Eris took a sip of whisky and contemplated throwing the glass bottle into the fire.
It had been a bad evening. A terrible evening, Eris reflected, made worse by the fact that they'd served mushroom soup at dinner. He hated mushrooms. He slumped in his chair, staring into the flames. At least his rooms were decent: a four-poster wooden bed, a silver tray, a jewelled cage for messenger ravens to stop and rest... It could, as Lyra was so damn fond of reminding him, be far worse.
Still.
The cages would have to be removed, Eris thought, when he took the throne; it didn't send the right message. Bit ominous, really.
And no more mushroom soup, either.
"He refused you, didn't he?" Lyra asked.
She was rubbing honeyflower-sweet lotion onto her calf; one leg was propped up on the vanity, her robe pooling at her hips. Hard black brushstrokes peeked out from beneath the fabric, and Eris knew that if he stood — if he pulled that fabric away — he could run his hand over her scythe tattoo.
But he didn't.
Instead, Eris rolled the whisky around his glass. "For now."
Lyra's hair fell forward in a curtain of black silk. "Your cousin is protective of the girl. He won't give her up without a fight. Surely you see that."
"My cousin is dying," Eris said. "I simply need to wait."
"For the crown?" She lifted her hair, applying lotion to her neck. "Or for Annalise Cidarius?"
"Both."
Lyra's mouth quirked. "You want her, don't you?"
"I need her," Eris said. "She's necessary for our plan to work." He drained his whisky. "You know that."
"That's not what I meant," Lyra said. "You want her." She set down the lotion, padding barefoot across the room. "I saw the way you were looking at her during the banquet; I know you, Eris." Her smirk grew. "I know what you like."
There was a ripple.
Eris stiffened. Annalise Cidarius stood in front of him; the firelight turned the robe sheer, revealing the curve of her hip. She tilted her head, blue eyes gleaming with suggestion, and hot blood roared through him. She took a step closer. Another.
Lyra's voice was husky in his ear. "Is this what you want?" Her finger trailed down his chest. "Do you want her touching you like this?"
Eris gripped his armrests. "Stop it, Lyra."
Her lips whispered over skin. "Kissing your throat?"
Eris half-closed his eyes; his body was betraying him, hardening and rising to her touch, and he twisted away. "I'm not in the mood to play tonight."
"Are you sure?" Lyra's finger traced the skin above his waistband. "Imagine how easy it would be to take me right now. To take her." Her voice was hot in his ear."You could have Annalise underneath you, writhing and begging—"
"Enough."
Eris shoved her — properly, this time — and Lyra stumbled several feet, colliding with the mantelpiece. She huffed out a startled laugh.
"My gods," she said. "You really do like her. I'm almost jealous."
Eris looked away. "You wouldn't understand."
Burning hells, he wasn't sure that he understood. But when he claimed her — and he would, Eris thought — then he wanted her. Annalise. Not some spectre of her body. He wanted her beneath him, wanted her nails digging into his back.
Lyra observed him.
"I'm going to sleep," she said finally. "You should, too."
Eris reached for the whisky. "Probably."
"Or," Lyra said, toying with the sash of her robe, "we can sleep together."
Eris poured. "Not tonight."
She shrugged. "Have it your way, then."
The door clicked shut.
Eris listened as her footsteps retreated. Not towards her bedroom, of course — Lyra never slept alone. When he'd found her in a brothel four years ago, she'd spent every evening transforming into someone new. A man's late wife. A handsome lord above the client's station. A young vicar that had committed to celibacy.
Back then, Lyra had done it for the rukka; now, she did it for fun.
Eris took a sip of whisky. His mouth formed a word.
No.
Ryne had told him that a few hours ago. No, he couldn't have Annalise Cidarius. No, Eris couldn't take her home.
Eris's mouth moved again.
No.
It didn't feel strange; he was used to saying the word. He wished his ears could form it, could cradle the word in the shell and see if that felt strange, too. Eris picked up the whisky bottle; only two fingers left. Fuck. He was drunk, wasn't he?
He tipped his head back.
The fire licked his face with an impatient tongue. Eris traced the raised white scar on his wrist; he'd once pressed a hot pan to the skin, just to see how it felt. To see if he could withstand the pain and heat. Instead, he'd discovered that he enjoyed it.
Eris closed his eyes.
Just for a moment, he thought.
Something felt cold.
Eris blinked. Sensation came to him in jagged pieces: icy stone against his knees; stale air; a strange, golden light. He had the brief impression of a round room — a tower of sorts? — and then the breath left him.
Blinding pain tore through his hands.
He scrambled backwards, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Bloody, macerated fingers stared up at him; bits of nail clung to the torn skin. And there were splinters too, tiny bits of wood, lodged in his skin like broken ship masts in the sea. Eris stared.
I'm dreaming, he thought.
Except he wasn't. Eris knew that; the sound of his ragged, cannon-shot breathing was proof. Even in his worst dreams, he never sounded afraid.
I'm hallucinating. His thoughts felt dizzy. I've been drugged. This is nightmare somnium, or something very like it.
But, no.
