Chapter Three Shan

Chapter Three

Shan

T he day dawned clear and warm, far too beautiful for a Funeral Ball. It was ridiculous, truly, but Shan almost felt like the weather itself was celebrating with her.

It was finally over. Shan was the new matriarch of the LeClaire line, and everything was hers. The estate, the title, the seat in the House of Lords—everything she had spent a lifetime scheming to achieve. She should have been relieved, happy even, but she buzzed with energy, ready to get on with the next thing.

There was so much work to do.

The official memorial would happen that evening, when the LeClaires opened their home to the masses of Dameral. All Blood Workers of rank were invited to mourn their late sibling and welcome the new heir into their midst. For many it was a time of celebration as well as pain. It brought the whole family together as they honored the new head of the House. But the LeClaires had always been a vicious, cruel line, and Antonin had been the exemplar against which all others were measured.

Her father had been the fourth child, far beyond the heir and the spare, but he had been the most ambitious of his generation. He had plotted and killed his way through his siblings till he was the last one standing, had ensured that none of his nieces or nephews lived to take the line back from him, children dead before they even had a chance to live. His exploits had attracted even the Eternal King's attention, and for all his efforts he had been rewarded. He had been drawn into the inner circle of power, into the role that was never named but always known.

That of Aeravin's own spymaster.

The King had elevated him, had given him power and privilege in exchange for turning his cunning and viciousness against Aeravin's enemies. The pressure, though, had broken him. He started seeing enemies everywhere, his cruelty turning paranoid to the point of madness. Within a handful of years, the King had cast him aside, and all of society shunned him for his weakness. With no other outlets, he turned his cruelty on his wife, and, when she fled, upon his children—his legacy. Now it was just Shan and her brother—all that was left of a diseased, despised, nearly destitute House.

Sometimes, Shan thought that if they were wise they would let it end with them.

She was finishing the final touches on the evening's menu when Anton burst into the dining room, his eyes wild and his hair disheveled. His cravat was hanging loose around his neck, and he had not bothered with his waistcoat or jacket, showing up in simple shirtsleeves. It looked as if he had fallen asleep in the clothes he had worn the night before then rolled out of bed to join her. Which, in all fairness, was probably the truth.

Though she had beaten him into the world by only a matter of minutes, they were the same. For all their lives, they had been the perfect image of twins, reflecting each other. They had both inherited the look of their foreign mother—the same rich, golden skin, the thick, dark hair, the wide cheekbones and the narrow eyes. They were both beautiful, but in Aeravin, so terribly other .

Shan wore it with a graceful elegance, the kind that moved people to shamed deference. Anton wore it like a challenge, daring them to speak the truth that lurked behind their polite smiles and carefully chosen words.

It was a deliberate, calculated choice. Where she was the perfect daughter, he had adopted the role of the dissolute fop, living only to spend what was left of his father's money as he flitted from scandal to scandal. And though he played his part well, it was far from the truth. Anyone who looked closely enough could see the cunning in his eyes.

They were two sides to the same coin, right down to the cold, calculating mind that he learned at his father's knee and hid behind his scoundrel's persona.

"Good morning, Anton," she said, pouring them both tea. "Rough night?"

Anton slinked over to the table, taking his cup as soon as she finished dressing it the way he liked. A bit of milk, a pinch of sugar. He downed it in one scorching gulp, then poured himself another. "Is it true, then? About Father?"

Shan couldn't help herself. Her smile was soft and cruel. "The Funeral Ball is tonight."

Anton winced. "Shan…"

Shan leaned back in her chair as a pair of serving girls entered, carrying their breakfast in on trays. There would be no more wasteful spreads of food—just what she and her brother could reasonably eat—and no more bland breakfasts of toast and kippers.

The girls set the bowls down in front of them—steaming rice, freshly fried eggs, spiced sausages in the way their mother had made them—and quickly departed. Food that their father had loudly banned years ago, that they had to sneak just to have a taste of, now proudly displayed on their dining-room table.

