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“Stop shredding the furniture,” I grumbled at the eagle. “I have no money for a new settee.”

The eagle did not so much as glance at me. I was no threat to her. I was a madwoman in a mountaintop eyrie, not so different from her.

Castle Mirador perched atop a mid-height peak, the summit of which had been sliced away by glaciers cutting through this valley long before the records of my besmirched family began. A magician who spoke to the land had come out, drawn his runes and whatnot, and declared the ground stable.

He’d not declared my ancestors stable, mind you, just the ground.

My sense of what was madness and what was bravado was tainted by a lifetime of secrets.

My mother had walled my father into the west tower some years ago.

He’d betrayed her – and had done so clumsily at that.

Mother had no patience for that sort of thing.

She still visited the tower, castigating him from outside the barrier.

I suspected her of the explosion a decade later that sent her and my father – and a section of the tower – plummeting into the ravine.

Mother had been maudlin without him, so I suspect it was no accident that she and the tower went over the ledge one afternoon.

They’d heal. Father had the same longevity and health as Mother after their bond. Such was the way of our family: mad and eternal.

My extended family was no saner than my parents.

My cousin, who had lived here along with a half-dozen assorted relations, married a pair of sisters.

They were happy enough for almost two decades, until the first sister grew ill.

Now, they three had left for a mission to find a forest witch.

Last I’d heard, they were seeking a particular root that had to be found under a new moon in the Salt Cedar Grove far west of Helgren.

Cousin Colin swore that he’d cure his wife, or they’d all crawl into a grave together.

I miss them, but I cannot blame their choices.

My family loves with a sort of folly, a lack of self-preservation, and there’s little I can do to escape such a fate.

My solution, such as it was, hinged mostly on spending any naked time with women of ill repute and spending any remaining hours trying to rebuild the family’s fortune by my sword.

Unfortunately, sword-for-hire had the awkward difficulty of rarely getting paid all that had been promised – especially if one were on the losing side or had seduced the general’s daughter… orwife…or mother.

I waved in the loose direction of the tower’s remains, where it was jumbled in a ravine. “Good evening, Mother. Father.”

They were not yet healed enough to answer – or perhaps they had healed and were on another honeymoon. One never knew when it came to a Mirador.

Perhaps fate has decided She’s had enough of my family. Perhaps I’ll never find love…

Somewhere out there, Fate laughed at my hubris.

I’m now sure of that because two nights later, I was forced into an unexpected reckoning, the woman of my dreams standing in the alcove near the door of the pub like a trembling rabbit who had wandered into a den of wolves and vipers.

If not for the daggers I could smell hidden somewhere on her, I might have been as deceived as the humans all were.

The daggers, however, made her interesting.

Beautiful and deadly? She was exactly my type.

Typically, this was my cue to introduce myself and separate her before this lowly pack of swindlers and reprobates could swarm, but I swayed on my barstool.

In the moment, I could only marvel at the wide-eyed innocence.

Fine, I also marveled at the fact that her breasts were seemingly intent on escaping her low-cut blouse and her hips had a curve that was just right for grasping – but I was first struck by the wide-open eyes and parted lips.

Her throat was bare, pulse visibly thrumming like an invitation.

Everything about my future wife was custom made to draw my eyes.

She had berry-stained lips, charcoal-lined eyes, and hair lightened by some mix of sun and citrus.

Honey trap , my mind filled in. Other less logical parts of my body could only think, so what? Helgren was low on women I hadn’t already known by this point in my too-long life. I drank of so many throats in the area that I could identify most of the women by their scent alone.

“Another,” I grumbled at the barkeep.

Cyrus was a surly old man with a chest as thick as the barrels he tapped and served. When I’d started drinking here, he was a babe in his mother’s arms – or maybe that was his father. Mortals died so often that I couldn’t keep track of all of them.

“Bad as your grandmother,” Cyrus said as he slid the rot-wood rye my way. The tankard was chipped. My memory summoned up various barfights over the years, but at this point, they rolled together in a long image of skirmishes.

The grandmother, of course, was also me. The stories of my long line of ancestors? Still all about me. Longevity requires a bit of subterfuge.

