I'd never really considered the world of servants, those who served us, and what their lives were like. "Wouldn't that raise suspicion, servants mysteriously disappearing?"

"I'm sure it's easily done—a trade between Houses, an accusation that they'd run and been caught and paid the ultimate price," Sirro replied. I caught the tension entering his free hand hanging by his side—how it fisted, and how he ran his thumb back and forth over the curved knuckles. "Some in desperation come out here to find one of Jurgana's sisters—Sigrune—to raise the dead. Some even come in here to try and find creatures that will bargain with them."

"For what?"

"Spells. Or curses."

Lower House Simonis dealt in dark spells and curses to enhance our weapons, as well as lacing the products we sold to the mortals to addict them for further gain. But what did one seek from a lesser creature or even a Horned God?

"It's rather rare to find a Horned God who will trade with anyone," Sirro said, adjusting his posture to cross one arm over his chest, using it to prop the other arm's elbow so he could drum his fingers across his mouth. "But there are lesser creatures that will barter on one's behalf...that is if they don't eat you first."

"Can she?" I asked, curious about Sigrune.

He raised his eyebrows in question, not understanding.

"Sigrune. Can she raise the dead?" I elaborated.

"I don't know," he said, dropping his arms. "There hasn't been anyone I ever wanted returned from death." His golden eyes slid away, and there was a moment where a strange expression crossed his features—dark and regretful. Perhaps what he'd just shared wasn't completely true. Maybe there had been someone he had lost...someone he wished he could have saved. "Perhaps she can," he continued, this time his voice pitched lighter. "A few dabble with necromancy, but those they bring back from Hazus never return right."

Sirro glanced over his shoulder, toward the festival. A melancholy song played by the servants' band rolled across the lawns. His Familiar stood behind him, a mindless smile on her full red lips as the thin, threadlike strands connecting them leeched her lifeforce into the Horned God.

Sirro pivoted in a smooth move to face me fully. His tone was all business. "I am working with the Wychthorns at expanding the Houses. Creating new hunting houses, but I'm sure your father would already know that."

"Nothing gets past Jeroen," I replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone. I brushed my messy hair from my face with the back of an arm, wondering where the Horned God was going with this new stream of conversation.

"New Heads will be needed. You're heir to Lower House Crowther. An enforcer, death-dealer, soul stealer, but most importantly a hunter of great skill."

That was a guilt-tipped lance sliding through my heart.

All the air in my lungs tightened. I cleared my throat, glancing away. "I wouldn't say that," I said, my voice hoarse. Gratian's face, blotchy red with exertion, speared through my mind. How the fury slipped from his face, his features slackening and his mouth gaping, as he finally sensed that thing above him.

I pushed the memory aside, shoving it down deep, and bent down to retrieve the other dagger from the ground, just to do something with my hands, and to hide the slight tremble in my fingers.

Sirro made a small noise in the back of his throat as if he knew of what I spoke of, but didn't quite agree with my assessment. "We need as many others as possible."

"Why?" To question a Horned God wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, but so far Sirro didn't seem to mind.

"Now that is the question," he said enigmatically. He stared ahead at the moonlight playing upon the canopy of trees, scattering light below like dewdrops. "Aldert is a pompous little man, but his mind...well, he's got quite both the imagination and the ambition." He glanced my way and I met a gaze that was more iron than gold. "This isn't just about what he thinks he can do, this is about aiming for Great House."

There'd been deceit between Houses before and would always be. Families were always looking to usurp one another to climb from lower to upper ranks, exactly as my father was doing now. But if the Pelans took and held Great House...

A cold feeling settled at the bottom of my gut like a mouthful of swallowed snow. Aldert was a creepy motherfucker, and I didn't like the thought of his family usurping the Wychthorns, and him becoming Head over all of us.

My father had always been invested in advancing our House, just as our ancestors had before him. It was a long-held desire to drag ourselves out of the nobody ranks we'd fallen to when our House had been almost annihilated but for one boy. One single Crowther stood in the mud, a blade in either hand. And he'd singularly driven us back from the brink of extinction and set our path—centuries upon centuries of ancestors with one goal only—to take back what was once ours.

"The Wychthorns have held the seat for four hundred years. A mere blink compared to another House who held Great House," Sirro said, leaning his upper body forward, a gleam of challenge in his golden gaze.

I nodded in agreement. And yet here I stood, heir to a Lower House. We'd fallen a long way, a long time ago. And my father failed to remember the reason why.

"An alliance with Lower House Szarvas would be beneficial," Sirro pushed.

Anger wound itself around my chest and squeezed like a python.

Maybe Sirro sensed my unease and distaste for selling myself to gain a footing for my family. He gave me a knowing smile. "And here I thought you and Miss Szarvas would be pleased."

"Things have changed."

"And yet, nothing changes in the world of Houses."

He was fucking right about that.

Sirro tilted his head toward the festivities, indicating we were to return and I was to accompany him. As we strode away from the forest, I moved the daggers to one hand while using the palm of the other to smooth my shirt down and tuck the hem back into my pants.

"Jurana's never slept this long before," Sirro murmured, casting a swift glance behind, past his Familiar who shadowed his movements, to the Hemmlok Forest. "She'll head straight here. She won't be mindful that they're Children of the Houses. In her drowsy state, they're simply the nearest food source."

Hellsgate. The Servants' Dance was always held twice a year, in spring and autumn. As I rifled through my memories, I realized it had rarely fallen on a year of a Witches Ball, here on one of the estates that shared the Hemmlok Forest between them. I shot Sirro a concerned look. "Is that why you came tonight?"