She leaned forward, nudging the bowl closer to him. "Eat up, Anton. We have a long day ahead of us."

Anton immediately snatched his fork, digging in with an aggression that had Shan rolling her eyes. If there was one constant about her brother, it was that he would never turn down food, even if he was angry.

"Oh, don't be like that," Shan said, not bothering to hide her displeasure.

"He's our father," Anton muttered, and, damn it all, there was still a bit of pain there. Despite everything, every cruel word he spat to her brother's face, the way he tried make them hate each other, turning each of Shan's successes into a weapon against Anton, her brother still cared for the man, and it broke what was left of Shan's heart. Their father had deserved what had come to him, and if it took her the rest of her life she'd prove it to Anton.

"Was it you?"

Shan looked up from her tea, staring into Anton's eyes—dark, like hers, but fearful in a way that she had never seen before. Jutting her chin forward, she met his gaze without shame. "Of course," she said, giving him the truth so he would not ask for more.

It was her plan, her scheming, her will. But still, her brother could never know of Bart's involvement. There were some things that even she was not cruel enough for.

Anton let out a low hiss of pain. "How could you?"

"How dare you ask me that," Shan whispered, the venom all the more potent for it.

Anton ran his hand through his hair, over the shorn sides and tangling it in the dark strands like he was trying to wrench the words straight from his head. "Please say it wasn't because of me."

"It was for us," Shan replied, even though the truth hurt him. She had grown up in a web of lies, and the only guiding light she had left was that she wouldn't lie to him. Not when asked directly. "But, yes, I murdered our father to protect you."

Anton stood abruptly, not caring that he knocked his chair to the floor. Shan didn't flinch as he stared down at her, as he snarled, "Don't do this. Don't become a monster like him."

Shan laughed. She was already the monster. Their father had seen to that with years of training. Why not use it to protect the one thing that mattered?

But she would never be like her father—he tried to make her a weapon against the one person she loved without reservation, and for that she had cut him down.

"Come on, Anton," she said, turning back to her breakfast. "Don't let your food get cold."

Anton slammed his hands down on the table, causing the plates and glasses to rattle with the force of it. "Look at me, Shan!"

Slowly, cautiously, she turned her head to him, her eyes narrowing as she took in his ragged breathing, the wild look in his eyes, the raw, heartbreaking pain that twisted his expression into something she could barely recognize.

"I am not a child," he said. "I do not need you to keep meddling like this."

Shan placed her fork down, squaring her shoulders and folding her hands in her lap, creating the perfect image of serenity. Then—and only then—did she speak. "I will not apologize for what I've done, Antonin." She threw their shared name in his face, a reminder of what their father had wanted of him. Anton had never been more than a means to a legacy, and when he had been born Unblooded, when he revealed that he was disinclined to continue the family line and their name, her father decided that he had no son at all.

She considered going further, flinging every little cruelty they had lived through back at his face, if only to make him understand. For years their father had kept Anton locked away, a shame too great to speak of, a child left to grow in the shadows.

Neglected. Abused. Abandoned.

Sometimes, Shan thought it was worse than what had been done to her—she had been the favorite, special and perfect, struggling with all the weight of cruel expectations. She could never know, but at least it was over.

Her brother was at last free of that burden, and though he might never forgive her for it, that was a weight she was willing to bear. For him, she would do anything.

"Our father was cruel to you, so I removed him as a threat," Shan said, with all the simplicity of truth. "If you cannot recognize that, then perhaps you simply need more time to process."

"Blood and steel," Anton whispered. "You are becoming him after all." Pushing away from the table, he stormed towards the door.

"What about breakfast?"

He paused, not even bothering to look back. "I find, dear sister, that I have no appetite."

With that he disappeared into the hallway, and Shan released the tension she had been holding like a thread unspooling. Of all the reactions she had anticipated, of all the plans she had laid, this was the one outcome she had not expected. She wanted to chase after him, to beg and plead until he saw reason, but she knew that it wouldn't work.

