Page 8

Chapter 7

W ith Kall attending the inaugural meeting in the war room, Ariadne took the early morning hours to walk the grounds with Margot. Azriel’s and Madan’s grandmother, though older than any other vampire alive, had more energy than she anticipated. Perhaps it had something to do with leaving the stale environment of the Caldwell Estate, but the lightness to her steps had her moving at a far more spritely pace than Ariadne remembered from before leaving for Algorath.

Dragons drifted by overhead, some considerably smaller than others, and she had the fleeting thought that they must be newly hatched. The clan leaders had been granted permission to be taken to the clutch, so carefully hidden, to see if any vinculums could be formed. By the looks of it, a number of eggs had hatched in response to their presence—and so their airborne army increased.

“I have grown hungry,” Margot announced, drawing Ariadne’s attention back to the Caersan with her. The small vampire’s white hair was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore a simple olive green dress—one of the few she had been able to fit into the pack she carried with her from the only home she had ever known. “Shall we return to Auhla ?”

The name of the keep never felt right to Ariadne. Though she knew well that the title translated to C astle in the common tongue, it did not correlate in her mind. The fortified building was just that: a keep. A place she had hated for so long.

Nonetheless, she nodded, and they began their trek back toward the front doors of the stone building constructed from the cliffside. She studied it before asking, “Do you like it here?”

Margot did not respond right away. When they started up the slope toward the front doors, she looped her arm through Ariadne’s to keep her balance. “It has many of the same comforts as home. I do not dislike it.”

“Do you wish to return to the Caldwell Estate?”

“Oh, my dear,” Margot said and patted her arm. “No one will ever be returning. If I understand correctly, it would not have survived Brutis’s fire.”

That bit of information had not been passed on to Ariadne. Her steps faltered as she took it in. There were belongings she had shipped to the Caldwell Estate after the wedding that were irreplaceable. Books. Dresses. Jewelry. A portrait of her mother. All of it was gone.

Yet she had not hesitated to abandon it all when she left for Algorath. Margot had not hesitated to leave her entire life behind, knowing she would never see her precious treasures ever again. After five thousand years of living in one house, she had no doubt gathered quite the hoard.

“I am so sorry,” she said on a breath, trying to fathom such losses while coming to terms with her own.

Margot smiled up at her. “No need. I know my time is limited in this realm; taking any of it with me into the next would not be possible anyway.”

And did that not put things into perspective? Ariadne’s heart ached at the thought of the woman she had grown so fond of no longer being with them, but she knew that while Caersans had extraordinarily long lives, they did not live forever. Margot’s waning strength only proved it so.

By the time they stepped into the entry hall, Ariadne’s own stomach had begun to rumble. Grateful for the distraction as she passed the stairs descending into the bowels of the keep, she focused on that hunger. It spurred her on to where they turned into the great hall. More people than she expected were seated at the tables, including the clan leader who had been invited to the meeting in the war chamber—Thorin.

Had the meeting already come to a conclusion? Why had Azriel not sought her out?

“Sasja!” Ariadne eased onto the bench beside Margot, across from the dhemon woman. “I thought you had requested the day watch.”

Sasja shrugged in return. She never spoke in the common tongue, though she always seemed to understand just fine what Ariadne said. Instead, she looked at Thorin questioningly and raised a brow.

After following her look, Ariadne pulled a plate toward her and said, “I suppose they have finished earlier than expected. I am certain we will see the rest of them soon.”

This did not seem to make Sasja very happy. In fact, her mouth formed a tight line, brows low.

“Were you waiting for Kall?” Margot asked the dhemon woman, a twinkle in her eye.

Ariadne’s brows shot up in understanding. “I think—”

A distant scream silenced the hall, piercing through Ariadne’s chest like a bolt. Air seized in her lungs. The beat of her heart stuttered to a standstill. Splaying her hands on the table’s surface to steady herself, she shot to her feet in alarm. By the time the sound died, every head had swiveled to look in the direction from which it had come.

The dungeons.

Bile rose in her throat. The room spun. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the whispers that erupted through the hall.

In an instant, Ariadne felt the cold metal latching closed around her wrists. Her shoulders ached as, yet again, she hung from the chains dangling from the ceiling. Hot tears rolled down her face. The horrible scent of flesh— her flesh—sizzling beneath the branding iron, pressing the symbol of Keon permanently into her skin.

“My dear?” The ancient Caersan’s words sounded so far away.

“Kall!”

