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T he knock on the door came.

It was dusk when the knock came, and Josephine knew exactly what it meant.

It was time.

This had been the most miserable day of days. Her wedding day. Something that, for most women, would have been a day of joy. But to Josephine, this was the day of her doom, of her execution. She was about to be taken to her death.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Andrew hadn’t come. The moment of her wedding was upon her, and he still hadn’t come.

She had to believe that something awful had happened to him over the past several days and he was unable to make it to her.

She could never believe that he had made the choice not to come for her; she knew in her heart that was not the case.

But the only way Andrew wouldn’t come for her was if he was dead.

Therefore, she had to assume he’d met his end somehow.

Grief consumed her. The entire day had been filled with sorrow and anxiety as the last threads of hope were cut. She was about to be forced to marry a monster and everyone in the world who had promised to help her wasn’t there in her hour of need.

She was alone.

The knock on the door was Chauncey. The old steward was dressed in finer clothing than Josephine had ever seen him in, and he’d been admitted into her chamber by the mute servant, who seemed to be quite sympathetic to her new mistress.

But sympathy wouldn’t prevent any of this from happening, and Josephine rose from the bed she’d been sitting on for the past hour, wrinkling the white surcote she’d been instructed to wear, but she didn’t care.

She didn’t care about anything any longer.

Inside, she was dead.

Chauncey took her out of her chamber and walked her across the drawbridge, the moat, and, finally, the outer bailey as he took her to the chapel where her life would come to an end.

The beautiful day that had turned so ugly was now waning, and Josephine glanced up at the sky, thinking it would be the last time she ever saw it.

She knew she wouldn’t survive the night.

Very soon, she would see her parents, and even Andrew, in the halls of heaven, and she took comfort in that.

It was the only comfort she had.

Josephine was led to the threshold of the doors leading into the chapel.

The interior was surprisingly ornate, with subtle coloring gracing the walls, which depicted several scenes of Jesus’ life.

She suddenly found it bitterly ironic that she was to be married to such a devil in the presence of such holy images.

Chauncey held her tightly by the elbow as somewhere in the chapel strains of a flute floated through the air and could be heard by all.

There were only a few people standing around, people Josephine had never seen before and didn’t know.

They turned to look at her as she entered in her white dress, looking beautiful but feeling sick.

Sick to death with what was transpiring and having no power to stop it.

Chauncey gave her a push forward. She hadn’t even realized the processional had begun.

In front of her, looking especially pious, were two priests and two small, skinny acolytes carrying candles.

She scoffed inwardly; some holy servants when they couldn’t even see what was going on, that a woman was being led to her doom.

On weak legs, she walked slowly after them.

Alphonse d’Vant, Earl of Annan and Blackbank, stood by the altar watching his bride come towards him, his dull brown eyes devouring her.

She looked so pale and pure. He was grinning lewdly for all to see, thrilled at his new bride.

As he’d told her, he’d never had anything pure in his life.

This was to be a first. If she survived the night, then she might be able to bear him an heir.

Perhaps, he would not be so hard on her as he had been with others.

He hoped she would be good breeding stock.

Oblivious to Alphonse’s thoughts, Josephine was halfway up the aisle, halfway to her death sentence.

She couldn’t even look at him. She felt such complete despair that it took all of her strength to simply keep walking.

But she had no choice; there was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, and any attempt at resistance would certainly be greeted with painful violence.

Lost in thought, she was at the altar before she realized it and the light from a thousand candles bathed her in a golden glow.

The earl took his position beside her and the poorly dressed priest began to immediately intone the mass in Latin.

And so, it begins…

Josephine heard the priest, but she wasn’t listening.

All she could think of was how she was going to handle the earl in the marriage bed.

She shuddered involuntarily; her experiences with Andrew had been beautiful, loving, and exquisitely sweet.

To imagine that such an act could be used as a weapon of violence and submission was nightmarish at best.

