Grim Lovelies (Grim Lovelies 1)

Had anyone ever struck the prince of the Haute? Probably not, if that person valued his life and had any sense. But it wasn’t clear that either case applied to Viggo.

Lord Metham swallowed a smear of orange powder and jabbed a spindly finger in Viggo’s direction, his stained lips already moving in a whisper that would no doubt cause blood to erupt from all of Viggo’s orifices. But just as fast, Hunter Black was on his feet.

To the Royals, Hunter Black was nothing but a lapdog in a black coat.

Their mistake, Anouk thought.

This was what Hunter Black had been waiting for, Anouk realized. A distraction. And Viggo, God love him, excelled at causing distractions. Hunter Black moved like a rolling clap of thunder. One second he was shoving Viggo to the floor, out of danger; the next he was stepping onto the sofa, one boot on the cushions, the other resting on the sofa back, then using its momentum as it toppled over to hurl himself at Lord Metham. He struck so quickly that the lord hadn’t even lowered his finger. Unfortunately for him. Hunter Black grabbed the man’s finger. A snap sounded as the bone broke, but it was lost amid Lord Metham’s howls.

Hunter Black whirled on Lady Metham next, who had more sense and speed than her husband and ducked behind a desk just as Hunter Black flung the teapot at her head. It smashed into the fireplace, sending sharp china pieces raining down.

“They can’t even cast spells, you idiots!” Countess Quine cried.

/> She aimed her hands in Hunter Black’s direction. The sharpened blades at her fingertips sparked with energy as her pink-stained lips moved in whispers. Bolts of white-hot light crackled out of her hands and struck Hunter Black on the shoulder. He grunted, barely acknowledging the pain, and ducked to evade the next strike, but Lady Metham was coming at him from the other side of the divan.

“Lancae, lancae, scintilla morta . . .” she whispered.

“Oh, shut up.” Cricket leaped onto the coffee table, darted out a nimble hand, and grabbed the long pearl necklace around Lady Metham’s neck. She jerked it backward, pulling it taut to choke the woman before she could finish the whisper.

Hunter Black snatched up the shards of broken teapot and hurled them at Countess Quine. Half of them caught her sparks, deflecting the magic away from him. One spiraled off and struck Lord Metham, who howled louder.

Hunter Black turned to Anouk. “Get Viggo. Run.”

“We’ll be right behind you,” Cricket added. “Find Beau and get to the elevator. Hold it open for us.”

With a cry, Countess Quine brandished her sharpened metal claws at Cricket. Cricket jerked back and drew her own blades but was a second too late. The countess’s claws slashed at Cricket’s side, but something caught them. They both frowned. The metallic claws had glanced off the gardening wire holding her dress together, and now both the countess’s metal claws and Cricket’s blades were tangled in the wire.

Without taking a breath, Cricket whispered, “Incisha coup . . .”

A red line of blood appeared on Countess Quine’s left cheek. Her eyes flared as she pressed a hand to it but her expression became confused when she saw her hand coming away with blood. Cricket whispered again and another cut sliced down the right side of the countess’s face.

Cricket cried out in triumph.

Anouk fell to her knees next to Viggo, touching his back. He’d hit his head when Hunter Black had pushed him down, and now he held his hand to a nasty cut on his forehead.

“My love . . . I have to . . . get you out of here,” he said.

“I think it’s the other way around, actually,” she said. “Can you stand?”

She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him up, but just as they turned toward the door, Rennar took a step and blocked their path.

He was touching his jaw. Part of him still seemed shocked that anyone had dared to strike him; the other part looked poised to turn Viggo to dust. He held the knife from the tea tray but didn’t come closer. His lips started moving. Anouk heard the start of a whisper she’d heard before.

“Versik, versik sang . . .” Bleed, bleed.

He jabbed the knife in the air in precise movements. And though half the room separated the two men, Viggo gasped and clutched at his face. A thin line of blood poured down his cheek. Rennar slashed the knife in the air again, and Viggo clutched at his stomach. The tang of blood filled the room. Rennar was going to drain Viggo of the only thing he’d ever been valued for—?his blood. And maybe Cricket was right, that Viggo had made his own bed. He wasn’t part of their pack. But maybe he is, she thought. Even now, he didn’t seem to fully process Rennar’s vicious whispers aimed at him. His eyes, glassy and lovesick, were on her. But it wasn’t real love. Only a trick she’d played on him.

“No,” she whispered.

Her whisper might not have been a spell, but it was powerful just the same. She did the only thing she could think of: she swiped a finger over the blood dripping from Viggo’s face and licked the blood off.

“Incend comme lapis.”

Her voice was as soft as moth wings, and yet all the Royals whipped their heads around as though she’d shouted. The knife in Rennar’s hand turned bright orange, the smell of flesh sizzled in the air, and he dropped it and clutched at the burn mark on his palm.

He seemed confused. He kicked at the knife as though unable to determine how it had burned him, but then he looked from Anouk to the knife and back.

Lord Metham took the opportunity to swallow a draft of powder and whispered with blue-stained lips, “Lancae, lancae—”