Sasha was old enough to be a mother twice, but she moved with the sturdiness of a soldier. Her silver hair was up, but so much had escaped its braided crown that it formed a storm cloud around her head, marked by tiny streaks of lightning.

  “There you are,” she said matter-of-factly. “The water’s getting cold.”

  Ren cast a forlorn look back at Alucard. “I wanted to take a bath with Father,” she said, shoulders slumping. “But he said he wanted to be alone.”

  Alucard knelt face-to-face with the young royal. He met Ren’s eyes, and wondered when the girl had grown so tall, when he’d stopped needing to look down.

  “You don’t want to share a bath with your father,” he said. “He takes up too much space, and hoards all the bubbles.”

  “But the bubbles are my favorite part!” said Ren, aghast.

  “I know!” said Alucard. “But when you take a bath with someone else, you have to share.”

  Ren looked to Sasha then, for confirmation. She nodded soberly. The princess chewed her lip, as if considering. And then she cleared his throat. “Tonight,” she said with all the diplomacy a four-year-old could muster, “I will take my bath alone.” She held out her hand, and Sasha took it.

  “Very well, mas vares,” she said, leading Ren away.

  Alucard watched them go, and then turned, and went to find Rhy, certain that he could convince the king to share his bubbles.

  IV

  Rhy sighed and sank deeper in the bath.

  He lay perfectly still, until his thoughts emptied, until the surface of the water turned to glass, until the only sounds were the quiet rush of his breath, the faint rustle of fabric.

  And the whisper of steel.

  The king’s eyes shot open as the blade came down.

  He twisted out of the way of the assassin’s thrust just in time, the sword grazing his cheek instead of burying itself in his throat. The metal rang against the tile as he surged around and under, grabbing the attacker’s arm and hauling him into the bath—where Rhy had hidden his knife beneath the tiled lip.

  His hand closed around the hilt, the metal hot against his palm as he turned to face his attacker. The other man was on his feet again, the water sloshing around his chest.

  He was young. Younger than Rhy. He didn’t look like a murderer, or a rebel, or a rogue. He looked like a member of the palace staff, which was exactly what he was. Rhy recognized him, behind the red that ran in ribbons down the young man’s face. At first glance it looked like blood, but Rhy knew it was paint, had glimpsed the handprint pressed against his brow and cheeks the instant before the man’s blade came singing down.

  Rhy touched his own face, and his fingers came away red. That was blood. He clicked his tongue.

  “It is a crime,” he said, “to wound a king.” Not that it would last. He could feel his skin already knitting. His body, held together by Kell’s magic.

  For so long it had haunted him, the way he healed, made him wonder if he was still a person, or just the illusion of one. But here and now, he was grateful.

  “The Hand gives and the Hand takes,” recited the man, stalking toward him through the water.

  “Oh, now you have a speech,” muttered Rhy.

  “The Hand builds and the Hand tears down.”

  He slashed out with his sword, and Rhy’s blade came up to block the blow.

  “I’ve always wondered…” mused the king. “Does that make you a finger? A knuckle? A hangnail?”

  “The Hand holds the blade,” growled the man, “that carves the path of change.”

  He surged forward as he said it. Rhy moved to block the blow, but this time something held his sword. He glanced down and saw the tip shivering where it was pinned on the water’s surface, stilled by the attacker’s magic.

  Fuck, thought Rhy, right before the force wrenched the weapon from his grip. It vanished, sucked down beneath the surface, and then the attacker was there, his blade driving straight through Rhy’s chest.

  He let out a ragged gasp as the sword scraped his ribs, drove up and through, the tip coming out between his shoulder and his spine.

  The pain was a rod of searing heat.

  All this time, and he still hadn’t gotten used to dying.

  It stole his breath as blood dripped into the water, blooming like roses around them. His body betrayed him, sagging into the attacker’s arms.

  “This is the end of the Maresh,” said the Hand.

  Rhy laughed, blood spilling through gritted teeth. “Haven’t you heard?” he said softly, dragging himself upright. “I’m the Unkillable King.”

