Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

"Stand up straight," Astrid orders in a hushed breath. Her annoyance is clear, but I don't understand how she got there.

I gasp, opening my eyes and lifting my head.

The apocalyptic landscape is gone, replaced by the undamaged penthouse foyer. Confused, I look around the home. How did I get back up here?

I'm standing upright next to my mother. I instantly try to hug her, relieved that she's alive. Astrid blocks my arms and knocks them away. I see magic surge defensively on her fingertips before she catches herself. I caught her by surprise.

"I told you that dash of potion in your coffee would make you feel better. No need to sit in anxiety all day when magic can make it all better." Astrid keeps her voice low. She pats my hair, and it reminds me of the seconds before I passed out in the limo after my birthday fire. "Now compose yourself. The Freemonts are waiting."

The weight of the apocalyptic vision still clings to me, like the vestiges of a world that no longer exists. I can still feel the heat of the burning city, the suffocating silence of a world that crumbled under my failure. But here I am, back in this gilded cage, about to be forced into a marriage I never wanted.

How can she not see it? How can she be blind to what's coming? It felt so real.

If I do nothing, that is the future that awaits us. I think of the burning city, the ash raining down like some twisted mockery of snowflakes, and I know—if I run from this, there will be nothing left to save.

I want to scream at her, to make her understand the stakes, but the words stick in my throat. She doesn't know about the prophecy. All she and the rest of the elders care about is power and alliances and Mortimer's premonitions. Chester Freemont is just another piece on their chessboard, and I'm the sacrificial pawn.

I can't be here. Costin was right. I have to act. I have to go with him and face my fate. But how can I do that when I'm trapped, suffocating under the family elders' expectations?

"I chose well. That gown is perfect on you," Astrid says .

Gown? I follow her gaze downward. Who cares about gowns?

I'm in the blue silk dress and high heels. The material hugs my curves, the flowing fabric cool against my skin. The glint of diamonds around my wrist catches my attention as they glisten in the soft light, casting tiny sparkles of light onto the nearby wall. The puncture wounds on my hand are healed. Something weighs down my head, and as I reach up to touch my hair, my fingers bump against cold, smooth stones.

Am I wearing a tiara?

"How did I get—?" I don't remember her giving me a potion to drink. In fact, she never touched my coffee.

"Are you sure you don't know where your brother has gone off to?" Astrid talks over me. "We can't find him. He should be here."

I could answer that I last saw him at the Marcheur de Nuit Mausoleum , but I'm not ratting him out. There is no point in both of us having to suffer through this evening.

I press my heel firmly into the marble floor and steal a quick glance over my shoulder, assessing my options for a swift escape.

I remember the fear I felt in the falling elevator. I should never have translated the illustration. All it did was scare the crap out of me and cause a time slip that put me squarely where I can't be. Magic clearly explained away whatever state I was in before now by making Astrid believe she gave me a potion.

My mother touches my arm in reassurance. "You have nothing to worry about. The lawyers have seen to everything. Mortimer spoke with the Freemonts. They're on board with the arrangement."

"I don't want to marry him," I tell her, trying to grip her arm in my desperation. "Please don't make me. I find him repulsive."

Astrid removes her hand from me. "Life is rarely about what we want. Focus on why you must."

Mortimer's premonition or my grandfather's prophecy?

I don't want to do either, but maybe I don't have a choice.

A reedy laugh comes from the living room. The sound is unmistakably Chester. It makes my skin crawl, and I recoil.

"Do it for your family," Astrid says. "I can give you something to help with the marital duties. It'll be like you're not even there."

Did she just offer to drug me through my wedding night?

I mean… well, yeah. Not remembering sex with Chester would be the ideal .

Wait, no. I can't even fathom all of that right now.

"Never mind. We can discuss that later. Our guests are waiting." Astrid gestures that I'm to follow her.

I don't want to do this.