This was real.
He staggered to his feet, his stomach churning. The pain had vanished now, blinking out like stars, and Eris thought of the time when he'd been thrown from his horse. The lung-choking, breathless sensation. He hadn't felt pain then, either; the body numbed you.
This wasn't a good sign.
"Hello, little lordling," a voice said.
His head snapped up.
A portrait of a young blonde woman hung on the wall.She was wearing a gilded dress that matched the frame, and her golden curls were arranged with some sort of flowers. Dahlias? Peonies? His sister Teagan would know; Eris never paid attention to shit like that.
Then, to his complete shock, the woman smiled.
"Forgive me," she said. "There's only one key that opens the door to this room, and it's hanging around your cousin's neck." Her hand — her very painted hand, Eris thought in horror — rearranged a flower. "I had to grow creative."
He shook his head. "I— but I—"
"Oh, dear," the woman sighed. "I'd hoped you'd be well-spoken."
"You can talk."
"Or intelligent." Her voice was conversational. "That would have been preferable, too." She waved a hand at his bleeding fingers. "Does that hurt? It looks like a nasty cut."
He recoiled. "What in Lucia's name are you?"
"Ah." Her smile grew. "What a poignant question."
Eris cradled his hand to his chest, his mind racing. She looked oddly familiar. Was it a painting of a woman at court? No. He'd remember a face like that. Would have probably bedded her, too. Oddly, it reminded him of his lessons as a child. The books that he'd once read about—
He sucked in a breath.
"No," Eris said. "It can't be."
The woman plucked a flower from her hair. "Whyever not?"
Eris stared. He'd known that Uncle Arthur was an enthusiastic relic-seeker, but his father had always said it was hogwash. A mad man's fantasy. But now to see this? To see a talking portrait of a woman locked away in Stillwater Castle?
Eris swallowed.
"You're Lucia," he said.
"A piece of her," Lucia acknowledged. "And you're Eris Delafort."
Eris inclined his head. "The whole of him."
They observed one another.
Eris felt the urge to pinch himself. To do something to prove that this was real, that it was happening. Lucia shredded white petals with long fingers, and they tumbled to the bottom of the frame, settling like spring snow.
"If you're going to kill me," Eris said finally, "I'd rather you do it now." He shuffled his feet. "My toes are growing cold."
More petals fell. "What do you know about possession rituals?"
His heart skipped a beat. "What?"
Lucia held his gaze. "I assume that's why you want Annalise Cidarius. My brother Nyxos can only possess humans with silver blood in their veins, just as I can only possess humans with golden blood." Three more petals fell. "Annalise makes the perfect host for Nyxos. With him by your side, you can claim Wynterlynn. Am I growing warm?"
Eris's voice was gruff. "You can't stop me."
"I never said that I wanted to," Lucia said.
"Then what do you want?"
"Your plan won't work." She dusted the remaining petals from her hands. "Even if the other Delafort boy hands her over, the host must enter the ritual willingly. They must accept the god and goddess into their body of their own free will." Her golden eyes were considering. "The Cidarius girl would never agree."
Eris hesitated. "I was going to provide her with... incentive."
Namely her guardian, Sophie, with a knife to her throat. Or that pregnant woman she'd befriended. Jane? June? To hell with it, Eris thought, he'd seize a young boy from the nearest godsdamn village if it came to it. Women were soft-hearted. They always gave in to these sorts of things.
He'd have Annalise Cidarius.
No matter the cost.
Lucia touched her mouth. "I see."
"My plan will work," Eris said.
"It won't." Her pointer finger tapped her lip. "But I have a better one."
"Go on."
She dropped her hand. "Help me find a body."
Eris snorted. "I don't think so."
"Help me find a body," Lucia said, unruffled, "and I'll use my power to put you on the throne. I'll fight by your side, little lordling. No more politics. No more burning villages and fearmongering. It can be over in a matter of minutes."
Eris stilled.
A burning sensation crept up his arm. His fingers were throbbing, pulsating like flowers furling and unfurling. There was a drip-drip noise, and he looked to the ceiling, half-expecting water to be leaking, but no; a small pool of blood was blooming at his feet.
He curled his hands into fists.
"And what would you gain?" Eris asked.
Lucia's face didn't change. "Humanity."
"It's impossible."
"Why?"
"I know the Vespertines," Eris said, shaking his head. "They're a cold, ruthless family. None of them will willingly host you, and bribery and threats won't work."
He thought of King Pieter and Queen Aurelia, of their sons Benjen and Ashling. He'd met them a handful of times over the years. Dined at their table and slept in their rooms. A servant had told Eris that Benjen had thorns put under his pillows so he never fully slept; if an attacker came into the room, he would be instantly alert.
No.
The Vespertine family were not the sort to be tricked, manipulated, or cajoled into taking a godly host. They'd sooner die.
"There's another way," Lucia said. "Another host."
Eris tore off a strip of his shirt. Wrapped it around his bloodied hand.
"Enlighten me," he said.
The goddess's mouth curved. "Tell me, little lordling: what do you know about the Lost Princess of Lucerna?"