  The other man’s eyes widened in shock, then horror, as Rhy took a step back, and then another, drawing his body off the blade. It hurt—saints, it hurt—but it wouldn’t be the end of him. Blood was pooling in one lung, but Rhy drew in a shaky breath, and then another, as the wound between his ribs begins to heal.

  The attacker scrambled backward, slashing blindly with his sword as he tried to reach the other side of the bath. Rhy waded toward him, the pain receding in his chest, dulling into something he could stand.

  The attacker dropped his sword, the blade disappearing into the bloody water as he raised his hands in surrender. Or at least, that’s what Rhy assumed he was doing. Until the man’s lips began to move.

  The sound that came out had the whisper of magic, and as he spoke, something wrapped around Rhy’s legs, and pulled, forcing him down, beneath the surface. He thrashed, but the reddened water twisted around him like rope, holding him against the bottom of the pool. Beyond the roiling surface, he could just make out the assassin, fingers splayed as he held the magic, and the magic held him, the way it had his sword.

  And Rhy realized, as his lungs burned and his vision blurred, that he was going to drown.

  * * *

  Kell was eating dinner when he began to die.

  Lila was leaning against the galley counter, peeling an apple, and he’d just taken a mouthful of Raya’s latest stew when the pain erupted in his chest. The spoon fell from his fingers and he bowed his head, clutching the table as a white-hot blade drove between his ribs.

  “Oh, come on,” said Lila, “I know it’s not her best, but—Kell?”

  He sucked in a breath, and tasted the ghost of blood. Lila jabbed the paring knife into the fruit and set it down, starting toward him. He felt the phantom scrape of the blade dragging free, clutched at his chest even though he knew the wound wasn’t there. Wasn’t his.

  Rhy.

  The pain began to ebb from a sharp and violent thing into a vicious ache, and Kell drew in a ragged breath, and straightened, thinking the worst of it was over. He pulled the red ring from his finger, was about to utter the spell that connected the band to his brother’s.

  But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

  He tried again, but his lungs tightened, unwilling to part with their air. He couldn’t breathe. A visceral panic seized him, coiled around his limbs. His head began to swim, and a terrible pressure formed in his chest as something changed, the terrible sensation that his lungs were filling up with water. He made it out of the galley and into the narrow hall before he swayed, and retched, half expecting the water to spill onto the wooden floor.

  Nothing came up, but his lungs vised again under the strain. He tried to stand, but his body buckled, his brother’s ring falling from his fingers. His vision blurred, and then he was on his back, and Lila was kneeling over him, her face dark with worry, her mouth moving, but her voice was drowned by the pounding in his ears.

  And the encroaching wall of black.

  * * *

  Rhy remembered wondering if they should ward the royal baths.

  But magic kept the water hot, and it seemed like such a nuisance, such a waste of time and energy, so he’d opted to leave the room unwarded, and now here he was, pinned to the bottom of the bath by someone else’s power.

  Something glinted on the floor nearby. The sword he’d lost. Rhy strained, trying to reach toward it, but the water only tightened, squeezing the last of the air from his chest.

  His lungs burned.

  His vision began to blur.

  Above, the surface of the water smoothed into a pane of tinted glass. Beyond it, the man’s face contorted into a feral grin.

  And then, suddenly, it changed. The amusement sloughed away, leaving only a slack horror. A few fresh drops of blood dripped and bloomed on the surface before Rhy’s failing sight, and then the man tipped forward, falling facedown into the bath. As he did, the hold on Rhy’s limbs disappeared, and he surged up out of the water, gasping for air.

  He looked down at the body now floating beside him, saw the knife buried in his back, and then looked up to find Alucard Emery, who stood at the edge of the bath, wearing nothing but an open robe.

  “What in the absolute fuck,” said the king’s shadow, the king’s heart, blazing with anger. Rhy only sighed, and waded to the edge of the bath, and climbed out.

  Alucard marched over to the pile of clothes and flung him his robe.

