Page 58 of A Steeping of Blood (Blood and Tea #2)

Because between the Siwangs’ death, the Ram’s knowledge of Ripper vampires, and how close she’d veered to unraveling one of Arthie’s original plans, the crew’s chances of trouncing the Ram were growing slimmer and slimmer.

Darkness filled the walls, swallowing the dusky night sky and flooding through Arthie just the same.

The carriage angled downward and eventually rolled to a stop, the brake yanked into place as the horses stomped their feet.

Not a shred of light slipped through the window. They had parked inside some place.

“I thought you might want to see where I kept my daughter,” the Ram said, and stepped out into a narrow hall that opened to a well-lit space at the other end.

Her underground bunker.

Arthie stepped out behind her and glanced up at the ceiling. It was stone, hewn together with care, gray and drab, but nothing hinted at this being underground.

The Ram’s men marched toward Arthie, and she crossed her arms behind her herself before they could jostle her around. One of them grunted in surprise, and then she was dragged behind the Ram.

“I could have walked,” Arthie snapped.

They shoved her through to the light, and Arthie was shocked by how little the bunker looked like a bunker.

It was spacious and palatial, a lavish hideout and a milder version of the Athereum, which was to be expected, she supposed, for it was built in the vicinity of the palace for the monarch herself.

The men followed the Ram, pulling Arthie behind them, passing a collection of rooms and halls.

She kept her eyes peeled for any sign of Ripper vampires but saw nothing. The Ram gestured to a set of four identical iron doors, and the men threw one open and tossed Arthie inside.

The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the bunker, plastered with sheets of what looked to be metal. It was empty, save for a single chair and several iron rings secured to the wall—for fastening shackles, if Arthie was to guess.

“Shackle her,” the Ram said to one of the men.

I knew it. As Arthie was yanked toward the iron ring, she pitched herself forward, pretending to lose her balance.

The man sneered as he shoved her upright, too focused on her misfortune to notice the key she slipped from his pocket and into her sleeve, nearly getting a finger stuck beneath the cuffs as they clamped them down over her wrists.

The chain between them was short, a handful of inches, but it was enough for him to fasten it to the ring just above her head.

Well. She hadn’t climbed into the Ram’s carriage expecting sweet treats and well-brewed tea, had she?

“Comfortable?” the Ram asked.

At least she was on her feet. Arthie smiled. “Very.”

The Ram strode closer, studying Arthie through the holes in her demonic mask. “I have use for someone of your caliber. It’ll get you out of those chains, and your coffers refilled. Surely they ran dry after your illegal establishment’s untimely end.”

She couldn’t even call Spindrift by its name.

And here Arthie thought the Ram was smarter than that.

If they were indeed the same, she would know better than to stand before a girl in chains—whose lands she herself had stormed, pillaged, stolen , whose establishment she herself had threatened simply because of its success and later burned down—and offer a partnership.

Then again, they weren’t the same. The Ram had reached a level of power that had rearranged the very fibers of her brain.

When Arthie blinked, she saw the Siwangs lying in a pool of their own blood. She saw the cells in the sanatorium.

“What will I get in return?” she asked.

A pair of men entered, awaiting the Ram’s command. It was the first time Arthie had seen them up close in a setting where she wasn’t fighting for her life. She saw their unease, the flicker of fear in their eyes as they glanced at the Ram for instructions.

“That remains to be seen,” the Ram said. “We’ll start with a test.”

Arthie lifted a brow. She was locked in a room with her hands bound. As far as the Ram knew, she had no resources, no hidden lair of her own. There was nothing the Ram could take from her that she already hadn’t.

“Give me Calibore.”

Except that . Arthie froze, unsure she heard correctly, but the Ram was looking at her waist, at its otherworldly silver grip. The tribute was in a day. What did she want with her pistol?

Arthie’s response was a harsh, tight whisper. “No.”

The Ram hummed. “Very well.”

Arthie reached for her sleeve, sliding the key free when the Ram glanced away. Her hands were in plain sight. Unless she could escape in the span of a breath, she would be caught.

The Ram’s men stepped toward her. One of them pulled back the lapel of her suit jacket.

They were going to take it. Derision scraped her throat.

The Ram wasn’t even going to allow her a moment to decide?

Panic rushed through her, and Arthie thrashed against him, kicking up with her feet.

The other man leaped to help, holding her down without effort.

“What are you doing?” Arthie shouted.

“Taking back what’s mine,” the Ram replied.

Arthie felt Calibore’s absence acutely. It was a part of her, a limb she could not live without. The man held it up to the light and stared in awe until the Ram snapped her fingers.

“Give it here.”

Arthie heard that precious metal barrel hitting the Ram’s palm, felt the empty weight of her holster like a chasm ripping through her heart. Arthie reminded herself of why she was here: to distract the Ram, to make her believe the crew would stand still without her.

She could only hope they wouldn’t prove the Ram right.

“I don’t know that we can have an alliance, but I would very much like one. I’ve known about you since you stole this from White Roaring Square, you know,” the Ram said, taking a seat in the chair in the room’s center as the men scurried out like a pair of rats.

Arthie was only half herself without Calibore. “And yet you decided today was the day you needed to take it from me.”

“Oh, we tried. You were a tiny, slimy little thing, and I decided to let you have it. It was one of many artifacts we’ve picked up over the years, and I am known to bide my time.”

“Until?”

“Until I learned what it’s truly capable of.”

The Ram was suddenly interested in Calibore because she had seen Penn die. She’d been there when Laith fired the pistol at Penn and unknowingly killed him.

“Killing vampires?” Arthie asked. Her neck still stung with the remnants of the green dart she’d taken to protect Jin’s parents. Before they’d died . “I’ve since learned you’ve found alternative ways of eradicating vampires.”

“None as quick as this,” the Ram replied as the door to the room opened again. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? I didn’t know it was magical, or that something as far-fetched as magic even existed. That’s not to say I care, but it is fascinating.”

Arthie schooled her features. Magic . Only one person knew of the pistol’s origins. He had tricked her for it. He had died for it.

And he knew that Arthie was a vampire.

But he was loyal to his kingdom, even if his anger for his king blurred those lines some. He had spoken of the crown prince with fondness, his training the same. She could not imagine him giving up information like that to the Ram so freely.

The two men returned, one holding a stack of wrinkled, bloody papers in a language that did not look remotely Ettenian, the other dragging a third person between them.

He was bloody and beat, the silvery white of his robes drenched in varying shades of red.

His hair was matted to his brow, white strands as brilliant as the moon.

Even from her distance, she could see the twin flecks of black above the curve of his left eyebrow, the strained rise and fall of his chest.

Laith.