As we enter the living room, I steel my nerves and school my expressions. Chester and his parents sit with my father. They glance in my direction, but my appearance is not enough to stop Francis. He's too busy recounting his latest business conquest.

"You must go to the underground market cigar auction in Paris," Francis says to my father, leaning back with a satisfied grin. "I outbid everyone, of course. There was some tech tycoon desperate to get his hands on this box of Cubans. I doubled every one of his bids. You should have seen his face. Worth every penny."

He laughs boisterously, not caring if anyone else in the room joins him.

As they continue to ignore me, I can't help but steal a moment to observe my would-be fiancé, Chester Freemont. He is the embodiment of entitled wealth, and it's easy to see where he gets the attitude. Through no merit of his own and suffering no hardships, Chester made it clear on our dates that he believes the world owes him whatever he wants. Though he looks like he's in his early 30s, I know him to be older. Such is the way with immortals.

Chester's appearance perfectly aligns with his personality. His hair is meticulously slicked back, so shiny it almost appears greasy. He often dons designer suits that are both wrinkle-free and tasteless, exuding an air of expensive yet questionable fashion sense. His pale complexion resembles that of someone perpetually clammy, and a smug smirk seems to be permanently etched on his face. When he laughs, it's a thin, high-pitched sound that grates on the nerves, echoing unpleasantly through the room. His affected, bored tone slithers through conversations, drawing attention to his unlikable nature and leaving an uncomfortable atmosphere in its wake.

His parents exemplify his attitude. His mother constantly wrinkles her nose as if she's caught a whiff of something unpleasant, while his father dominates conversations, blustering loudly and overpowering anyone else who tries to interject.

"You know, Tamara." Francis finally turns his attention to where I'm waiting. He takes a cigar from his jacket and tips it toward me before placing it in his mouth. "It's important to understand that we Freemonts only settle for the best."

The way he says it, the implication is clear. They're doing me a favor by allowing me to marry into their prestigious family. He produces a second cigar for my father.

Francis's attention causes the others to acknowledge I'm there, as if giving them permission to turn their attention to me.

I can't marry into this family.

I'd rather jump off the balcony.

Only I can't. If I take the easy way out, Conrad will go after Paul.

Fuck, life is unfair!

"Tamara." Chester stands and holds out his arms like he expects me to run into them. "You look lovely."

"Doesn't she," Astrid agrees. "The blue suits her."

Chester is staring at my chest. I don't think he's thinking about the blue. I hunch my shoulders forward to hide my figure. In the slinky material, it does little good.

When I don't cross over to him, he comes toward me. His eyes move over my body as if inspecting a broodmare he's about to purchase. I won't be surprised if he pulls my lips back to check my teeth and lifts my feet off the floor to inspect my hooves.

Even Chester's mannerisms get on my nerves. He's always leaning in too close, like he's trying to dominate the conversation. And that smile of his never quite reaches his eyes, which always appear cold and calculating. His voice oozes smarminess, dripping with fake charm and condescension. Every drawled word is a reminder of his wealth, and he flaunts it so effortlessly that it's obnoxious. It's like he's used to always being treated like the smartest person in the room, but most of his ideas lack substance and seem to rely solely on his family's fortune.

Chester flashes his too-white teeth and reaches to take my hand. His eyes lazily rake over me. His grip tightens as he pulls me closer, once more leaning in just a bit too far to invade my space.

I want to pull away, to wipe the smug look off his face with a solid punch. For a moment, I imagine Costin shaking him like a goblin rag doll before tossing him across the room. The thought makes me smile. Chester mistakes the look as being for him and reaches to run his fingers down my arm suggestively. My skin crawls at the thought of being tied to him, trapped in his nightmare of a family.

My smile instantly becomes a grimace.

"You really should relax, darling," Chester continues, his voice barely a whisper. "Once we're married, you'll see that life can be quite comfortable. You'll have everything you want as long as you behave as I wish."