So she remained in her seat, and calmly, mechanically, ate her breakfast. She needed the fuel for the day—there was still much to be done: food and drink to be prepared, a ballroom to be turned out and outfits to be chosen. Eventually, Anton would come crawling back to her.

He always did.

"It's time," Bart said, peering out of the second-story window. Guests had been arriving for the past half-hour, milling about in their drawing room and ballroom—rather quickly redone into more of a parlor, thanks to Bart's ingenuity—and Anton had been down there from the start, accepting condolences.

She had been right in the end. Though he had avoided her all day, simmering in his petty rage, he had still turned up at the appointed hour; freshly shaved, neatly dressed, his hair artfully styled and his expression carefully arranged as the guests poured in.

As the new head of the family, it was Shan's place to come down after the guests had started to arrive, not altogether that different from a debutante's ball. Though it had not been long since hers; since she had turned eighteen, graduated from the Academy, and been accepted as a fully-fledged Blood Worker. Most girls didn't have their Ball and their Ascension in the same decade. Perhaps Aeravin would be better off if they did—the old clung to life and power with a tenacity that choked off the future.

Shan shoved the thought aside. Amusing as it was, there were other pressing matters to attend to. A quick stop before the mirror—her makeup impeccable, her hair still in place—and she was ready to face it all.

"I'll be here," Bart said, sitting at the desk, pulling the family ledgers towards him. Shan had to play the socialite, but why should that stop all the work?

Shan almost laughed. Her father must be rolling in his grave. He would have never allowed Bart—even as well-educated as he was—to sit at the LeClaires' desk. He had given his secretary a small, windowless room to work out of, as befitted his station . And he hadn't even hated him as much as he hated Bart. Bart had, after all, found his way into his son's heart and bed, sullying his namesake with his lowness.

Shan swore she would treat Bart better, and all her people for that matter. Blood and steel, for his loyalty and his place in her brother's heart, Shan would give Bart the world.

"Take care," she said, leaving her friend to his work as she left the safety of her father's study—no, her study—to face the wolves. She could hear them already, talking and whispering and gossiping. Her fingers twitched, her claws pressing against the silk of her dress, but she forced herself to relax her hands, to smooth her expression into the calm and cool mask that she had mastered long ago.

Tonight, she was facing them not as a child—not as an untested heir—but as a matriarch. This was her house. Her domain. She needn't worry about missing any key bit of information, no matter how small. She had spent years training her birds—her servants and informants and spies—fluttering about invisible and unobtrusive. While they served food and drink, while they served in the background, little more than decoration, they would be listening. Tonight, Shan would act as the center of attention and they'd flit about, following her instructions.

And when it was all over they would come and whisper what they learned in her ear, and she'd reward them for their good work.

So when she stood at the top of the stairs and looked at the people below her, Shan allowed herself the smallest of smiles. One day her web of information would be so strong, so complete, that she'd never have to fear anyone again.

The room quieted as the footman announced, "Lady Shan LeClaire." The crowd turned to her as one, their hungry eyes searching for any sign of weakness. She stood tall, letting them look their fill. They stood in clusters around the room, amongst tables laden with food, stretching from the grand fireplace all along the wide windows—each group its own little battalion.

She was the image of serenity, dressed in her finest black gown, and it shimmered in the glow of the witch light. The silken corset hugged her figure, and the skirt flared out from her pinched waist, but it bore a modestly cut square neckline—which would have been unfashionable if she hadn't been in mourning. It was sleeveless, like most dresses. No Blood Worker worth their salt would restrict their arm movements, even at this time. Not when their power relied on their claws and daggers.

There was nothing to criticize her for: Shan had made sure of that when she had selected this dress weeks ago. After a moment, she began her glide down the stairs, giving her footman a small nod as she passed. She made a note to personally thank him later. Her control of her household would be built on goodwill, a more powerful currency than the threats and fear Blood Workers normally traded in. When one expected pain, a little kindness went a long way.