He met my gaze. Amber eyes hardened. "I always try to make it to the Servants' Dance. They serve your needs, but they are part of our world, and frankly, you privileged sons and daughters of upper ranks need to remember that and respect it."

I blinked, a little shocked that he just fucking schooled me.

"Besides," he purred, with a wicked smile and a wink, "there's always a pretty one I like to invite into my harem."

We came to the thinner band of revelers outside the dance and drifted to a halt. As I tucked the wyrmblades beneath my belt, Sirro eyed them. "Keep your blades on you tonight. Just in case."

"Jurgana—" I began, wondering if the dance should be called off.

"No, not to do with Jurgana." Sirro interrupted me, waving a hand dismissively. "I haven't felt her stirring yet, and more than likely she won't arise." His golden eyes darkened and became introspective as he brushed curled fingers back and forth over his chin and his short, neat beard. "I'm not sure..." He turned his gaze toward the servants and the frivolity. "I thought I sensed something when I arrived. Perhaps it is nothing...perhaps it is something."

"An other?" I inquired, raking my gaze over the thick crowd, their silhouettes outlined by darkness and fire.

He clicked his tongue. "More than likely."

"One of us?"

He returned his gaze, sharp and bright. "You know there is always someone trying to hide what they are." And with that, he inclined his head to me and strode away. Servants drew back and created a path for him as he walked into the masses, his Familiar right behind him, the coils of silvery, otherworldly threads roiling behind like he was at the head of a tumultuous thunderstorm.

Uneasy, and wondering what Sirro had sensed, who it could be, and just what kind of other, I spun around to skirt the festivities when a boy, maybe three or four years old, darted right in front of me and slammed into my legs. "Holy shit!" I barked, taken by surprise.

The boy staggered back, wobbling, his hair streaked with locks of pale blond, ruffling with the abrupt jolt. I lurched forward and grabbed hold of his shoulder to steady him.

His eyes grew round, his mouth falling open as his gaze crawled up my tall figure when I let him go and straightened to my full height. I glared down at him, then remembered the kid was only three or four, and softened my gaze.

A woman, harassed and red-cheeked from chasing him down, no doubt his mother, ran toward him, one hand holding up her skirt as she called out, "Freddie! Freddie!"

Enticed by the singing and dancing, a lure on which he didn't want to miss out, Freddie glanced away from me, ignored his mother, and took in the scene he'd obviously been running toward until I'd walked across his path. His gray eyes were feverish with excitement, the flecks of silver surrounding his pupils fizzing like a lightning storm.

And he bolted.

His mother took off after him. "Freddie!" she cried again.

He laughed as he evaded his mother's grabbing hands and disappeared into the melee of servants encircling the dancers.

I blew out a breath. I needed a fucking drink. Now.

And that's when I sensed someone hunting me.

Frowning, I glanced furtively over my shoulder and my entire body clenched tight as a simmering rage began to boil my blood.

Irma Szarvas.

She was closing in, her hazel eyes bright and set right on me, swinging those hips like she fucking owned me.

But fucked if I was going to spend any time in her company unless it was absolutely necessary. My mind had already speared to someone else that could distract me for whatever time I had left of my own freedom. Someone with a perky blond ponytail I wouldn't mind winding around my hand and fisting tight, and even perkier tits hidden beneath a dour servant's uniform.

Like Freddie—I bolted.

And like Freddie's mother, I had my own ball and chains crying out for me. "Varen! Varen!"

Shoving my way through the thick crowd, I found myself at the edge of the dance in the company of Rosa and the Lyon brothers. The band was right behind us, stamping along with the jovial music, the loud crashing chorus sung at a deafening decibel by dancers and those watching them, gathered tightly around the dancefloor.

I checked my wristwatch and determined there was still a bit of time left before I had to head away and pull off the heist of the night—steal the moonlit ring from the Wychthorn Princess.

Enough time to charm Miss Uptight.

I swung my gaze wide, eyes sharply honed, skimming the crowd and the dancers, trying to find Miss Uptight.

And there she was.

Almost directly across from me on the other side of the dance floor, she was animatedly saying something to some fucking tool with puffy lips and stupid-ass hair he'd bleached the ends of. He was leaning forward, trying to make out what she was saying—exactly what I was trying to do too. And Miss Uptight was shout-talking and doing something weird with one of her hands. She drew her flattened palm to her mouth and then slid it sideways and away.

I couldn't fucking hear; not even my keen senses could untangle all the noises around me and single her out.

Miss Uptight kept repeating the same gesture, trying to say something above the noise. And Mr. Tool-face was squinting and shaking his head because he couldn't hear her either.

What the fuck is she saying to him?

It was so fucking loud. Everything was loud and chaotic. The music. The dancers. The singing. The messy surrounding conversations. Rosa, standing beside me, was shouting to compete with the music and singing, and all I could hear was her excitedly telling the Lyon brothers about her cute fucking puppy again. That's all I could hear. The fucking puppy jumping up on its hind legs, or shaking hands with her, or rolling over when she commanded it to.

I just lost it

I was just swinging around to bellow—Shut the fuck up!—when Rosa's face lit up with exhilaration, her cheeks rosy at being the center of attention, stayed my traitorous mouth. I just couldn't do that to her.

Rosa's brown eyes, sparkling with life, shot to mine. "Do you want to know what else Fluffy can do, Varen?!" she shouted, bouncing up and down on her heels, her tight curly hair bouncing too.

"Yeah," I said, nodding like a fucking fool. Of course, the fucking puppy was called Fluffy. "Love to."

And so she told me.

And I listened.

When she was done, I glanced Miss Uptight's way and discovered...she was gone.

And so too was Mr. Tool-face.

Fucking hells, no!