Was that Sasja’s voice? The dhemon tongue followed the cry of alarm, and a hand wrapped around Ariadne’s wrist. She ripped it free with a gasp before it could tighten.

Head spinning, she clambered away from the bench and stumbled toward the exit at the same moment that another scream shattered through the haze of memories. Red eyes turned to watch as she searched for a way out. Her heart pounded, and she tripped over her own feet.

By the time she reached the entry hall, Ariadne shook uncontrollably. Fire took the place of air in her lungs, and she gasped for breath.

Shouts echoed up from the stairs. The dhemon language rolled over her in harsh waves, punctuated by what could only be described as pleas. Begging.

“Please,” Ariadne had gasped that first time hanging from the chains as Ehrun pulled the branding iron from her. Her cries of pain meant nothing to him; the dhemon had looked almost bored. “Please…”

What had she begged for? What had she promised to give him in return for it to end?

Leaning against a wall in the keep, staring at that staircase descending to endless darkness, she could not recall. Not as another set of frantic dhemon words were cut off by yet more screams. More pain.

The world swam around her. She needed to move. To get outside of that terrible place. To run and run and never look back.

But her feet refused to move. She pressed her back against the wall, staring at that spot on the floor where she had bled. Where the back of Ehrun’s fist had connected with her face for the first time. Every tremble brought her closer and closer to the floor, her knees giving out inch by inch.

Another shout from the bowels of that miserable place—a voice she recognized all too well. Heart sinking ever lower, she clapped her hands over her ears. It could not be…

Azriel.

That was Azriel’s voice yelling. Yelling just as Ehrun had as someone—the prisoner?—begged for the pain to end.

Her own husband. The one in which she had found solace from her memories. The one who had been willing to lay down his life to free her from that wretched cell and that exact pain. To keep her alive with his every breath.

More screams echoed up the stairwell at the same moment that huge arms tucked behind her back and under her knees, lifting her effortlessly from the floor. At first, Ariadne writhed in the grip, seeing only blue skin and vivid red eyes.

“ Sabharni , ydhom .” Kall’s gentle words so close to her ear drowned out the next round of torment. He tucked her close to his body and hurried out the front door.

Ariadne curled into him, keeping her hands pressed over her ears and squeezing her eyes shut as a sob shuddered through her. Again and again, she heard Azriel’s voice snarling words she could not understand.

Kall adjusted his grip. In a few awkward movements, Ariadne felt him clamber up something before a familiar sensation gripped her stomach.

They had taken flight.

Bindhe moved with fluid grace beneath them, each pump of her wings or banking turn completed with easy shifts. Or, perhaps, Kall merely cradled her in such a way that she could not feel each tilt.

The cold wind whipped Ariadne’s face when she finally lowered her hands. The streaks of tears turned frigid before she had the chance to wipe them away. When she opened her eyes again, the night sky stretched around her, the peaks of mountains sweeping into the distance.

To where Kall flew her, Ariadne had no idea. And she did not care so long as it was not the dhemon keep.

Since Emillie’s failed escape, the high fae mercenaries never let her out of their sight, nor did they unbind her wrists or ankles for any reason. To circumvent the obstacle of requiring breaks to relieve herself, they removed the nuisance altogether: she no longer received food or water. After being forced to squat in full view of them, Emillie also determined it was for the best.

That did not mean she was thankful for it. In fact, though her stomach had ceased its grumbling, the hunger pangs and dry mouth only worsened her outlook.

Riding sideways with her shoulder pressed to Nollun’s chest, Emillie’s head lolled with each step. The steady rhythm threatened to lull her to sleep. Her heavy lids blinked slowly as she watched the edges of the muddy highway slip by. The only thing keeping her awake was the steady drips of a light rain.

In the haze of her delirium, golden eyes peered through the dark. Emillie’s heart leapt, the memory of her father careening to the floor of his study flashing through her mind. She saw, not for the first or even hundredth time, those hawk-like eyes searching for her.

Gods, she had fallen so low. Every part of her life shredded to tatters, leaving her exhausted and wanting nothing more than to go back to the nights of fighting with her father. To think that even such horrible memories were brighter than her current situation truly underscored how desperate she had become for any semblance of normality.

When the golden gleam vanished, Emillie let her head droop forward, chin to chest. Her eyes closed. Her breathing quickened, overwhelmed by the fresh flood of emotions. Again and again, the sword pierced first through the chest of her father and then her husband. Blood pooled. Screams echoed—her screams.

Her throat tightened, that burning sensation gripping her like a vice. Yet no tears fell. She was far too dehydrated for such things.

