly. How could he possibly still be hungry? He looked to have gained a good ten pounds since they’d sat down.

He shifted in the firelight. Bread crumbs clung to his stained lips.

“I’ve bedded many people,” he said at last, smiling up at her. Bloody scraps of meat were wedged between his teeth; his breath was stale and rancid though they’d only just eaten. “But it never felt good. Not once, Dread. But maybe you…”

He traced his long fingers up and down her arm, found her open collar and toyed with her dirty skin.

“Maybe I what?” Eliana leaned closer, even as her throat clenched with revulsion. She let an inviting smile drift across her face.

“Maybe you can finally do it.”

And I will. Slowly, Eliana slipped off the ridiculous frill-sleeved jacket and let it fall to the ground. Beneath her tunic, the pendant bearing the ruined image of King Audric on his flying steed felt itchy and hot against her breastbone. If this is what it takes—for Remy, for Mother—then this is what it takes.

Lord Morbrae watched her every movement, his gaze distant and his mouth thin with frustration, as if he’d already decided that whatever kind of experience he craved, he wouldn’t find it here.

His hands, though, were tight on her hips. Insistent.

She leaned over him, heart pounding, and let her eyes fall shut. She instructed her mind to detach from her body and tuck itself safely away. It was an excellent skill, one of the first her mother had taught her, and she wasn’t half bad at it. Lord Morbrae was a mark, just like any other. She’d get through this as she had many times before.

Except this wasn’t like the many times before. And when Lord Morbrae exhaled against her cheek, his breath putrid and strangely cold, Eliana couldn’t help it. She flinched away from him. Her eyes flew open.

Two black eyes met her own.

In that moment, it was as though something leaped out of Lord Morbrae’s mind and into her own. She felt a charge, as of lightning, reach out for her and grab hold.

She jerked in his arms, and he jerked beneath her.

And suddenly Eliana was no longer in the Venteran outpost.

She stood on the veranda of a palace, overlooking a vast land scattered with snow-dusted hills. Her vision was cloudy; shapes shifted before her eyes as if drawn on the surface of swirling water. She concentrated, fighting for balance. The world cleared somewhat: A city, choked and glittering. Distant neighborhoods spilled over one another, crammed between winding roads paved with white stone. Ivory spires soared to the skies. Sunrise poured rose-gold over a gaping, mountain-sized pit in the earth. Strange lights, like trapped miniature storms, flashed throughout the city streets.

All of it was unfamiliar, and yet Eliana felt a tiny urgent tug at her heart.

Was it unfamiliar?

A movement to her left caught her attention. She turned, somehow, though her body felt detached from everything around her. She couldn’t feel the stone of this veranda beneath her feet, yet she could see the world around her plainly, smell a faint scent that reminded her of Orline—river water, city sweat. But the air here was cold, biting.

This place… It wasn’t a dream or some delirious vision. At least she didn’t think it was.

A figure stood at the stone railing, not far from her, beside a statue of a man reaching for the skies with open arms. There were several such statues on the veranda. Protruding from each of their backs were magnificent wings shaped out of paper-thin colored glass and inlaid with fire-colored stones. Not feathered, these wings, but sculpted from flame and shadow.

Eliana recognized the figures from Remy’s tales about the Old World.

Angels?

She must have made a noise. Something changed in the air. The man went horribly still, then whipped his head around to face her.

Shining black hair curled just below his ears. A sleek, dark coat with square shoulders, fastened with brass buttons over his heart, fell cleanly to his feet. His skin was pale, his cheekbones fine, his mouth full. His eyes were blacker even than Lord Morbrae’s.

She would recognize him anywhere. His statues stood on every street corner in Orline. Enormous portraits of him, haughty and impossibly beautiful, hung throughout Lord Arkelion’s palace.

The Emperor of the Undying.

And, somehow, though she knew him to live half a world away in Celdaria, he was staring right back at her.

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