God, she prayed silently, I have never been one to pray, but hear me now. Please help me. Please!

The service continued, with the priest slightly off-key as he sang the mass. Josephine stared at his dirty robes, not fixing on his face or on her surroundings. Her expression was so grim that she looked hopelessly miserable. She saw nothing, heard little, and felt only pain of a life lost.

That is why she never saw Ridge slip into the church, dressed in priestly garb.

He silently slipped into the shadows, his eyes on Josephine and praying his sword made no noise against his mail.

Across the church from him, Sully was also wrapped in thick, brown garments.

His face was hooded, and his ice-blue eyes locked on his sister-in-law.

It took all of his self-control not to run to the altar, slicing through everything and everyone in his way.

His protection instincts were in overdrive, but he managed to control them. He only wondered for how long.

The third priest in dirty robes, Thane, quietly enter the church, carefully taking up his position by the door.

And the fourth one, Donald, enter on Thane’s tail.

In truth, he was here for many reasons, not the least of which was avenging the attack on his friend, Nicholas.

He felt very honored to be a member of this auspicious group, and glanced about him almost too conspicuously to make sure everyone was in place.

Sully saw Donald bobbing his head around like a chicken and wished he’d had a big rock; he’d have nailed him right in the head with it.

The priest, oblivious to what was about to happen, handed his Bible to a waiting acolyte and benevolently spread his arms, reciting something Josephine didn’t understand.

It took her a moment to realize the man had stopped altogether and, when she looked up at him, he was looking behind the bride and groom with a queer expression on his face.

The earl saw this, too. At nearly the same time, as if in slow motion, he and Josephine turned to look at whatever had the priest so muddled.

With the last remnants of the late afternoon sun pouring in through the rear windows, the chapel was cast in a warm, ethereal light.

For a moment, it blinded both Josephine and the earl until a bright flash of metal, like a bolt of lightning, struck out from the very back of the chapel by the entry door.

It was puzzling. Josephine moved her head a little, just enough to block the sun and, when she did so, her breath caught in her throat. A hand went to her chest as strangled gasps freed themselves from her lungs. And her head began to swim so badly that she thought she might faint.

But she fought it; dear God, she fought it, for the vision before her was something she had resigned herself to never seeing again. Before she could stop herself, she screamed one word.

“Andrew!”

Andrew stood by the massive rear doors. Like a vision from heaven, the avenging angel had arrived in a suit of armor that could only be described as god-like; silver-white rays glittered from it as it caught the light, as if it were emitting light of its very own.

From the top of the silver helm to the bottom of the armor-clad feet, Andrew was an exquisite work of art.

It reminded Josephine of the Arthurian legends of the knights that were nearly demi-gods because of their skill and greatness, and Demon Slayer was in Andrew’s right hand, glaring in the light of a thousand candles and hungry for human flesh.

Andrew looked entirely surreal and magnificent, and absolutely deadly.

Her prayers, it seemed, had been answered.

Those in the chapel, sensing something terrible was about to happen, began to scatter in terror. The huge silver knight was extremely fearsome, and it was impossible to tell where he was looking with the faceplate down. No one knew who he had come for, and it was better to run than to find out.

Josephine, however, knew exactly who he had come for.

Unknowingly, she had wandered several feet towards him, with her hand clutching at her chest. Andrew was still, however, a good distance away.

With great deliberation, he lifted his feet and took a few steps, pausing again to contemplate his enemy.

The man was looking at him now… black, wicked eyes.

He knew those eyes.

His enemy was sizing him up as well. Alphonse could hardly believe what he was seeing but, in the same breath, there was an odd sense of pleasure to it.

Andrew. So his brother had come for his lady, after all, and a slow grin of satisfaction creased his horrific face.

He looked almost happy to see his brother.

“Andrew,” he enunciated slowly. “My dearest brother. I’d hoped you would be dead by now.”