A wildness rose inside me. I ran at the Overseer. My fist hit his jaw, and his head snapped around. Julian kicked his legs out from under him. His hand loosened around the whip. I tried to grab it, but he held on. His teeth bared at me: half-grin, half-snarl. Julian locked an arm around his neck. I wrested the whip from his hand, raised my hand to strike—only to have the whip snatched away from me. A boot crashed into my stomach, knocking me into the wall.

Suhail. I should have known. Wherever the Overseer went, his superior was never too far behind. Just like on the streets: the muscle and the boss. “Thought I might find you here, runt.” He grabbed me by the hair. “Causing trouble again, are we?”

I spat at him. He hit me so hard I saw stars. “I don’t care who your keeper is, little mongrel. The concubine doesn’t frighten me. The only reason I’m not slitting your throat is because the blood-sovereign has called for you.”

“Bet she’d love to hear you call him ‘concubine,’ Suhail,” I forced out. “Shall I tell her?”

“Tell her what you like. The word of a human means less than the incoherent salivation of a dog.”

He hauled me over his shoulder. I struggled and screamed, but I didn’t want to risk using my spirit. The Overseer cut the side of his hand into Julian’s head, knocking him to the ground. The last thing I saw was Julian and Liss, both at the mercy of a man I could no longer fight.

19 The Blossom

19

The Blossom

The Residence of the Suzerain seemed much colder and darker than it had at the oration. I was alone with Suhail, and I would probably be just as alone with Nashira. I had no keeper, no protection. Little spasms started to run up and down my legs.

Suhail did not take me to the oration room, nor to the chapel. Instead I was dragged through the corridors and pushed into a high-ceilinged room with round-headed windows. It was lit by an iron chandelier, decked with candles, and a massive fireplace. Its light played across the ceiling, casting shadows on the ribbed plaster vaulting.

At the center of the room was a long dining table. And at the head of the table, seated in an upholstered red chair, was Nashira Sargas. She wore a black dress with a high collar: sculptural, geometric in design.

“Good evening, 40.”

I didn’t speak. She motioned with her hand.

“Suhail, you may leave us.”

“Yes, blood-sovereign.” Suhail shoved me toward her. “Until next time,” he breathed in my ear, “mongrel.”

He stalked back through the doorway. I was left in the gloomy room, facing the woman that wanted to kill me.

“Sit,” she said.