They rode on like that for quite some time, the rain eventually fading to a stop and relieving her of the onslaught of chills anytime Nollun leaned away from her. The fae had not so much as spoken to her since they mounted his horse that evening. It was not the lack of communication that unnerved her but the sheer callousness he had towards her very presence, as though it were she who had interfered with his plans.

Emillie did not know how long she slept on the back of that horse, tucked unceremoniously between Nollun’s arms. She did not dream of anything, good or bad, and the time in blissful ignorance of the world around her felt eternal yet instantaneous.

Then chaos erupted, yanking Emillie from her slumber. A mix of fear and agony jolted through her for the first few heartbeats. She heard the shouts. Saw the carriage. The crimson uniforms. The sword buried hilt-deep in Alek’s chest. For those short, painful moments, all she could remember was her husband—the man who had married her and saved her despite her distrust—as he told her to run .

But it was not Alek Nightingale nor Loren Gard’s soldiers. There was no flash of crimson or officers demanding she return to the capital where the usurper now ruled.

Instead, a mass of brown fur and sharp teeth launched from the darkness on the side of the highway, colliding with Caeles as the other mercenaries turned in the opposite direction to face an onslaught of fae.

The same fae Emillie had run into before. How long had it been now? She could not recall the number of nights since her attempted escape.

Nollun cursed, then spewed commands in his language. The others, even Caeles, nodded as he kicked his horse and plunged down the highway with Emillie in tow. No need to give up the prize they had captured.

They did not make it far before the lycan returned to view, golden eyes glowing and teeth bared. What was the name again? She pushed through the haze of hunger and dehydration.

Luce .

Nollun pulled a sword free from the sheath on his back. The blade arced down in one graceful move, aimed for Luce’s neck. Though Emillie did not know the reason for the lycan and her companions to attack the mercenaries, she decided in that instant whatever they offered had to be better than how the high fae were treating her. With that thought in mind, she slammed her shoulder into Nollun’s chest. The sword missed.

“You little bitch,” he hissed, but before he could say or do anything more, the lycan barreled into his horse and sent the poor creature sprawling in a chorus of animalistic screams.

Likewise, Emillie and Nollun tumbled from the stallion’s back. She landed in a heap of rope and limbs as the horse regained his footing. Nollun was not so lucky.

The mercenary rolled to his feet in the same instant Luce charged, giving even his high fae reflexes no time to recover. Together, they slammed to the ground, where Luce’s massive jaws snapped closed around his neck. His screams died amidst the spray of blood.

Emillie shifted to her side to look back down the highway where the others battled with the remaining mercenaries. The woman she had seen before cut through one of the men, then took another’s blade to the gut.

Beside her, Luce howled—a strangled, heartbroken sound—and launched back down the highway.

Emillie did not stay to watch the lycan. Left alone, she crawled awkwardly on her elbows to Nollun’s dropped sword. Rubbing the ropes along the sharp edge proved more difficult than she anticipated. She angled the blade up from the ground by pinning the hilt down with a knee to splinter the thick braids around her wrists.

When at last they snapped apart, Emillie shoved into a seated position, took hold of the sword, and started on the ropes around her ankles. The fighting continued behind her in a chorus of shouts, snarls, and clashing of blades. Her heart pounded at the sounds. Aside from the lycan’s vicious addition, it sounded too similar to the night of Alek’s death.

So the moment her feet were cut loose from one another, she shoved to her feet, ready to run—

Before her vision swam black and she promptly fell back to the ground in a heap.

How long she lay there, she had no idea. Hot breath blew across her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut to block it out. When she reopened them, however, she found the brown lycan mere inches away. The scream caught in her throat as she tried to scramble back.

“Calm!” a woman’s voice called from the direction of squelching footsteps. “Luce won’t hurt you!”

Emillie was not so certain of that. Those golden eyes stared as though she were the great wolf’s next meal. She pushed back into the ungiving ground.

When the high fae woman came into view, her brown skin splattered with blood and black hair tied back in a single long braid, she said something in their language that made the lycan step back. Holding a fist over her gut injury, she turned her hazel eyes back to Emillie. The next words she spoke were in the common tongue as she asked, “Are you injured?”

For a long moment, Emillie said nothing. Instead, she looked between the wolf and the woman, too many questions to pose and her mouth too dry to voice any of them. So she merely shook her head and blinked to clear her vision. With more space between them, Emillie pushed into a seated position and froze, the pounding in her head making her breath catch again.