  “Where were your servants?” he snapped as Rhy pulled the fabric around his shoulders. Blood still wept from the wound in his chest, but it was already healing.

  “I wanted to be alone,” said Rhy, sinking onto a bench at the edge of the room.

  “And the guards?” demanded Alucard. “Why the saints would you banish them?”

  He said nothing, only met Alucard’s gaze. Alucard, the one person who never looked away just because he was king, who had always been able to read him like a book.

  “Dammit, Rhy—”

  “I didn’t want them to get hurt.”

  “That’s what they’re for!” roared Alucard.

  Rhy shot him a dark look, and gestured down at the weeping cut between his ribs, the one that would have killed any other man. “I will not have them die when I cannot.”

  Alucard let out an exhausted breath. It was an argument they’d had a dozen times over the last few years. He looked down at the body in the water, and frowned. “He looks familiar.”

  “He is. I hired him last week.”

  Alucard threw up his hands. “Of course you did. Never mind the protocols. You know, the ones put in place for the sole purpose of keeping this family safe.”

  As if that wasn’t exactly what Rhy was trying to do. He looked at the killer’s body and sighed. The whole idea had been to take the Hand alive, for questioning. He drew a deep breath, and winced. He spit a mouthful of blood onto the tile. He was beginning to think his night couldn’t get much worse. Then, one of the rings on his right hand began to glow. The red one. Of course.

  “Damn,” muttered Rhy.

  “Oh, you thought he wouldn’t notice?” chided Alucard.

  The king stared at the ring for a long moment, watching it grow brighter, until the light of the magic filled the room, casting the killer’s body and the bloody bath in grim relief.

  “Go on,” insisted Alucard with troubling glee. “I can’t wait to see Kell’s face.”

  Rhy didn’t need to see it. He could picture the expression well enough. He was still looking at the ring, wondering if he really had to answer, when Alucard walked up, snatched the red band off his finger, and stormed out into the hall.

  * * *

  One minute Kell had felt like he was drowning, and the next, the grip on his lungs was gone, the air flooding back into his chest. By the time he was on his feet, Lila was holding out the crimson ring. Kell grabbed it, and stormed past her.

  There was only one scrying table aboard the Barron, a polished black basin in the captain’s quarters.

  “As vera tan,” he said, activating the spell as he surged into Lila’s room.

  The scrying table sat in the corner. Lila had clearly been using it as a hamper, several articles of clothing piled on top. He swept them all away and pressed the ring to the black stone table, and waited. For several agonizing moments, no answer came. Kell saw only his own mottled reflection, face pale, eyes wide in pain and worry and anger, in the darkened surface. Then the black pane flickered and was replaced by a face Kell knew, and loathed.

  Alucard Emery stood in the palace war room, wearing nothing but an open velvet robe, and Kell was very glad the image ended at the table.

  “Where is he?” he demanded, and for once, the royal consort wasn’t oozing his usual self-pleasure. He looked exasperated. Annoyed.

  “Oh, your brother? I left him with the body of the assassin he invited into the bath.”

  Kell stared at Alucard in horror. “What do you mean, invited?”

  “Apparently, His Royal Highness was eager to catch a Hand, and decided to use himself as bait.” His blue eyes flicked past Kell. “Hello, Bard. How’s my ship?”

  Lila had appeared just behind him. “Still in one piece. And the crew wants you to know they like me better.”

  Alucard’s mouth twitched in a smile, but Kell’s ears were still ringing. He dug his fingers into the edge of the table. “How could you let this happen?”

  The amusement flickered and died on the consort’s face. “Me?”

  “You have one job.”

  Alucard leaned forward. “Believe it or not, I have many. We can’t all be off playing pirate. Tell me, do you still dress up? I heard you even have a fancy name.”

  “Oh, stop flirting,” said Rhy, drifting into the frame. His robe was drawn tight, hiding the damage, but red water dripped from his black hair, staining the collar.

  And Kell wanted to throttle his brother for being reckless, wanted to point out that while Rhy would not die as long as he lived, Kell did indeed require air to do that, and if he’d drowned for long enough, who knew what might happen to the spell that held them both together. But the apology was already written all over Rhy’s face, so Kell resisted the urge to shout and asked only, “Are you all right?”

