The Marriage Game

In Which Victory Has a Cost

 Serena stayed with her until sunlight filtered down into the cave entryway.

"Good luck," she said, "Try not to do anything too stupid, okay?" Her words were joking, but her eyes were worried.

"Serena," Camila blurted out before she could disappear. "I love you. I'm just- I'm going to miss you."

Serena smiled. "I know. I love you too. And I'm very proud of you."

The words echoed faintly after she vanished.

Camila unsheathed her daggers. She checked that the iron box was securely fastened inside her backpack. She took a deep breath.

She stepped into the light.

Bodies littered the ground, frozen blood clinging to the dry yellow-green grass. The smell of burnt flesh tinged with the sour edge of wolfsbane hung heavy in the air. Flies buzzed and picked at the lashes of the dead, settling skinny legs atop glassy eyeballs and lolling tongues. Overlooking the battlefield, a man stood on a hilltop. His bony hand shielded black eyes from the gleam of the setting sun.

Dragomir.

Camila scanned the battlefield. Where had the bodies come from? Nearby towns that Rosa had ransacked? She stumbled over a leather purse, the handle stiff with blood. A woman—her ponytail ripped from her scalp, her neck wet and bleeding—stared at her with glassy eyes.

Her heart beat faster.

In the distance, Dragomir's lips tilted upwards. He must have recognized her. She recognized him. A tent, larger than Camila's bedroom, stood behind him, the canvas flaps fluttering in the wind.

Something tugged on the mating bond. 

Camila wasn't sure whether it was Alex or Declan. She wasn't sure what they were trying to say. But she sensed their location. Somewhere, atop that hill, they waited for her.

She started to walk.

Her backpack grew heavy, the metal box digging into her low back, the edges barely softened by the fabric. The smell of rotting flesh, bone and blood, smothered her, fogging up her lungs and making her eyes water. Small fires flickered around her, the flames hissing against the dry prairie grass. Flies buzzed.

The grass crunched under her feet, stiff with ice and dried blood.

His suit was raven black, his shoes polished and gleaming. His hair narrowed to a sleek widow's peak and his eyes were sunken, inky pits above sharp cheekbones.

Camila reached the bottom of the hill.

"Dragomir!" Her voice split the silence like a knife through butter. "I have the heart. Let my parents go."

Even far below him, Camila saw the glittering satisfaction in his dark eyes.

He beckoned her closer with a single crook of his pointer finger.

She began to climb. The straps of the backpack sliced into her shoulders. Sweat warmed her palms, seeping into the leather grips of her daggers. The cold wind bit into the bare skin of her face, her ankles, the backs of her hands.

The wind picked up, ripping at her hair. It swirled around her in a cloud of black strands.

Dragomir plucked a wine glass from the table beside him. He swished the red liquid inside from edge to edge, taking a careful sip. When he smiled, his teeth glistened crimson.

Camila reached the top. 

The glass clinked gently against the table when he set it down. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as silk. "How are you, Camila?"