Page 52 of Crown of Death
“Logan, I’d like to introduce you to Hector Valdez, the leader of the House of Valdez,” Cyrus presents the man, who extends a hand. I take it, shaking his firmgrasp.
“It is a surprise to meet you,” he admits honestly. “And the rumors are true. You look just like your mother. She was here at my House just a few yearsago.”
This. This is the part that I am not preparedfor.
That there is all this history. All these people connected to a mother who I know nothingabout.
“As I have heard,” I say, because it’s the only thing that comes tomind.
“As our newest Royal, I hope you have a pleasant visit to the House of Valdez.” He smiles, though it’s tight. And I see it, same as on Edmond last night: he’snervous.
“You have met my youngest son,” Hector says, turning slightly, extending a hand toward Edmond. “My middle son, Horatio, has lived at Court for some years now. And this is my eldest son, Rafael.” He holds his hand out, in the otherdirection.
A beautiful man, who looks very similar to his younger brother, steps forward. He takes my hand, cupping it with the other. He presses a kiss to my knuckles. “It is a pleasure to make youracquaintance.”
He looks up at me through thick eyelashes. And something tingles in my lowerbelly.
A low rumble resonates from Cyrus, and I look over at him to see red embers ignited in hiseyes.
Rafael immediately drops my hand, and steps back intoline.
Cyrus is certainly intimidating and scary. But I’m getting the feeling I don’t know a hundredth ofit.
“And this is the rest of my House,” Hector says, turning and waving a hand to the—I quickly count—twenty-four other people standing on this side of the hall. “There are others, but they are out doing theirduties.”
Jobs. Duties. It’s hard to grasp when I know every one of them is a blood-suckingvampire.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” I say, though my voice is not as loud as I would have likedit.
Hector nods his head slightly. “Your highness, for your entertainment, I present our upcoming show, Sands ofSet.”
A door opens to the right of the hall, and eerie and foreign music flutters through the huge space. Pulsing.Powerful.
Through it, walk a dozen women. They wear harem pants with intricate designs, scanty tops, scarves wrapped around their faces. Glittering jewels hang from theircostumes.
They move and dance as they proceed into thehall.
I look to see Cyrus’ reaction to the sultryprocession.
His face isblank.
He reaches for my hand and he guides us back to his throne. He indicates the seat beside his, nearly as ornate as his own, andsits.
He leans back in his seat, one ankle crossed over a knee. He laces his fingers together across hischest.
And from under that crown, upon his throne, the King watches theshow.
The women are talented. There is no doubt about that. They roll and writhe, twisting their hips in incredible movements. Their hands dance, fluttering about like they’re riding awind.
It’s memorizing. There’s something ancient and primal about their movements, and as I watch, I realize they’re actually telling a story. A story about a queen, revered and loved. A woman with power, but a woman who was kind andgreat.
And thenlost.
A single dancer flutters around the room, the others sliding into shadow. She willows in and out of the dark. And with a dramatic, sharp movement, she suddenly drops to the ground, as ifdead.
The music stills, becomes a thrummingpulse.
Long, heavy, dramatic moments pass, and she does notmove.