Poppy.
I closed my fingers over the imprint, squeezing my hand tight as if I could somehow conjure up anything but the sound of her screams. Erase the image of her beautiful face contorted in pain. I didn’t want to see that. I wanted to see her as she’d been on the ship, face flushed, and those stunning green eyes with their faint silver glow behind the pupils eager and wanting. I wanted memories of cheeks pink with either lust or annoyance, the latter usually occurring when she was silently—or very loudly—debating whether stabbing me would be considered inappropriate. I wanted to see her lush lips parted, and her skin shining as she touched my flesh and healed me in ways she would never know or understand. My eyes closed once more. And damn it, all I saw was blood seeping from her ears, her nose, as her body writhed in my arms.
Gods, I was going to rip that bitch Queen into pieces when I got free.
And I would.
One way or another, I would get free and make sure she felt everything she had ever inflicted upon Poppy. Tenfold.
My eyes snapped open at the faint sound of footsteps. Muscles tensed in my neck as I slowly eased my leg straight. This wasn’t normal. Only a few hours could’ve passed since the last time the Handmaidens had done the whole bloodletting thing. Unless I was already beginning to lose track of time.
An unsteadiness rose in my chest as I concentrated on the sound of the footfalls. There were many, but one was heavier. Boots. My jaw locked as I lifted my gaze to the entryway.
A Handmaiden entered first, nearly blending in with the darkness. She said nothing as her skirts glided past the fallen Craven. With a strike of steel against flint, a flame caught the wick on the candle on the wall, where the other had burned out. Four more Handmaidens entered as the first lit several more candles, the females’ features obscured behind winged, black paint.
I wondered the same thing I did every time I saw them. What the fuck was up with the facial paint?
I’d asked a dozen times. Never got an answer.
They stood on either side of the archway, joined by the first, and I knew in my gut who was coming. My stare fixed on the opening between them. The scent of rose and vanilla reached me. Rage, hot and unending, poured into my chest.
Then she walked in, appearing as the utter opposite of her Handmaidens.
White. The monster wore a skintight gown that was a pristine, nearly transparent white and left very little to the imagination. Disgust curled my lip. Other than the reddish-brown hair reaching a cinched, narrow waist, she looked nothing like Poppy.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
That there was no hint of familiarity in the set of her features—the shape of her eyes, the straight line of her ruby-pierced nose, or the full, expressive mouth.
It didn’t fucking matter.
Poppy was nothing like her.
The Blood Queen. Ileana. Isbeth. Better known as one soon-to-be-dead bitch.
She drew closer, and I still had no idea how I hadn’t realized that she wasn’t Ascended. Those eyes were dark and bottomless but not as opaque as a vampry’s. Her touch…hell, it had blended with the others over the years. But while it had been cold, it hadn’t been icy and bloodless. Then again, why would I or anyone else ever consider the possibility that she was something other than what she claimed?
Anyone but my parents.
They must have known the truth about the Blood Queen—about who she really was. And they hadn’t told us. Hadn’t warned us.
Biting, stinging anger gnawed. The knowledge might not have changed this outcome, but it would’ve affected every aspect of how we approached dealing with her. Gods, we would’ve been better prepared, knowing that centuries-old revenge drove the Blood Queen’s special brand of madness. It would’ve given us pause. We would’ve realized that she was truly capable of anything.
But nothing could be done about any of that right now, not when they had me chained to a damn wall, and Poppy was out there, dealing with the fact that this woman was her mother.
She has Kieran, I reminded myself. She’s not alone.
The false Queen wasn’t alone either. A tall male entered behind her, looking like a walking lit candle. He was one golden motherfucker, from the hair to the winged facial paint across his face. His eyes were a blue so pale they appeared nearly leached of all color. Eyes like some of the Handmaidens. Another Rev, I bet. But one of the Handmaidens whose throat hadn’t stayed torn open had had brown eyes. Not all Revs had the light irises.
He lingered by the entryway, his weapons not as hidden as the Handmaidens’. I saw a black dagger strapped across his chest and two swords secured to his back, the curved handles visible above his hips. Fuck him. My attention shifted to the Blood Queen.
Candlelight glittered off the diamond spires in the ruby crown as Isbeth glanced down at the Craven.
“I don’t know if you realize this or not,” I said casually, “but you have a pest problem.”
A single dark brow rose as she snapped her red-painted fingers twice. Two Handmaidens moved as a unit, picking up what was left of the Craven. They carried the creature out as Isbeth’s gaze flicked to me. “You look like shit.”
“Yeah, but I can clean up. You?” I smiled, noting the tightening in the skin around her mouth. “You can’t wash off that stench or feed that away. That shit is inside you.”
Isbeth’s laugh sounded like tinkling glass, grating on every single one of my nerves. “Oh, my dear Casteel, I forgot how charming you could be. No wonder my daughter appears to be so taken with you.”
“Don’t call her that,” I snarled.
Both brows rose as she toyed with a ring on her pointer finger. A golden band with a pink diamond. That gold was lustrous, shining even in the dim light—gleaming in a way that only Atlantian gold could. “Please don’t tell me that you doubt I’m her mother. I know I’m not a paradigm of honesty, but I spoke nothing but the truth when it came to her.”
“I don’t give a fuck if you carried her in your womb for nine months and delivered her with your own hands.” My hands closed into fists. “You are nothing to her.”
Isbeth went unnaturally still and quiet. Seconds ticked by, and then she said, “I was a mother to her. She would have no memory of it as she was just a tiny babe then, perfect and lovely in every way. I slept and woke with her beside me every day until I knew I could no longer take that risk.” The edges of her gown dragged through the pool of Craven blood as she stepped forward. “And I was a mother to her when she thought I was only her Queen, tending to her wounds when she was so gravely injured. I would’ve given anything to have prevented that.” Her voice thinned, and I could almost believe she spoke the truth. “I would’ve done anything to stop her from experiencing even one second of pain. Of having a reminder of that nightmare every time she looked upon herself.”
“When she looks upon herself, she sees nothing but beauty and bravery,” I snapped.
Her chin lifted. “You really believe that?”
“I know that.”
“As a child, she often cried when she saw her reflection,” she told me, and my chest seized. “She often begged me to fix her.”
“She doesn’t need fixing,” I seethed, hating—absolutely loathing—that Poppy had ever felt that way, even as a child.