But the simpering fools who crowded her home didn't deserve such allowances. Behind their sympathetic words and kind smiles lived hearts of stone. Success in Aeravin depended on cunning and ruthlessness, and the Blood Workers flocked to each new pawn, eager to see if they could play the game.

She bared her teeth in a fierce smile as she moved through the throng, her heels echoing on the marble floor. Lord Dunn offered carefully worded condolences and suspicious eyes; Lady Belrose extorted her to come to her next salon; and Lord Craddock leaned on her to join him at the theatre. She kept careful note of every promise she made—and did not make—asking them to please send her a note so she could add it to her schedule.

They met her vicious smile with ones of their own, swearing that their invitations would be sent before the week was out, and Shan demurely gave her thanks. They had their roles and played them perfectly, and Shan knew that every interaction was just the opening gambit in each Blood Worker's personal game of chess. As the invitations rolled in, Shan would respond, picking and choosing each social outing with care as she made her countermoves.

And the game would play out.

"My dear Lady LeClaire," a soft voice whispered at her ear, and she froze as she recognized it, her blood turning as cold as ice in her veins. The Eternal King had accepted her invitation after all, the one she had sent with no expectations. It was a formality, done by every new ascendant in this position. In her lifetime she had never heard of him accepting.

She spun around, her skirts flaring prettily round her ankles, and sank into a deep curtsy. "Your Majesty."

As she stood there, her form perfect and without a single tremble, the King reached down, palm up. "Please rise, my lady."

She took his hand, letting him help her, and she stared up at him. He was studying her, curiosity softening the harsh lines of his face. Despite his looming presence in society, Shan had only personally met him a handful of times—brief flashes of formality through her life. Visiting her father when she was very, very young. Attending the official welcome of her class to the Academy of Dameral. Passing through her graduation to grant the highest honors.

Through it all, he was stern. Cold. Untouchable. The force that had broken her father, her family, her entire world while letting his country slip through his fingers. Though she had worked her whole life for this, she was not yet ready for him to be looking at her. She ached to use her claws or her daggers, to carve that bored look from his face.

"You have a lovely home, and your garden is exquisite," he said, gesturing out the open doors. Though his words were perfectly polite, there was something empty in his tone that sent shivers skittering across Shan's skin. "Take a turn with me?"

"I'd be honored," she said, deliberately casting her eyes low. Her posture demure and perfect, everything that was expected of a young woman who had captured her liege's attention. It was an easy act for her to slip into—and it was certainly better than the truth.

Rage and spite could only get one so far.

The King held out his arm—perfunctory, his movements and actions just so—and the unease in Shan grew deeper. But she took it anyway, and he pulled her away, leading her on a tour of her own gardens. It was meticulously landscaped, filled with lush rose bushes in full bloom, petals scattered amongst the paths and benches. "I haven't been here in years. Your father did wonders with it."

Shan held her head high. "My father was never interested in horticulture. He turned the gardens over to me when I was thirteen."

It was only a slight lie. Lord LeClaire hadn't so much given them over to her as she had seized them—along with control of the rest of the household. In his paranoia, he had let their home go to waste, uncaring of Anton in dirt and filth as the last of the money drained away, funneled towards Shan's education and needs.

She simply did what any enterprising young girl would—she fixed it. She hired new housekeepers in his name, new landscapers, made sure that Anton had all that he needed provided for him, then redirected their investments and kept them just on this side of bankruptcy.

It had left her angry, of course, but she couldn't let it show. When she was supposed to be focusing on her studies, she had to save her family from the shadows while her father took all the credit. That had been the beginning of it all.

The King had stopped by the rose bushes along the stone wall—Aeravinian roses—and carefully plucked a freshly bloomed flower. He twirled it in his fingers, staring at the petals as they spun. Turning to Shan, he asked, "Blood, then?"