“Bring him over,” the woman called and gestured for someone to come toward them from down the highway. “She needs blood.”

The next thing she knew, Caeles dropped to his knees beside her, his hair more red than gold now. He glared at her but could say nothing around the gag shoved into his mouth.

“Drink,” the woman said. “He’s the only one still alive.”

The words swam through Emillie’s mind sluggishly. When she spoke, it sounded like a dry rasp more than her voice, “Why?”

The lycan growled from beside her. She jumped, heart lurching into her throat, and looked up at the wolf’s amber eyes. Though she could not hear Luce’s words, an insistence burned in her fierce gaze as though demanding that she do as the woman said.

“They hurt you,” the fae said simply. “Now drink so we can all be on our way.”

Emillie looked at Caeles for a long moment. He glared back, not an ounce of fear reflected back at her. Lifting a muddy hand from where it steadied her on the ground, she took hold of his hair and tilted his head back. Without the delicate precision she had used with Kyra, Emillie dug her fangs into the fae’s neck.

At first, Caeles tried to jerk away. She held firm, a sudden rush of adrenaline releasing her vampiric strength—just enough to hold an injured high fae as she fed.

And, gods, her desperation for any form of sustenance made that blood some of the more glorious she had ever tasted. It rushed over her tongue, alighting her senses, before traveling up the hollow fangs and filling her rain-soaked body with a warmth she had almost forgotten existed.

She hummed in satisfaction, and when she finally withdrew, blood dribbled down her neck. Caeles swayed, then landed in a heap in the mud. He still breathed. Perhaps she should have taken more.

Emillie stilled. That was unlike her. With most of her studies based in medicine, such thoughts were frightening to even consider. How much hate did she harbor after weeks of being wronged?

“Can you stand?” The woman held out a hand, which she took. With practiced ease, the fae helped Emillie to her feet. She winced, pressing her free hand harder against the wound. “My name is Edira, and that is Lucet; we are spice merchants returning to L’Oden.”

“And we’re just your humble sidekicks?” The light, masculine voice behind Emillie made her jump. She had not looked to see who had brought Caeles over. Now she turned to see two more high fae with the same black hair and dark complexion as Edira. The closest stepped forward and crossed his hands over the center of his chest. “I’m Poleus, but you can call me Pol.”

“Haen,” the final high fae said, their hazel eyes studying her warily and following the drip of blood down her face. They wore fine eyeliner to accentuate the delicate curve of their face yet held themself much in the same manner as a guard from Valenul and wore what appeared to be an embroidered corset. It accentuated their broad shoulders while giving their hips a lovely curve as well. The juxtaposition to what she was accustomed to back home was beautiful.

Edira said something to Pol in their language, who slipped forward with ethereal grace and reined in Nollun’s horse. As they moved, Haen stepped forward and pressed their hand to the woman’s abdomen. Their palm almost seemed to glow for several heartbeats, and when they pulled back, the bleeding had ceased. The wound had closed completely.

“What brought you out here?” Pol asked, turning to her. “These men are known back in L’Oden; they’re dangerous.”

For a long moment, Emillie just stared. Every event leading to her capture by the mercenaries played through her mind. Tears welled in her eyes for the first time in several nights, and she blinked them back, annoyed at their persistence. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Haen glanced at the fae man as Pol handed her the reins. They spoke under their breath in the fae language, causing Pol’s cheeks to flush.

“Like I said,” Edira cut in, “we’re headed back to L’Oden. Would you like to join us?”

Before she could reply, Luce let out a growl that sounded very much like disapproval. She leveled her golden gaze at the woman as though trying to communicate through her stare alone.

Edira, however, did not appear dissuaded. “It is your choice.”

There was no weighing her options as there were no real alternatives. Either she remained with the spice merchants, or she risked being picked up by another group of mercenaries. Finding her voice again, Emillie said, “I would like to come with you.”

Another mutter from Haen, then Edira nodded, her face turning grave. “Then you must never speak of this matter,” she gestured to the dead mercenaries around them, “to anyone. Ever.”

The ominous words did not sit well with Emillie. Yes, killing an entire band of their kinsmen would likely be frowned upon once they returned to L’Oden Forest, but it seemed insignificant if they were feared and untrusted within their own community. Yet she wondered vaguely how her sister would react. Ariadne had, after all, learned to love the very people she once hated. As these fae were her saviors, she nodded in agreement rather than question their motives. “Of what matter do you speak?”

Pol let out a loud laugh and clapped her on the shoulder. “Smart woman. Let’s go.”