“Aye. While we stayed at the inn, I spoke with Lachlain to learn more about the Enemy of Old and the Dacians. They’re supposed to be a world away from the Horde—more like the Forbearers when it comes to blood.”
“The Forbearers were in the Book of Lore. They’re an army of turned humans, no?”
“Just so. Kristoff, their king, has forbidden his men to prey on mortals. Their eyes are clear, like the Dacians’.”
“So Dacians don’t steal blood from humans either?”
Munro shook his head. “When a vampire drinks someone to death, he or she harvests a victim’s memories. But the vampire’s eyes begin to turn red, and eventually the leech will go mad. The Dacians consider such a loss of control taboo.” He pointed out a great crimson fountain in the city’s center. “I think they get their blood from there.”
“Yes, but where does that blood come from?”
“Lykae ambassadors?”
She laughed, and he chuckled, any lingering friction melting away. Yet then Ren grew serious once more. “You’ve asked about my parents. I haven’t told you because it’s still painful.”
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
“I am now. Munro, I do want you to know me.”
He turned to her, taking her hand.
“The day they went missing, they weren’t even hunting. They’d gone on a picnic to celebrate their anniversary but never returned. I was out in one of the search parties when I picked up a trail of . . . ghoul tracks.”
Munro gently squeezed her hand, no doubt figuring her parents had been turned.
But the reality was somehow both better—and worse. “From the scene we found, it became clear that a large number had surrounded them. The two took out a score of ghouls, but there were too many. My father . . . killed my mother, then himself.”
Munro muttered something in Gaelic that sounded like a curse.
“We found them holding hands, adoring each other all the way to the end. I can’t imagine how harrowing that must have been for them.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen,” she said. “They had always tried to get me to practice throwing the blade and to train, but I was only interested in working with the horses. Yet after their deaths, I swore that I would pick up the mantle and join the Night War. It got me through my grief.”
Now that her view of immortals had changed, so too had her view of the Night War. It was a fight against evil to benefit both humans and good Loreans alike.
He drew her closer. “I wish I could have helped you. And them.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Thank you for telling me.”
She leaned into him. “I miss them. Though I grew up with danger all around, they always made me feel safe. I remember being tucked in my trundle bed in our snug wagon. Each night, I would drift off to the sounds of my parents working outside, my father’s soft crooning to the horses and my mother’s blades hitting the target again and again.”
“They sound wonderful.”
“They were.” Telling Munro about them did make her feel closer to him. Except . . . “My parents did whatever it took to avoid losing their humanity. Can you understand why I don’t want the choice to be taken from me?”
His brows drew together over his solemn gaze. “Lass . . .”
A knock on the door saved him from answering.
She sighed and pulled back from him. “Our meal must be here.”
“We’ll speak more of this after we get through our meeting.” He smiled down at her. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ve been quiet,” Munro said as he and Ren readied to leave the villa. “Are you nervous?”
“Maybe.” Only half the truth. Words had failed her when she’d first seen him clean shaven and dressed in formal attire. A superbly cut black jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and tall stature, while tailored trousers drew the eye to his lean hips.
Devastating male.
His gaze was warm with approval over her own appearance. “Look at you. You’ll outshine them all.”
After they’d enjoyed a surprisingly delicious meal, she’d explored more of the villa. The sleeping chamber had a huge bed piled with silks. The adjoining bathroom appeared more modern than the inn’s. Inside a spacious closet, garments fit for royalty clad various dress models.
Despite the dazzling choices, she’d decided to conjure her own clothing: an ankle-length gown of cobalt silk with black slippers. Rounding out the ensemble were diamond stud earrings and a knife holster around her arm. She gestured to it and asked, “Do you think they’ll take this as a sign of hostility?”
“Does no’ matter. I want your blade within easy reach.”
“Are you anticipating trouble?”
“No’ in particular. Apparently Lothaire is a stickler for protocols, and he’s officially extended his protection to us while we’re here. But I will take no chances.”