It took her a moment to process his question, but she quickly recovered. "Yes, weekly." Like the rest of the household, Shan had been determined to make her gardens the best in the city. Careful planning and study—and the judicious application of blood, bled into the ground and powered by a simple spark of magic—meant that the roses bloomed strong and fragrant all year round.

"Well done," he said, clenching his fist around the stem. The thorns dug into his flesh, and he turned his hand so that the blood dripped down onto the ground, seeping into the dirt, fuel for their everlasting blooms. "A gift, then, for the loveliest garden outside of the palace."

Shan stared at the blood, even though all she wanted was to run. The King's strange attempts at kindness unnerved her—Blood Workers were normally so careful with their own blood, aware of how powerful even a single drop was. But this King? He spilled it for her on a whim, gracing her roses with power most would kill to taste. "Thank you."

He nodded, as if he had given her a great boon, then dropped the rose to the ground, stamping it into the earth under his heel. The cuts were already healed and gone, as if they had never been there at all.

Then he was walking again, and she had to hurry to catch up. "Still, Your Majesty, I must thank you for attending tonight. I didn't expect it."

"But of course," the King replied. "I simply had to see you after such a sudden coup. I've had my eye on you for years, girl, though I was surprised to see you make your move so soon."

She stopped cold, and as he turned to look back at her, she saw the first bit of true emotion on his face. A knowing smirk. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play coy, Shan, it doesn't become you." He caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up so that he could look her in the eyes. "I know everything that happens in this country. Your father was a tenacious, paranoid bastard who clung to life with a stubbornness that always frustrated me. But it seems the fool should have watched his own house."

Shan considered her options. Denial? Shock? Anger? No. None of that would do. She held her head high and smiled. "My father was an idiot, and he nearly ruined the LeClaires. I swear to do better."

The King inclined his head to her, the closest thing she had ever seen him give to honoring someone else. "I'm sure you will, my dear. I'll be watching." Their turn around the garden finished, he disappeared back inside, slipping through the shocked crowd. He did not linger—his mission complete, he cut through the crowds and headed straight for the door.

"He's like that," a quiet voice murmured, and she turned to find Isaac de la Cruz, the Royal Blood Worker and her once dearest friend, standing in the shadows of the garden. He lifted his cigarette to his lips, its burning tip a small, bright light in the darkness. "He steamrolls you then leaves you to pull yourself back together."

He dropped the cigarette, stamping it out under his heel, and stepped forward. Shan didn't know what to do, so she clamped her hands behind her back and stood tall, her face expressionless.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

He was the same and different all at once. She traced the familiar features with her eyes, the Tagalan heritage they both shared imprinted in her memories, as she catalogued every change. The line of his jaw, now a bit broader and peppered with the beginnings of a beard. His dark, soft hair, now longer and curlier. His dark eyes, just a bit colder, shuttered. His rich, burnt gold skin, looking a little pale and wan, as if he hadn't seen the sun in weeks.

He was so achingly handsome, grown into his skin in a way that she wished she had been there to see. But his smile was the same, quirked up a little on one side in the way that made her heart ache. "I've missed you, my dear Lady LeClaire."

Shan felt a pang, deep in her stomach. As much as she was still angry at Isaac, even after all these years, she did miss him. Their constant battles, pushing and pulling each other to be better. Their schemes and their games. The way they were the only ones who understood each other when their classmates had shunned them for their foreignness. In all of the great melting pot of Aeravin, it seemed a miracle that she had found someone so like her.

Once she had been closer to him than anyone else in this misbegotten world. She had held his hand as he whispered truths in her ear, as he claimed a new name that fit him better than the one his parents gave him, as he began treatments that would shape his form to match the boy he knew himself to be. Through it all, she had been there, a rock for him to lean on.

But then they graduated, and when he was offered the chance to join the King's cadre, a handful of students selected from each graduating class to be part of his personal team of scholars, he had dropped her like she had meant nothing.