I lean away from him and resist the urge to slap him. His very touch makes me want to shower in hot acid. He lifts my hand to his mouth and places a kiss against my knuckles. I swear I feel his tongue dart between my fingers. I automatically jerk back.

Gross.

Astrid arches a brow of warning at my reaction.

Chester's mother stands and comes toward me. "We are so happy to welcome you into the family, dear."

Mabel studies me like she's appraising a piece of fine china, not a future daughter-in-law. Her tight smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

I don't answer. No one seems to notice or care.

Mabel turns to her husband and demands, "Aren't we, Francis?"

"Yes, quite," Francis mumbles.

"You poor thing. You look out of sorts," Mabel continues, her tone clipped. "We understand this must be overwhelming for you, but it's such a wonderful match, don't you think? Our family has been in good standing for centuries, and it's only fitting that we align ourselves with such..." She makes a strange noise like she's being strangled before finishing, "…unique bloodlines."

Unique. The word feels like a hard slap wrapped in false flattery. I can't say I'm shocked. Mabel doesn't see me as part of her world. I'm just an outsider mortal being pulled in for their convenience. Her eyes linger on my dress, and I can practically hear her judging it against her own questionable standards.

Francis ignores his wife, not bothering with pleasantries toward me.

I want to scream. I want to run. But all I can do is stand there, smiling through clenched teeth.

"You must forgive me, Tamara, but I must implore you to reconsider one part of the agreement." Mabel grabs both of my hands and squeezes.

I hope she will ask me not to go through with the marriage. I'm only too happy to oblige.

"One grandchild is not enough," she continues. "Please reconsider having six. There will be a financial bonus in it for you. And we need to ensure that the Freemont heir doesn't inherit your, well, you know."

Gross.

"Genetic condition," she whispers.

"Mabel, it's done." Francis saves me from answering. I could almost thank him until he adds, "The lady will want to keep her figure."

I visibly shiver in disgust at the way he says it.

Gross. Gross. Gross.

Where the hell is a grumpy vampire companion when you need one? I picture Costin shaking and throwing all of our guests through the window.

"Here we are." Mortimer appears with a wizard.

I recognize the wizard from supernatural events at our country estate, but I have never been introduced. Though he looks frail in build, like most of his kind, he has an otherworldly presence. His age is indeterminate, but being ancient seems to be a requirement for wizards; at least, I've never heard of a young one. Long, silvered hair cascades down his robes, which shimmer like stars reflecting off a dark sea. His piercing eyes are an unnerving shade of glowing purple and hold the weight of centuries.

Two servants follow, carrying a podium, which they place in the middle of the room before leaving.

Mortimer unrolls a scroll and sets it down before holding his hand toward the wizard. "Zephronis, if you will be so kind."

Zephronis snaps his fingers, and an elegant quill and ink pot appear on the podium.

I wonder what he knows about the prophecy. Maybe he can decipher it for me.

"Chester," Mortimer commands.

Chester doesn't hesitate as he lifts the quill and signs. When he's finished, he winks at me.

"Tamara." Mortimer looks at me expectantly.

I can't force my legs to move.

"Zephronis is a busy man," my uncle insists.

"I don't…" I try to speak, but everyone is staring at me.

The sun is setting outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, its magenta and orange streaking the sky. Costin will be waiting for me. I long to see him streaking across the window to come and save me.

I try to buy time. "I haven't read this yet. Shouldn't I?—"

Astrid touches my elbow and guides me forward to sign my deal with the devil. "It's taken care of."

The words on the premarital agreement blur as I stare down at them. The ink seems to glisten. Several seals are stamped along the edge. It looks so official.

Mortimer points to a spot next to Chester's signature. Even his handwriting looks pretentious.

"I'm sorry…" I try to say, but the sound doesn't pass my lips.

Suddenly, Zephronis grabs my hand and jerks it toward him. Gnarled fingers hold my wrist firm as he traces a line on my palm. His purple eyes meet mine, and he lets me go just as quickly.

