It’s empty.
My heart drops into my stomach. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.
I close the door, and head further down the hall. I check every painting. Behind every curtain and tapestry. But if there are hidden passageways and rooms, I do not find them.
A tap on the shoulder sends me spinning around.
It’s Samuel. The expression on his face is confused. Betrayed. Hurt. Unsure. “What is this, Alivia?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
My eyes fall to what he holds in his hands.
It’s a long rod of iron, maybe two feet in length. And at the end of it is a not perfect circle. But as I look closer at it, the details slide into place. The tiny scales. The open mouth. The disappearing tail.
The snake brand.
“What is this, Alivia?” Samuel repeats, his voice gaining a hint of franticness. And anger. “What is this, and why was it in your bedroom?”
“What?” I gasp, my eyes flying back to his face. His eyes have hardened. “Samuel, you know what that is, but I do not know where it came from.”
“Alivia, it was in your room,” he hisses as he takes a step forward. I take an equal one back. “I grabbed it before anyone could find it, but…” He sounds desperate, searching for some logical explanation.
“Cyrus!” a voice suddenly bellows from the direction of the library. “You should see this!”
A bucket of ice is dropped into my chest.
I hear the bodies flock toward the library. Hear the gasps of horror. The yells of uproar.
When I break through the crowd, eyes turn on me, cold and questioning.
Serge stands in the middle of the library, Cyrus at his side. Resting in his hands is a branding iron just like the one Samuel holds.
“What is the meaning of this, Alivia?” Cyrus asks. I try to read his expression. To see if he believes that I truly have anything to do with this. Or if he wants to believe my innocence. But his expression is impassive. Blank.
I shake my head as I step forward. Bodies press in more tightly around me. I hear weapons drawn. Curse words mingled with my name. “I don’t know,” I say, but it comes out quiet and strangled. “I swear. I don’t know what is happening. Someone got in the House while we slept and-”
“Stop lying!” a shout leaps into the crowd.
“She’s a Conrath!” another cry cuts through the crowd. “Henry hated the monarchy. She’s carrying it on and trying to kill us!”
“No!” I cry, turning in a circle, trying desperately to convince them. “I would never!”
“Why is this in your home, Alivia?” Cyrus asks, stepping toward me, the iron resting across his hands. “What explanation can you offer?”
I swallow once. And I know. Talking my out of this one is not going to be easy. They’re putting bloody pieces together. They want answers. And the easy solution is right before their eyes.
“Someone is trying to frame me,” I say quietly. I know it’s not going to convince them.
“Ah,” Cyrus says as he walks closer. “A good old conspiracy and set-up. How dramatic.”
I nod. “It’s the truth.”
Cyrus opens his mouth to say something, but I am suddenly shoved aside as someone forces their way forward.
I swear the world slows, and I watch in one frame at a time as a man I do not recognize bursts between the two of us. His arm rises. A stake clasped in his hand.
It swings downward.
And embeds itself in Cyrus’ chest. Right into his heart.
The space explodes into action. A blade instantly buries itself in the attacker’s back. He collapses to the ground, the life draining out of him. I’m grabbed from behind, bound tightly.
But I watch as Cyrus’ eyes grow wide. Watch as he falls backward, as others try to catch his falling body. The crowd swarms around him and he disappears from my sight.
The King. The King is dead.
And the cries and swarming bodies, they tell me they all think I ordered this.
That I’ve been behind everything.
I’m being dragged away, headed for my death. People swarm around me, swarm to the fallen King. My feet drag over the marble floor.
When something utterly impossible happens.
A body rises from the swarm of people. Brilliantly glowing eyes, black veins spread over his entire body. A feral, demonic howl rips from his chest and every eye turns to him.
King Cyrus stands—alive—among the shocked crowd.
Blood leaks out from the stake that is still embedded in his heart. Cyrus wraps a hand around it, and yanks it from his chest. Blood pours from the wound. But we all watch in horror and fascination as the gaping hole in his chest knits itself back together. As the blood stops flowing.
Cyrus breathes hard and deep, that inhuman rattle flowing in and out of his chest. His eyes are wide, chaotic as he scans the crowd. Before they land on me.