Catra took a deep breath.

In the silence that followed, she knew that what she said next was going to change everything. Violently.

She swung her eyes back to s’Ex’s. The executioner was preternaturally still, his huge body exuding a calm that she had a feeling was like that before a storm.

In an utterly level voice, he said, “Tell me.”

As if he might already know.

She turned back to the chart, rolled it up, and placed it in the heavy gold box with the others. Then she got to her feet and approached the executioner and the male.

“Give me the knife,” she said again to s’Ex. For a different reason this time.

“Why.”

“Because we need him alive.”

She expected him to argue, and was shocked when s’Ex flipped the weapon around and handed it to her hilt-first without comment.

It weighed almost as much as the box.

“Now let him go. You have to let him go,” she said. “He’s not going to run off, because I am the only one who can save his life. Release him, s’Ex. I am commanding you to do so.”

When the executioner complied with the order, the Chief Astrologer dropped to the ground as if he were no more than a bolt of cloth. And he was smart. He dragged himself a number of feet away.

Locking eyes with s’Ex, she said loudly and clearly, “Now, Astrologer, tell him why his daughter’s chart was changed.”

EIGHTY

The phone was ringing.

As Paradise sat up against the giant bed’s headboard, she shifted her eyes over to the subtle chiming sound across the way on the desk.

At least answering it would give her something to do, other than sit here in this subterranean suite and stew over what might be happening at nightfall.

Her father had been absolutely livid that she had still refused to go home with him, even in light of the threat against all vampires by the s’Hisbe. But she’d felt like she had to stand up for herself, in spite of the change of circumstance. If she caved? It was like running the clock of her life backward.

And she’d stuck to her guns even when he had reminded her, not that it was necessary, that he’d already lost her mahmen and did not want to have her go over unto death’s cold embrace, too.

As she had uttered her last and final “Not going,” he had stared at her as if she were a stranger.

And perhaps she was.

Riiiiiiiing.

Maybe it was her father. She couldn’t imagine he had found any rest, either. Although he would probably have tried to text or call her cell.

Shifting her legs off the edge of the mattress, she jumped down and jogged to the phone.

Picking up the receiver, she said, “Good morning, how may I help you?”

It was a male voice, but not that of her blooded sire. It was the one who had called before from the s’Hisbe, the one who had issued the decree of war in that strangely accented tone: “I have a message for your King, Wrath, son of Wrath. The Queen wishes to thank him for the swift return of the Anointed One. Wrath’s compliance is that of a wise leader and statesmale, and it is my pleasure to reassure him that no military action shall be taken by us and that there is accord, once more, between our peoples.”

Click.

Paradise looked at the phone.

Had she gotten that right?

Punching her finger into the two buttons on the cradle, she cleared the line, and when the dial tone came back on, she tapped out her father’s number on the buttons. Or tried to. She was shaking so badly, she couldn’t get the sequence of digits right.

When things finally rang through, she found herself breathing hard.

“Hello—”

“Father!” she cut in. “Father, they called again—”

“Paradise! Are you safe—”

“Yes, yes, you have to listen to me! They called again, the s’Hisbe—they said Wrath returned the . . .” What was it? “. . . the Anointed One? They said everything was okay—I mean, they called off the war!”

Stupid way of putting it, she thought in the back of her head. Like the thing had been a birthday party canceled because of bad weather?

“Whate’er speak you of?” her father said slowly. “Wrath was not going to give Trez up.”

“He must have changed his mind?”

“I spoke with him at dawn. The Brotherhood had sent out a day-faring emissary to gather intelligence on the Territory. Whate’er has . . . I shall have to call him at once.”

“Will you try to let me know what happens?”

“I shall.”

“I love you,” she blurted.

“Oh, Paradise, I love you, too. Stay underground.”

“I promise.”

As she hung up the phone, she found herself praying she got the chance to apologize in person to him. Although she supposed that impulse was just her inner four-year-old wanting to be a good girl.

No matter the outcome of the conflict with the Shadows, she had to stand firm.

The threat of war was a good reminder that you only had one life to live.

So you’d better make it count.

As s’Ex met the unwavering stare of the Princess, he decided she was very smart to disarm him and get the Chief Astrologer away from his reach before he got the answer she had prompted from the male.

But the explanation was unnecessary; he knew the “why” of the chart’s alteration.

The Astrologer stumbled through his words. “The infant was the rightful heir, supplanting you, Princess. But the Queen did not want a commoner’s bloodline on the throne. She knew that her executioner was the sire. She forced me to change the time of birth by four minutes, thirty-two seconds—which would place the young under a disadvantageous positioning of the sixth planet from the sun.”

At once, the sound of his daughter’s plaintive cry ran through s’Ex’s mind . . . and then entered his bloodstream.

His chest began to pump with hard breath.

His fists curled up.

His heart skipped a beat . . . and then settled into the slow, steady beat of a killer.

The Princess held out his blade to him. Her eyes were full of sorrow, but they were also very, very clear. In a voice that shook, but had strength in it, she spoke four words.

“Do what you must.”

She knew she had just sentenced her mother to death. By this truth coming to light, he would not hesitate to avenge the murder of his blood.

With his war hand, he accepted the serrated blade—and tilted the tip toward his face. With two quick streaks down the hollows of his cheeks, he marked himself.

Once for his daughter whom he would never know.

Once for the wrong he was going to rectify.

As he turned for the break in the tiled partition, he was single-minded—and yet he stopped.

Cranking his head over his shoulder, he pegged the Chief Astrologer with his stare. As the male shrank back in mortal terror, s’Ex said, “If my daughter was to be the heir, who succeeds the Queen now?”

“S-s-s-she d-d-d-does.” The male pointed to the Princess. “She has rightful claim to the throne. Her records have not been altered. She would have been second in line after your daughter, and with the death, she is the legitimate heir—”

“The murder,” he cut in, “of my daughter, you mean.”

He glanced at the Princess.

She didn’t seem to care about the repercussions of what had just been said. She didn’t even appear to have heard the words that she was about to become Queen. Instead, she was cradling that long, thin gold box to the chest of her maid’s disguise, her head bowed.

Tears hit the brilliant yellow metal, falling from her eyes.

“You must rule,” s’Ex announced. “You must take the reins of this community and rule it properly. Do you hear me? Snap out of this emotion, and get ready for what is about to happen.”

Her stare shifted up to his. “She was my sister. They killed . . . my sister.”

For a moment, s’Ex recoiled. It was the last thing in the world he expected her to say.