House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,43

thought he’d been cursed by a witch.” He laughed mirthlessly. “How silly that seems now.”

“Actually, it doesn’t. Consider what Mallory did. Also consider the fact that you’re here right now because of her magic . . . and you’re eating your toast with a fork. Why are you doing that?”

He shrugged. “It’s how it’s done.”

“That’s very much not how it’s done, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you eat toast before.”

Ethan was trying to lighten the mood, I realized. Doing something unbelievably pretentious—even for Ethan—and trying to make me laugh. But this story was too sordidly, horribly interesting for me to be distracted by vampiric foibles.

“Anyway,” I said, “Peter heard her scream?”

“He ran to her. I rushed into the room just in time to see him pull Evgeni away. Anastasia was petite—a wisp of a thing—but she fought him like a hardened soldier. She just wasn’t big enough. . . .” Ethan trailed off, shuddering at the memory. “Weak as he was, Peter was still a vampire. He threw Evgeni across the room, and then he collapsed. Her parents rushed in and thanked Peter for saving their daughter’s virtue—Evgeni was a fairy, but his caste was too low for them. A few seconds later, it was over. Peter was gone.”

“He turned to ash?”

“Before our eyes. Extract works more slowly than staking. And the worst of it was, there was nothing that could be done in the interim.”

“He knew he was dying?” I quietly asked.

Ethan nodded. “And we knew it wasn’t a curse. Evgeni forcibly confessed to it, and to Anastasia’s parents’ role. But Peter’s act of saving her seemed enough to sway them. The floor was stone—big chunks of stone with jagged edges. I kneeled there beside him as he passed. My knees ached from it—from kneeling on that cold stone.” He looked up at me. “Isn’t it odd that I remember such an insignificant thing from so long ago?”

“Memory is a powerful thing,” I said. “The pain probably set the memory, sealed it. I bet you remember the smell of the room, too.”

Ethan closed his eyes. “Amber,” he said. “Anastasia’s home always smelled warm and rich. Heady summer roses. Roasted meats. Ale. But mostly amber.” He opened them again. “I haven’t told that story in a long time. I’m glad I’m telling it to you. It’s important that someone know the history, especially since it’s being rewritten as we speak.”

I reached out and put a hand over his. “I’m really sorry for your loss. Peter sounds like a good friend.”

Ethan nodded. “The curse of being immortal, Merit, is watching the passage of those you love—even those who aren’t supposed to leave.”

We sat quietly for a moment. “What happened to Evgeni?”

His eyes flattened. “He was dispatched.”

My blood chilled a bit. “You killed him?”

“I avenged Peter’s death and Anastasia’s attack. Her father was too cowardly to do it.”

That was an effective reminder that Ethan had lived most of his life in another time, a time during which life and death were bargained differently. I wouldn’t call him cold, but he had the capacity for detached violence if he believed it was necessary and honorable. Violence he didn’t shun, and for which he wouldn’t apologize.

“What about Anastasia?”

“I don’t know. I lost track of her after Peter passed. As far as I’m aware, her parents went back to insulating her from the world, at least the vampire portion of it.”

“They must have been relieved,” I said. “I mean, horrifically so, but still.”

“They were thrilled, at least as much as fairies will ever show. Two problems addressed at once. The vampire wooing their daughter was dead, as was the fairy who’d attacked her.” He crumpled his napkin on the table and crossed his legs. “You’ve met Claudia,” he said. “I take it you’re familiar with the fairies’ conception of value?”

“They like money and treasure,” I said. “They’re less big on emotions, including love, at least that they’ll admit.” Claudia had had an affair with Dominic Tate, Seth Tate’s evil twin, and although she’d clearly been infatuated with him, she denied love was anything fairies deigned to involve themselves in.

Ethan nodded. “All true.”

“The dragon’s egg,” I said, suddenly realizing. “Luc said a Russian duchess gave Peter the egg. That they’d ‘bonded.’ Anastasia’s mother was the duchess?”

Ethan smirked. “She was, although I believe his summary changes a bit in each retelling.”

“Like a game of ‘telephone’?”

He looked at me quizzically. “What’s the game ‘telephone’?”

“It’s a party game,” I said. “You sit in a circle, and one person