The last time I’d brought true wealth to my estate was when I married an ailing old man.

He thought I was the granddaughter of a soldier he’d fought with, until I slipped up and he caught me out.

We’d wed, consummated the deal even, and I had hope of friendship at the very least, but age makes some soldiers bitter.

Two months later he’d died of blood loss. I was alone again. That was eighty years ago, and my only companion since was an eagle.

I stared at the young woman at the door again. I lectured myself against it. I reminded myself of the dangers. She stood there as if she was unsure of her next move.

Such perfect prey – or my inevitable demise.

Then she lifted her head and caught my gaze. When she smiled at me, I swear I felt the good sense leave my body in that moment. Self-preservation died. She was the One. I felt it as the surety of madness that washed over me.

“Mine,” I said clearly as I stood and bowed to her from across the room. I might be a debauched liar, but I was still chivalrous when circumstances demanded.

“Friend of yours, Mirador?” Cyrus asked.

“My future wife.” I couldn’t look away from her. I needed to know her name, her interests, her enemies, everything about her.

She stared at me as she slid forward into the sea of men struggling to find the words to approach her.

The man at her side, who had been attempting conversation, stood there with his mouth gaping open like a suffocating fish, and I could do nothing but smile back at the young woman I would marry.

She veered around his now-outstretched hand, dodged another man’s doffed hat, and stepped delicately over the extended foot of a third would-be suitor.

I hastily uncorked a vial of mint extract and brought the miniature glass bottle to my lips. When your diet is mostly blood and booze, you learn to carry a few less noxious things to assist the lingering scents.

“Hello.” She stood at my side now. Radiant. Tempting. Her pulse beat faster, and I couldn’t look away from the thin skin covering that thrumming blood. “I’m Alwen. You are?”

“Brash,” I observed softly.

She smiled in a way that danced toward laughter. “Curious name.”

“I am Christabel, Lady of Mirador.” Again, I bowed, bending slightly. She was so close, however, that the movement meant my face was hovering above her nearly bared bosom. I smiled despite my best intentions. “Hello.”

Alwen laughed as my word ghosted over her bared cleavage. “Cheeky.”

I glanced at her face again. While I had no skills that would bring me the fortune I needed, I did have a few that kept me warm at night, talents that were appreciated by more women than dared to admit their proclivities in public.

So instead of doing anything remotely logical, I dropped to my knees and said, “Marry me, Alwen. Come live with me and be my love.”

ALWEN

“Are you prone to madness?” Alwen asked, staring down at the woman currently asking for her hand in matrimony. Mirador was striking. Cheeks drawn with a knife’s edge, eyes that glittered in a way no human’s did, and a mouth that…did not make Alwen think of assassination.

Mirador was a monster. Alwen knew that. She’d spent her entire life learning about the terrors that faced the world. Mother Superior and her convent of holy soldiers protected the kingdom, spying and seducing as needed. The Sisters of Peace answered only to Her Majesty, the queen herself.

And so Alwen knew when she’d been given the mission to neutralize Mirador that taking a life was the likely next step. She had even suspected that a bit of seduction would be necessary to get Mirador alone. This, however, was not the expected plan.

“Marry me, Alwen of…Do you have a surname or family name?” Mirador knelt on the tavern floor. No ring or gift offered.

“You are not amusing,” Alwen muttered, looking around at the crowd now watching them intently.

Several people called out.

“Stop carrying off women, Mirador.”

“Mirador, you wretch.”

“Greedy bastard. Leave a few for the rest of us!”

In a level, uncompromising-sort-of-voice, Alwen asked, “Do you carry off many women?”

“I had done in the past, but now that I’ve found you, I swear to devote myself to your pleasure and happiness.” Mirador’s gaze slithered over Alwen in a way that ought to have greatly offended her, but instead was making her feel joyous.

Is that a magic the monster has? Disarming me with a look…

“You know nothing of me,” Alwen protested.

She did not lie and say she knew nothing of Mirador.

She had, of course, read the entire file on Mirador.

The Sisters of Peace were a thorough order, and research materials were always plentiful.

Instead, she asked, “Do you assume I’ll fall prey to your wiles? ”