  Rhy managed a smile, but it was thin. “Thanks to you, I think I’ll live.” He noticed Lila and rallied. “Ah, how’s my favorite captain?”

  Alucard shot Rhy an insulted look, then turned his ire back on Kell. “As you can see, your brother is in one piece, but I’ve got quite a mess to clean up here, so if you’ll excuse us—”

  Kell closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “We’re on our way.”

  “Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” said the consort, and before he could explain that it had nothing to do with the latest attempt on Rhy’s life, Alucard Emery lifted the ring from the scrying board, and the image went dark.

  “Bastard,” muttered Kell, taking back his own ring. He pushed off the table and made his way back into the galley, sinking onto the bench even though his appetite was thoroughly ruined. Lila took up her apple, and returned to peeling it.

  “You know,” she said, “it’s not a terrible idea.” Kell dragged his head up. “I mean,” she went on, carving a piece of apple from the core, “he does make good bait.”

  “He’s the king,” said Kell.

  “He can’t die,” she shot back, jabbing the air with her knife.

  “I’d rather not test the limits of that theory,” he said, remembering the water in his lungs, the pressing dark. “Just because he’s prone to self-destruction—”

  Lila snorted. “Have you ever heard the saying about the kettle and the pot?”

  Kell scowled, but she just shrugged and popped the slice of apple in her mouth.

  V

  Alucard drew the dropper from the vial, and watched three dark beads fall and bloom in the glass of pale wine. Behind him, Rhy sat on the edge of their bed, reading the day’s reports as if he hadn’t been stabbed an hour before. He wore only a pair of silk trousers, and his chest was smooth and dark, the signs of his encounter with the Hand already smoothed away like dust instead of mortal wounds.

  Alucard turned from the cart, and crossed to the bed, holding out the glass.

  “Drink,” he said, less an offer than an order. He was still mad—mad that Rhy had not confided in him. Mad that after all this time, there were moments he could not read the king’s face, did not know the workings of his mind.

  Rhy set his work down and took the glass, staring down into the contents. A tonic, meant to ease the body and quiet the mind.

  “My nightly poisoner,” he mused, setting the laced wine on the table by the bed. Alucard started to turn away, but Rhy caught his sleeve.

  “Alucard.” Just that name, on those lips. It had always been enough to undo him. Or at least to loosen his anger. Rhy saw it, and smiled, pulled him close, ringed fingers tangling in the sides of his robe as he dragged Alucard down into bed. He caught himself, hands sinking into the lush fabric on either side of Rhy’s head.

  Rhy reached up, tracing the line of his jaw.

  “My heart,” he said softly, gold eyes bright, and Alucard bent to kiss his king, but Rhy’s nose crinkled in distaste. “You smell like the training ground.”

  “I planned to wash,” he said, “but a king was busy drowning in the bath.”

  “How rude of him,” teased Rhy, fingers splaying across his chest.

  “Very rude,” growled Alucard. “He tries my patience every day, the king.”

  “He sounds maddening.” Rhy’s hand drifted lower, tracing the muscles of Alucard’s stomach. “And yet you stay. You must love him very much.”

  Alucard met the king’s gaze. “I do.” He let his weight sink onto Rhy, brought his mouth to his ear. “And he’s very good in bed.”

  Rhy chuckled beneath him. “Is that so?” His teeth grazed Alucard’s shoulder as his hand found the front of his trousers. Alucard’s breath caught. He bowed his head as Rhy’s hand slipped beneath the fabric.

  Just then, the door burst open.

  Alucard didn’t stop, didn’t think. By the time the light from the hall spilled in, he was on his feet, one hand flung out toward the drugged wine on the table, the contents rushing up out of the glass and hardening into an icy blade against his palm. Where were the guards? Why had there been no warning? No ringing steel? His thoughts rushed ahead. Someone had killed the palace guards. They had made it to the king’s chamber.