"Go ahead." Mortimer tries to soften his tone, but the order is unmistakable. He lifts the ink pot and quill and sets it down close to the paper to punctuate his meaning. I feel him standing behind me, looking over my shoulder as he blocks any escape I might try to make.

I mouth the word, "Costin," wishing he could hear me.

The wizard leans close, pinning me in on the other side.

Chester comes to stand in front of the podium, completing the wall and keeping me in my place. He glances down at the premarital contract, barely containing his impatience. His fingers drum against the table as he, yet again, leans too close to me.

"Come on, darling," he drawls, flashing that insufferable smile. "Don't make this harder than it has to be. It's just a piece of paper, after all. Let's get this over with so we can move on to more," he touches my arm, "important things."

His breath is hot against my cheek, and I feel a wave of nausea rise in my throat. His words feel like a trap. The cage is slowly closing around me. I want to scream, but it's all I can do to keep standing.

My hand trembles uncontrollably as I grasp the quill.

Chester places his hand over mine, guiding the quill tip toward the ink. I feel the bile rise in my throat.

"There we go," he whispers. "Good girl."

A droplet of ink splashes onto the podium. I'm overcome with panic. I don't think I can go through with it. I can't marry this man.

A light tap hits my elbow. A surge of magic shoots up my arm, causing my wrist to jerk to the side, accidentally knocking the pot. The spilled ink flows over the document, swiftly obliterating Chester's name in a swirling sea of darkness.

"Dammit," Mortimer swears .

"Oh, Tamara," Astrid sighs.

"I should have known," Francis mutters.

"Now, wait a minute," my father defends. "It's an accident. She's clearly overwhelmed."

"She's nervous about marrying our Chester," Mabel preens. "How adorable."

Chester appears slightly annoyed, but beyond that, I don't think he cares either way. Marriage to me would be an inconvenience to him at most. I have a feeling that the alliance is to get his family off his back so that he can continue to live the life he wants.

"Can it be fixed?" Mortimer asks the wizard as he tries to blot the ink with his sleeve.

"No," Zephronis states. It's the first time I've heard him speak. The deep voice commands attention. "The magic must be pure. Have the documents redrawn. This will have to wait for another night."

Mortimer takes the quill from me with an angry jerk. "I'll call the lawyers."

My arm and hand still tingle, and I realize the wizard must have sent the magic up my arm to make me spill the ink. I look at him questioningly, but don't call him out in front of the family. I want to tell him how grateful I am for his intervention.

"This changes nothing," Astrid says. "We'll still go forward with the wedding plans. We have much to discuss tonight. "

Zephronis takes up my hand and touches my palm. The magical buzzing stops as if he's pulling his magic back into his fingers. Calmly, he tells me, "Fate cannot be changed."

That's the beginning of the prophecy.

"That's right," Mortimer agrees, not understanding the message. "As the man said, fate will not be undone, and the joining of these two families is fate. This is but a delay."

Zephronis doesn't correct my uncle's interpretation of his words.

"Maybe it's a sign that we revisit the number of grandchildren," Mabel puts forth. I ignore her. I can't deal with that problem right now.

"I'm agreeable," Chester oozes.

Gag.

I definitely need to ignore him too.

"You know?" I whisper to the wizard.

He pushes my fingers, curling them into a fist before giving me a light tap.

"You've got ink on your gown," Astrid states. "You're excused to return to your room to change your clothes. I'll tell the chef we're ready to dine."

I step back from the podium. Zephronis snaps his fingers. The quill and ink disappear.

My eyes remained fixed on Zephronis. His glowing purple gaze keeps steadily on mine. There's so much I want to ask him, but he shakes his head slightly and turns away. Saying nothing, he shuffles out of the room toward the kitchen.

"Tamara, your gown," Astrid insists.

"Yes." I turn to leave, grateful for the excuse. I don't bother to say anything to anyone else as I hurry toward my room. As I walk, I pull the high heels from my feet, silencing their clicking on the marble. I run the rest of the way barefoot.