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Edwin was staring at me like I'd just crawled out of a grave.
The shattered bloodstone lay between us on the exam table, gold dust still glittering under the cold light. My hand was bleeding where he'd pricked it. I watched the blood bead up, bright red, ordinary. Human.
Except it wasn't.
"Say that again," I said. My voice came out flat. "The name."
Edwin didn't move. He was pale, and that was saying something for a vampire who spent his nights elbow-deep in other people's blood. His fingers were still hovering over the broken stone like he wanted to put it back together.
"Wren," he said quietly. "Your bloodline is Wren."
I waited for that to mean something. It didn't. Just a word. Just a name I'd carried my whole life without thinking about it. My parents died when I was six. Car accident, they told me. I grew up in foster care in Vermont, bouncing between families who didn't care and couldn't keep me. I restored art for a living. I liked coffee too sweet and museum catalogs and silence.
I wasn't anything.
"Okay," I said. "So?"
Edwin's jaw tightened. He reached for a cloth and pressed it against my hand, wrapping my fingers in white linen. His hands were steady, but I could feel the tension in them. Like he was holding something back.
"So," he said slowly, "that name should be dead."
I pulled my hand back. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He exhaled through his nose and turned away, moving toward the cabinets that lined the far wall. Glass vials gleamed in rows, labeled in a language I didn't recognize. He pulled one down, then put it back. Pulled down another. Put it back.
Stalling.
"Edwin."
He stopped. His back was still to me.
"Three hundred years ago," he said, "there was a war. Not the kind humans write about in their history books. A blood war. The Night Court versus the hunter clans."
I felt cold. The kind of cold that starts in your chest and spreads.
"The Wrens were the oldest clan," Edwin continued. "The strongest. They had a gift—they could sense vampire blood from miles away. Track it. Cut it off at the source. They nearly wiped us out."
He turned around. His face was carefully blank.
"So Dorian's great-grandfather made a choice. He gathered the royal guard, every soldier loyal to the crown, and he burned the Wren stronghold to the ground. Killed every last one. Men, women, children. He didn't leave witnesses."
I couldn't breathe.
"That's not possible," I said. "I'm here. I'm—"
"I know." Edwin's voice was soft. Too soft. "Which means someone survived. Someone hid. And now you're here, carrying the crown prince's child."
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the exam table, my knuckles going white.
"You're saying I'm—"
"The last living Wren heir," Edwin finished. "Yes."
I laughed. It came out sharp and bitter. "That's insane. I don't even know what a blood hunter is. I've never hurt anyone. I restore paintings."
"Your bloodline doesn't care what you know," Edwin said. "It cares what you are."
He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist, turning my hand over. The cut had already stopped bleeding, sealed shut by the linen. He peeled the cloth back.
The skin underneath was smooth. Unbroken.
"That's not normal," he said. "Even for a human pregnant with vampire progeny. You're healing faster than you should."
I yanked my hand back. "So what, I'm suddenly dangerous? I'm a threat?"
"To Dorian's court? Yes." Edwin's gray eyes were steady. "To Seraphine? Absolutely. If she finds out what you are, she'll have you killed before sunrise."
My stomach twisted. I thought of her last night, the way she'd looked at me like I was dirt on her shoe. The way she'd smiled when she said I'd be useless once the baby was born.
She didn't even know. And she already wanted me gone.
"What about Dorian?" I asked. My voice cracked. "Does he know?"
Edwin hesitated. That was answer enough.
"No," he said finally. "The bloodstone test is private. I report the results to him directly. I haven't yet."
"Are you going to?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I don't know," Edwin admitted. He looked older suddenly, the lines around his mouth deeper. "If I tell him, he'll have to act. Royal law is clear. Any threat to the crown must be neutralized. It doesn't matter that you didn't know. It doesn't matter that you're carrying his child."
"He'd kill me," I said.
Edwin didn't answer.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, too fast, too loud.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "Why not just—"
"Because I was there," Edwin said quietly.
I went still.
"I was there the night they burned the Wren stronghold," he continued. His voice was flat now, drained of emotion. "I was young. Newly turned. Dorian's great-grandfather conscripted every able-bodied vampire in the court. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to fight. But I went."
He looked down at his hands.
"I heard the children screaming," he said. "I smelled the smoke. I watched them drag families out into the courtyard and cut them down. I didn't stop it. I just stood there."
My throat was tight.
"So no," Edwin said, meeting my eyes. "I'm not going to let it happen again. Not to you. Not to that child."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe someone in this nightmare of a court actually gave a damn whether I lived or died.
But I'd learned a long time ago that wanting something didn't make it true.
"Then what do I do?" I asked.
Edwin opened his mouth to answer.
And the door opened.
I froze.
Seraphine stepped inside, her black gown sweeping the floor like spilled ink. Her pale hair was pinned up tonight, elegant and severe, and her red lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Iris," she said pleasantly. "Still here. How tiresome."
Behind her, a man in gray robes entered. He was older, his face lined and sharp, and he carried a leather case under one arm. He didn't look at me. He looked through me.
"Lady Seraphine," Edwin said carefully. "This is a private examination."
"Not anymore." Seraphine's smile widened. "I've brought the royal blood examiner. His Highness requested a second opinion."
My heart stopped.
Edwin's face went blank. "That's not necessary. I've already completed the—"
"Oh, I'm sure you have." Seraphine tilted her head, her gaze sliding to the shattered bloodstone on the table. "But given the... unusual circumstances, we thought it best to be thorough."
She stepped closer. I could smell her perfume, something cold and floral, like lilies left too long in a vase.
"After all," she murmured, her eyes locking onto mine, "we wouldn't want any mistakes. Would we, Iris?"
The examiner set his case on the table and opened it.
Inside, a fresh bloodstone gleamed, larger than the first. Darker.
And next to it, a silver blade.
"Let's begin," Seraphine said softly.