Time fractured. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Isadora was airborne, propelled by a grief so pure and hot it had become its own form of strength. The iron shears in her hand felt like a part of her, a cold, sharp extension of her will. The world narrowed to a single point: the amused, blood-red lips of the monster who had stolen her sister.
The satisfying scrape of metal against skin, a faint scratch across Lady Valestra's perfect cheek, was followed by an inhuman shriek of outrage. The amusement in the vampiress's eyes vaporized, replaced by a storm of crimson fury. Fangs, long and opalescent, descended from her gums. She lunged for Isadora, her hands curled into claws, her intent nothing short of annihilation.
Isadora braced for the impact, for the tearing of flesh, the end.
It never came.
There was a sound like the crack of a whip, a blur of midnight silk, and a concussive force that shook the very floorboards. Lady Valestra was lifted from her feet and slammed against the far wall with enough power to crack the plaster. A hand, slender and pale, was wrapped around her throat, pinning her there.
Standing before her, holding the struggling vampiress a foot off the ground with one hand, was another woman. She had moved with a speed that defied the laws of nature, arriving from nowhere. She was tall, impossibly elegant, with hair as black as a starless night sky coiled in intricate braids. Her gown was a cascade of midnight velvet, and her eyes, a shade of pale, luminous violet, held a chilling calm.
It was Lady Seraphyne.
"Valestra," Seraphyne said, her voice a low, silky murmur that was somehow more terrifying than a shout. "What is the meaning of this… spectacle? Has my brother's hospitality made you forget his laws?"
"She… attacked me!" Valestra choked out, her crimson eyes bulging, her hands clawing uselessly at the unyielding grip on her throat. "This… filthy human… and her thieving sister… they stole my invitation! They insulted me!"
Seraphyne's violet eyes flickered with something cold and ancient. "An insult? From a merchant's daughter? And this is how you handle it? By terrorizing a family in their home, in broad daylight? I seem to recall Caelan's decree being quite specific. Disputes are to be handled by him. Not by brawling in the street like common thugs."
Her grip tightened, and a sickening crack echoed in the silent room. "Or have you forgotten the penalty for breaking the peace?"
A desperate, terrified whimper broke the tension. It was Bram. He had crawled out from behind his father and was staring at the scene, his small face a mess of tears and snot. "Please," he sobbed. "No more. Please, just… no more fighting."
Seraphyne's head turned. Her violet gaze fell upon the small, weeping boy. For the briefest of moments, the glacial calm in her eyes wavered. A flicker of something unreadable—pity? memory? annoyance?—crossed her features. The iron mask softened by a fraction.
With a sigh that sounded like the turning of a century-old page, she released her grip. Lady Valestra fell to the floor in a heap, gasping for air, a dark handprint already blooming on her pale throat.
"Consider this your only warning, Valestra," Seraphyne said, her voice returning to its silken chill. "Trouble my brother's precarious peace again, and I will not be so gentle. Now, leave."
Valestra scrambled to her feet, her beautiful face contorted with humiliation and rage. She shot a look of pure venom at Isadora. "This is not over, little thief," she hissed, before turning on her heel and sweeping out of the shop, her two silent guards and her weeping lady-in-waiting trailing in her wake like shadows.
The immediate danger was gone, but the air remained thick with a new, more complex dread.
Bram rushed to Isadora, wrapping his small arms around her waist and burying his face in her skirt. "They took Clara," he cried. "Please, my lady, don't let them take Izzy, too. Please don't take my sister."
Isadora's hands, still trembling, came up to stroke his hair. The iron shears fell from her numb fingers, clattering loudly on the floor.
Her father, looking a hundred years old, stumbled forward. "My lady," he said to Seraphyne, his voice hoarse. "Thank you. You saved us. We are in your debt."
Lady Seraphyne turned her cool, assessing gaze on him. "Your gratitude is misplaced, shopkeeper. I did not intervene for you. I was on my way to commission a new gown for the summer season. I am told your daughter has… remarkable hands. I grew impatient listening to the squabbling outside."
Her eyes slid to Isadora, a slow, deliberate appraisal that felt far more invasive than Valestra's open hatred. "I can see you are… indisposed today. I will return tomorrow to discuss my design. See that you are prepared."
She glided toward the door, a phantom of grace and power. As she passed Isadora, she leaned in close, her voice a whisper meant only for her ear, her breath as cold as the grave.
"My brother has not danced in a century," Seraphyne murmured, her lips almost brushing Isadora's skin. "You must be quite the little flame to have warmed his winter."
Isadora froze, the blood turning to ice in her veins. She knows.
Lady Seraphyne straightened up, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips, and then she was gone, disappearing into the twilight as swiftly as she had arrived.
Isadora was left in the wreckage of her life, caught between the rabid wolf and the cunning serpent. She didn't know which one she should fear more.
For a long moment, no one moved. There was only the sound of Bram's quiet sobs and the ghost of Clara's last words echoing in the ruined silence. Isadora's rage had burned out, leaving behind only the cold, heavy ash of guilt.
She gently pushed Bram toward the stairs. "Go on, Bram. It's over now."
Then, she turned to her father. The question was a fire in her throat. "Why?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Why did you let them take her? Why did you choose her?"
Elias Wren did not answer. He wouldn't even look at her. His face, once etched with fear and grief, was now a mask of cold, hard fury. He turned his back on her and began to walk stiffly toward the staircase that led to their small apartment above the shop.
"Father?" Isadora called after him, a new wave of panic rising in her. "Don't you walk away from me. Answer me!"
He kept walking, his hand gripping the banister.
The most horrible thought imaginable, born of grief and betrayal, clawed its way out of her. "You let them take her because she wasn't yours!" she screamed at his back. "It was easy for you! She wasn't your blood! She wasn't your real daughter!"
That stopped him. He froze on the third step, his back rigid. Slowly, he turned. The look on his face was one of such raw pain and incandescent rage that Isadora took an involuntary step back.
"Do not," he said, his voice dangerously low, trembling with a fury that dwarfed his earlier outburst. "Do not you dare stand there, in the middle of the ruin you have made, and accuse me of that."
He came back down the stairs, his eyes blazing. "You want to know why? You foolish, selfish girl! I chose her because you forced me to! You put me in a position where I had to condemn one of my children to save the rest! What would you have had me do? Point to you? And watch that monster tear you apart before my eyes, just as I stood by and did nothing while your mother walked to her death?"
Tears of rage streamed down his face. "I hate you for what you made me do tonight. I chose to save the daughter who still has a family to protect, a brother who needs her. I chose to save the daughter I thought might have a chance, no matter how small, because the Duke of Ravenshade himself has taken an interest in her!"
His voice broke on a sob of pure agony. "But you don't even see the choice I made, do you? You don't see the piece of my soul I had to kill to say her name. All you see is your own pride, your own righteous anger. You are not sorry for what you did, Isadora. You are only sorry you were caught."
He stared at her, his chest heaving, his face a canvas of heartbreak and disgust. "Your mother's mistake cost her her life. Your mistake… it has cost us Clara."
He said her name like a prayer, and then the light in his eyes died, leaving only a cold, empty darkness.
"Get out of my sight," he whispered.
He turned, ascended the stairs without looking back, and slammed the door to their home shut in her face. The final, echoing boom was the sound of her world ending.