Miles's funeral was held two days after the attack. Nika donned her finest black skirt, but as she entered the iron gates of the cemetery near Konstantin Academy, she couldn't bring herself to step any further. So while students, staff, and relatives attended the ceremony, she'd emptied the contents of her stomach in a neighboring patch of wilderness.

Hours later, she found herself standing on the moonlit streets of Lirovin Square.

Thirteen mansions lined the road on both sides, each with its own unique style. But the one rising before Nika now was her home, or what would have been her home, if Markos hadn't so frequently left her in the care of Lu's mother.

The Gothic building was elaborate and haunting, complete with sable towers that soared into the gloomy sky. Windows lined the stone exterior from low to high, and gargoyles perched in secret nooks all around. It was a house worthy of its title—Dimitrovich Manor.

At high midnight, the inhabitants of Lirovin Square were busy at work. From the end of the cul-de-sac, where Nika now stood, all the way to the front gates, the authority and influence of politicians were being used behind virtually every door. These were the manors of the Ministers—the most superior group of Daemonstri in the Western Hemisphere.

Markos suddenly passed, making urgent demands into his cell phone. As he briskly carried himself through the front door, leaving her behind on the lawn, his voice echoed into oblivion.

He'd been on the phone with his associates for a small eternity, discussing all the implications of the attack. What response to give, when to hold a formal assembly, how to address the public. Same as always.

"Does he ever stop?" she muttered, slinging her bag over a shoulder and taking a paved path to the grand entrance.

After stepping inside, Nika feasted her eyes upon the elegant interior. Beyond the entry hall was a parlor, which served as a home for antique furniture and an enormous fireplace. The room's vaulted ceilings met at a point in the center, twenty or thirty feet overhead.

On the opposite side of the fireplace was a stone wall inlaid with a magnificent arched window. The geometric design was made of red-stained glass, and when the light shined through, it gave everything the distinct quality of having been soaked in blood.

The manor was quiet. Nothing but the ticking of a grandfather clock and Markos's faint voice, which seeped through the walls that separated him from Nika.

Romanovich cleared his throat and said, "Your room is this way." Nika regarded the titan of a man, who pointed toward a flowing staircase at the end of the entry corridor. "Come. I'll show you."

Being head of security, he probably knew every angle and facet of this manor like the lines of his own hands, but it didn't stop Nika from dwelling on the absurdity that she needed to be guided through a house bearing her very name.

She followed in silence, absorbing her father's grand house. The walls were dimly lit with vintage lanterns, and Nika couldn't help but feeling out-of-place.

Dimitrovich Manor had been the home of her bloodline since some Daemonstri king sent thirteen Serafi families to America. They'd had one agenda, like any other nation: to reach the ends of the earth. So those families had expanded the empire and founded what was now known as the Ministry.

Romanovich stopped at a door on the second level, a secret place tucked away in a corner of this Gothic world. "He had this room made a few years ago, in case you decided to live with him."

Nika entered slowly, surveying. It was less grand than those downstairs but in no way humble. Broad and square, with doors leading to a balcony, and a large bed centered between two paintings of distant ancestors.

Live with Markos? she thought. "He honestly thought I'd leave Konstantin?"

"Perhaps he doesn't fully understand a keeper's devotion to the Vigil."

She scoffed. "My devotion isn't to the Vigil. It's to Lu."

After all, the only reason Nika wanted to join the league of protectors was to be Lu's keeper. She trusted no one more than herself to defend her sister-friend.

And a lot of good that did!

She shut down the heinous thought, feeling the keeper's attention. "What?" she urged, shifting from foot to foot.

His only response was an imperturbable frown. Though she wouldn't exactly call him handsome, Romanovich's face was difficult to ignore. He might have been chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor, the sole intention being to capture a countenance whose only friend was war.

Nika envisioned it with ease—a lone survivor on a fresh battlefield, grimly observing the smoke and corpses. It was as if the word warrior had been invented for him.

"Why were you carrying a gun during the attack?"

Nika blinked. How did he know about that? She'd been sure to hide any evidence of the pistol, fearing that Headmaster Kovachev would punish her for it.

Her bewilderment must have been evident in her face, because Romanovich explained, "There were traces of belabane and gunpowder at the site. And your roommate—she sold you out."

Damn it, Jade.

Nika observed him speculatively, and unsurprisingly, he didn't balk. She didn't think anything could fluster this man. Nika, however, found herself increasingly uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. His eyes were forged from steel and obsidian, harsh and dark as they pinned her into place. A perfect match for those rock-hard, perpetually angry features.

"Am I going to get in trouble for this?" she asked.

"That depends on whether or not you tell me the truth."

She released a long breath from her nose. "It was me."

He eased back into the door until it clicked shut. His impressive physique, adorned in all-black attire, harshly contrasted the white wood and elegant carvings.

"Why would you feel the need for a gun? Konstantin has good security."

"Obviously, it isn't good enough."

She waited for him to scowl or return her attack—something, anything. He was a monster of a man. There was no way he didn't have a secret rage boiling beneath his skin.

But despite his appearance and that gruff, Russian accent, he remained calm and said, "Did someone threaten you?"

Nika's breath hitched. It seemed he'd done his research, though it wouldn't have been entirely absurd to assume that half of the students and staff at Konstantin Academy despised her. After all, she was the world's most infamous halfblood.

"Who?" Romanovich said, his frown deepening.

"There are a few kids that mess with me sometimes. I'm not particularly fond of getting beaten up, so I got the gun. Not to use it on them, just to scare them off."

"Give me their names."

"No."

He shook his head, and a crack appeared in that keeper's mask of his, revealing confusion, curiosity, pity. Nika forced herself to disregard them.

"You can't tell Markos about this," she said.

"If you've been harassed, he deserves to know."

"He's just as guilty as they are," she hissed. "None of this would be happening to me if he hadn't declared to the whole world that he had a bastard kid. Sometimes, I wish he'd just given me away when I was a baby."

Romanovich prowled a step closer. "Don't say that."

"It's true—"

"It's not true, and you know it."

Nika studied the threatening stance, the scowl etched into his alabaster skin. There it was, that secret rage. It was almost as if he'd taken her words personally.

"Your father chose not to abandon you. Some people aren't as lucky."

"Some people like you?" she wondered aloud.

Romanovich flinched. Interesting, Nika thought.

The keeper slipped back into his usual composed state and said, "Where is the gun?"

Despite herself, Nika glanced at the bag she'd discarded on the floor. Romanovich didn't miss a beat.

He held out a massive hand. "Give it to me."

"Why?"

His black eyes scanned her from head to foot, then up again. "I'm friends with the investigator working the case. I can make sure no one else discovers that you own a firearm. Including Markos."

"So I won't get in trouble?"

"No. But only if you give it to me right now."

With a sigh, Nika fished the gun from her bag and dropped it into Romanovich's palm. As he turned to leave, she blurted, "Why help me?"

He didn't meet her gaze as he said, "Because it isn't your fault."