A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,31

doorway, every hole that looks to have the capacity to fit me through it are heavily obstructed by passing servants, handmaidens, guards, or noblemen. And all seem to take their time studying me. I curse under my breath.

Outside of Nightingale, or any supply school for that matter, humans are hard to come by—endangered, in fact—making the presence of one more of a luxury rather than a commodity. Even here, where the servants probably see humans every day, our sheer presence ignites their predatory senses. Most vampires in the Stratocracy, including the elite’s servants, know blood only through synthetic methods, or through highly expensive blood packs. The latter having grown only a bit more prevalent since cultivating humans became a legitimate practice in Cain. Ignoble vampires are strictly prohibited from killing any humans, and face severe repercussions if they do... but the elite, of course, can do whatever they please.

It makes me sick to my stomach, thinking about the inner-workings of this world. The part of the world that the other humans choose to look past, too lost in their efforts to please.

As strange eyes continue to scan me, and with Madam Ceti on guard, I conclude that my chances for escape have dropped straight down to zero. For now, anyway.

My heartbeat becomes erratic the closer I draw to the grand hall. I’m running out of time. My mind trips over itself. Telling me to run and take the leap for freedom despite the underwhelming odds; anything to get away, and to stay away, from the lord of this castle. A bead of sweat falls down the side of my burning cheeks as my eyes shift upward to take in the twin ivory staircases—the ones that lead straight to Zein so that “he doesn’t have to wait too long for his meals.”

Ugh.

I swallow hard. The thin columns of the cases, carved intricately to look like porous bones, swirl upward with instruction, imploring me to not keep their master waiting.

I take one final look toward the huge paneled windows of the grand hall, the glass reflecting the dull oranges of dawn. I ignore the suspicious stares of the nearby curtain attendants and the expectant eyes of Madam Ceti while I consider shattering a large, stained glass window and making a break for it through the courtyard. However, something holds me firmly to this spot, to this purgatory. An intrepid curiosity that is, bluntly, meaningless.

Why did Zein decide to bring me here?

I clench the ivory knob on the base of the handrail as my thoughts shift from a need for freedom, to a need for answers.

Almost instantly I’m climbing the stairs with a renewed sense of determination. The burning need for answers easily replaces my lukewarm fear and hesitation. I won’t stop. Midway up and I’m on my own. Ceti doesn’t follow me and offers no words of comfort or parting as I step ever upward. Sliding my numbing fingers over the handrails, step by step, I ascend, repeating calming mantras to myself in hopes that I’ll handle this event better than the last. Distribution was proof enough that I didn’t know how to control my anger, and if I wanted even half of a chance at living past this day, I couldn’t be rattling off insults the moment I strolled into Zein’s room.

I slow nearing the top of the intertwining staircases. I gulp when I look down, realizing that the height conquered could easily be compared to that of the Nightingale Walls. Maybe even a little higher. I refocus my eyes to the four steps left before me and a new surge of fear amplifies. I move to silence it.

Four. Three. Two. One.

At the top, I still have at least fifty yards of gaping hallway before it opens to an enormous set of doors—of which, I can only assume lead to Zein’s personal quarters. As my feet take the last steps of the journey, more cautious than before, I notice the guards—masked from the forehead down to the nose—lining each side. Their spears are crossed over one another in a similar fashion, and their armored bodies stand rigidly still. Each one I pass never loses face, never coughs, never speaks, never twitches. If it wasn’t for the small layer of sweat glistening upon their jawlines, it would be difficult to tell them apart from sculptures.

“Okay, time to stop distracting yourself,” I mutter. “You’re almost there. You can do this. It’ll be okay.”

If Zein wanted me tortured to death he would have left