scars.
Antari
healed faster than most. The cuts must have been deep.
He drew a knife from his belt and raised arm and blade both over the goblet.
“Your Majesty,” said Kell hastily. “I have no taste for blood. Could I trouble you for something else?”
“Of course,” said Athos lightly. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Kell was halfway through a shaky sigh of relief when Athos turned back to Holland, who’d begun to lower his arm. The king frowned. “I thought I said cut.”
Kell cringed as Holland raised his arm over the goblet and drew the knife across his skin. The cut was shallow, a graze, just deep enough to draw blood. It welled and spilled in a thin ribbon into the glass.
Athos smiled and held Holland’s gaze. “We haven’t got all night,” he said. “Press down harder.”
Holland’s jaw clenched, but he did as he was told. The knife bit into his arm, deep, and the blood flowed, a rich dark red, into the glass. When the goblet was full, Athos passed it to his sister and ran a finger along Holland’s cheek.
“Go clean up,” he said softly, gently, the way a parent would to a child. Holland withdrew, and Kell realized that he’d not only taken his seat, but was now gripping the arms of his chair with whitening knuckles. He forced his fingers free as Athos plucked the second glass from the table and poured the pale gold liquid into it.
He held it up for Kell to see, then drank to show the glass and contents alike were safe before pouring a new measure and offering it to Kell. The gesture of a man used to sabotage.
Kell took the glass and drank too fast and too deep in an effort to calm his nerves. As soon as the goblet was empty, Athos filled it again. The drink itself was light and sweet and strong, and went down easily. Meanwhile, the Danes shared their cup, Holland’s blood turning their lips a vibrant red as they drank.
Power lies in the blood
, thought Kell as his own began to warm.
“It’s amazing,” he said, forcing himself to drink his second portion slower than his first.
“What is?” asked Athos, sinking into his throne.
Kell nodded at the goblet of Holland’s blood. “That you manage to keep your clothes so white.” He finished his second glass, and Astrid laughed and poured him a third.
V
Kell should have stopped at one drink.
Or two.
He thought he’d stopped at three, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He hadn’t felt the full effects of the drink until he’d gotten to his feet, and the white stone floor had tilted dangerously beneath him. Kell knew that it was foolish, drinking as much as he had, but the sight of Holland’s blood had rattled him. He couldn’t get the
Antari
’s expression out of his mind, the look that crossed his face just before the knife bit down. Holland’s visage was a perpetual mask of menacing calm, but just for an instant it had cracked. And Kell had done nothing. Had not pleaded—or even pressed—for Athos to yield. It wouldn’t have done any good, but still. They were both
Antari
. Luck alone cast Holland here in ruthless White and Kell in vibrant Red. What if their fortunes had been reversed?
Kell took a shaky breath, the air fogging before his lips. The cold was doing little to clear his head, but he knew he couldn’t go home, not yet, not like this, so he made his wandering way through the streets of White London.
This, too, was foolish. Reckless. He was always being reckless.
Why?
he thought, suddenly angry at himself. Why did he always do this? Step out of safety and into shadow, into risk, into danger?
Why?
he heard Rhy begging on the roof that night.
He didn’t know. He wished he did, but he didn’t. All he knew was that he wanted to stop. The anger bled away, leaving something warm and steady. Or maybe that was the drink.
It had been a good drink, whatever it was. A strong drink. But not the kind of strong that made you weak. No, no, the kind of strong that made you strong. That made your blood sing. That made
Antari
healed faster than most. The cuts must have been deep.
He drew a knife from his belt and raised arm and blade both over the goblet.
“Your Majesty,” said Kell hastily. “I have no taste for blood. Could I trouble you for something else?”
“Of course,” said Athos lightly. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Kell was halfway through a shaky sigh of relief when Athos turned back to Holland, who’d begun to lower his arm. The king frowned. “I thought I said cut.”
Kell cringed as Holland raised his arm over the goblet and drew the knife across his skin. The cut was shallow, a graze, just deep enough to draw blood. It welled and spilled in a thin ribbon into the glass.
Athos smiled and held Holland’s gaze. “We haven’t got all night,” he said. “Press down harder.”
Holland’s jaw clenched, but he did as he was told. The knife bit into his arm, deep, and the blood flowed, a rich dark red, into the glass. When the goblet was full, Athos passed it to his sister and ran a finger along Holland’s cheek.
“Go clean up,” he said softly, gently, the way a parent would to a child. Holland withdrew, and Kell realized that he’d not only taken his seat, but was now gripping the arms of his chair with whitening knuckles. He forced his fingers free as Athos plucked the second glass from the table and poured the pale gold liquid into it.
He held it up for Kell to see, then drank to show the glass and contents alike were safe before pouring a new measure and offering it to Kell. The gesture of a man used to sabotage.
Kell took the glass and drank too fast and too deep in an effort to calm his nerves. As soon as the goblet was empty, Athos filled it again. The drink itself was light and sweet and strong, and went down easily. Meanwhile, the Danes shared their cup, Holland’s blood turning their lips a vibrant red as they drank.
Power lies in the blood
, thought Kell as his own began to warm.
“It’s amazing,” he said, forcing himself to drink his second portion slower than his first.
“What is?” asked Athos, sinking into his throne.
Kell nodded at the goblet of Holland’s blood. “That you manage to keep your clothes so white.” He finished his second glass, and Astrid laughed and poured him a third.
V
Kell should have stopped at one drink.
Or two.
He thought he’d stopped at three, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He hadn’t felt the full effects of the drink until he’d gotten to his feet, and the white stone floor had tilted dangerously beneath him. Kell knew that it was foolish, drinking as much as he had, but the sight of Holland’s blood had rattled him. He couldn’t get the
Antari
’s expression out of his mind, the look that crossed his face just before the knife bit down. Holland’s visage was a perpetual mask of menacing calm, but just for an instant it had cracked. And Kell had done nothing. Had not pleaded—or even pressed—for Athos to yield. It wouldn’t have done any good, but still. They were both
Antari
. Luck alone cast Holland here in ruthless White and Kell in vibrant Red. What if their fortunes had been reversed?
Kell took a shaky breath, the air fogging before his lips. The cold was doing little to clear his head, but he knew he couldn’t go home, not yet, not like this, so he made his wandering way through the streets of White London.
This, too, was foolish. Reckless. He was always being reckless.
Why?
he thought, suddenly angry at himself. Why did he always do this? Step out of safety and into shadow, into risk, into danger?
Why?
he heard Rhy begging on the roof that night.
He didn’t know. He wished he did, but he didn’t. All he knew was that he wanted to stop. The anger bled away, leaving something warm and steady. Or maybe that was the drink.
It had been a good drink, whatever it was. A strong drink. But not the kind of strong that made you weak. No, no, the kind of strong that made you strong. That made your blood sing. That made
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