Like they had meant nothing, despite all the secrets and fears and dreams they had once whispered to each other.

So instead of embracing him, Shan shrugged casually, as if that wound wasn't as raw and aching as it was when he first inflicted it. "What are titles between us, old friend?"

"Old friends indeed," Isaac said, glancing away. Guilty. "It's been a while. Much has changed."

"Perhaps if you had returned any of my letters," she said coolly, "I would know more about it."

He ran a hand through his hair, swearing. "It was complicated, Shan, you must know that."

"Oh, I do." This time, when she smiled, there was no warmth to it. "I understand that you couldn't be seen associating with someone as low as me."

She almost didn't blame him. It had all worked out in the end, for it hadn't been long at all before the King had appointed him Royal Blood Worker to the shock of all of Aeravin. It had been another one of the dreams he had whispered in her ear, back when they both believed it was nothing more than that.

The position of Royal Blood Worker was prestigious. Powerful. It placed one at the King's right hand, with the privilege and curse of handling all his most important affairs. Most importantly, he had thought it would bring him acceptance he craved so much. It would prove to everyone that he belonged here just as much as they did—and to some extent, it had worked, though there were still whispers about that upstart de la Cruz. But it also bound him to the Eternal King, to do his bidding and represent his will across Aeravin. It would have been hell, in her opinion, but it was everything that Isaac had wanted.

And only a small part of her hoped that his victory was a bitter one.

"I know I was wrong," Isaac said. He stepped forward, but she immediately moved back. Not letting him close.

Not knowing what she'd do if he was.

"You were," she said.

"Please, Shan, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

She looked away, wanting to accept his words as truth, his pain as genuine. It probably was, but she couldn't discount the fact that he hadn't reached out to her until he knew that her father was dead.

"I don't know, Isaac," she said. It was the first bit of genuine honesty that she had shown that night, and she forced herself to look upon him, to accept that the pain fluttering across his expression was her fault.

He didn't back down. "Well, I hope you can let me try, at least. I want us to be… friends, again."

"Oh, Isaac." She shook her head. "We're not children anymore. Blood Workers don't have friends."

"No, they don't." He took her hand in his, grabbing it before she could pull away. She didn't fight him as he raised it to his lips, placing a soft kiss to the back of it, and warmth spread through her from that single, brief point of contact. "But we were never simply friends, were we?"

Shan licked her lips, her throat suddenly dry as she remembered those nights. The taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin under her hands, the weight of his body over hers as they explored the ways they could bring each other pleasure.

Things between them had never been simple, and they never would be. But she couldn't bring herself to cast him aside in the same way that he had her, so she just whispered, "No, we weren't."

"Is there any hope at all?"

The words fell from her lips before she could stop them. "Give me a reason."

It wasn't quite an admission, but he was smart enough to see it for what it was. A chance.

When he smiled at her, it was like they were teenagers again. Like the last few years had never happened. "Come with me to the theatre, Shan. I have a box."

She nodded, unable to find her voice.

"Brilliant! I'll send an invitation." He bowed to her, the perfect gentleman. "I should let you get back to your guests. I look forward to seeing you soon."

"Me too."

Grinning, Isaac turned away from her, reaching for his cigarette case. And Shan returned to her party, a polite smile plastered on her face to cover the riotous beating of her heart.

Anton was watching from the window, a glass of whisky in hand. He arched an eyebrow, and it was clear from the look that he gave her that he had at least seen everything, even if he had been unable to hear it.

She gave him the subtlest shake of her head. Not now .

Glaring, Anton downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, then pushed his way through the crowds and out of the ballroom. The guests tittered amongst themselves, but they were used to Anton's antics. He did always lean into his role.

They knew the real power in the room was Shan. The woman who had taken private conversations with both the King and the Royal Blood Worker. They had all seen the shift in power.

Shan held herself proud and tall. There was still work to do.