Scorched

Boots. Several pairs. Crossing the corridor up ahead. Viktor gave a low whuff, dropping the doll. She shrank against the wall, just in case the owner of one of those pairs of boots would turn and see her. Oh, bollocks.

Every prison has its jailers. The Castle, dungeon for all creatures possessed of magic, had the guardsmen. Once ordinary men, they had been taken from their homes and forced into service. The Castle gave them strength and immortality but took away the kernel of whatever made them human.

The guardsmen had snatched Constance, just risen from her grave, and put her in this terrible place. If Atreus hadn’t taken her in as his serving girl, they would have broken her as they had so many others, one indignity at a time.

Her gut twisted at the memory, a sick feeling welling into her throat. She threw the doll again, farther this time, to trick Viktor into running safely out of sight of the marching men. For once doing what he was supposed to, the beast bounded after it.

Constance began walking backward, too nervous to take her eyes from the guardsmen for more than a moment. As she retreated, her fingers trailed along the stone wall, whispering over cold, rough stone punctuated by grit-filled seams. The solid feel of it reassured her.

A change in the air currents behind her said she was backing toward another hallway, somewhere she could vanish from sight. Then she would circle around and find out where the guards were going. What could they want in this deserted corner of the Castle? There was no one here but her family.

She spun on her heel, and then sprang back with a hiss. A dozen steps away stood the guardsmen’s officer, his feet planted apart, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Captain Reynard!” Her hand was on the hilt of her knife.

“Constance,” he replied. “Did I startle you? If so, I do apologize.”

His accent spoke of wealth and education—all the advantages she’d never had. She pressed her lips together, saying nothing. Why are you here? she wondered.

“I thought a vampire’s hearing would detect my approach,” he went’on. “You must have been distracted.”

He walked toward her, tall, aristocratic, and darkly handsome. His captain’s uniform—a faded remnant from his human life—was neatly mended, every bit of gold braid shining in its proper place. He might have been whisked out of his old life centuries ago and put in charge of this slice of hell, but he still had the discipline of a British officer.

He paused a few feet away, looking down at her. Next to him, she felt small as a child, pinned by his pale gray eyes. She swallowed, nervous. Reynard wasn’t as brutal as his men, but he still held the keys to the jail. He might be friendly, but never a friend.

“You shouldn’t wander alone, pretty Constance,” he said. “That little knife of yours just isn’t enough.”

“Viktor’s with me, sir.”

Reynard folded his arms and looked around. “That would be more effective if he was actually visible. He comes to anyone’s call, you know, even mine. He’s too daft to know his own master.”

“That doesn’t worry me, Captain, sir. I have teeth of my own.”

“Like a tiny little tabby cat, and about as fearsome.” His mouth quirked, a hint of a sad smile.

There was no flirtation in it, but still she looked away, flustered by an involuntary twinge of interest. She liked a different kind of man, but the captain was a fine specimen nonetheless. It reminded her that hundreds of years past, she’d been a young woman. Now she was a monster that existed only because the magic of the Castle kept her alive.

Reynard reached out, one fingertip touching the pendant that rested just below her collarbone. The slight pressure made her shiver.

“A skilled piece of work. Bronze, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Sylvius made it from an arrowhead. He said it is a reminder to see the possibilities in what’s around us.” She avoided the captain’s eyes, instead watching the torchlight dance on the gold braid of his coat. “He’s taken to working with his hands.”

“Not a natural warrior, then.”

“He’s just a boy, sir,” she replied, her tone stiff.

Reynard retreated a little under the sting of her words. “How is Atreus? Is his mind still wandering?”

“He is the same.” It was a lie. Her master was failing, but she wouldn’t betray his dignity.

“Poor Constance. I’m sure the burden of his care falls on you.”

“There is little to do, sir, and it is my place to serve him.”

“But what about visitors?”

“No one bothers to come to this part of the Castle.” Except you. Why are you here? Why are your men here?

“Isolation doesn’t bring safety, especially when fear is in the air.”

She gave a sour laugh. “There’s always fear, Captain. There are always wars between the vampires and the werebeasts, or between one warlord and the next. To tell you the plain truth, sir, I’m tired of worrying about it.”

“This is different.”

“How, sir?”

His shrug tried to be casual, but it showed tension. “There are stories running like roaches through the halls. Whispers and murmurs claim that in the darkest corners of the Castle, the corridors have collapsed. Rooms are vanishing. Creatures have been driven from the deeps and wander the halls at will.”

Constance leaned against the cold stone wall, now a little amused. “But, sir, surely no one believes this? There’re plenty of monsters here without adding fairy tales.”

But the shadows in his eyes grew deeper.

Holy Mother, there’s something to this. Her stomach grew hard and chill.

“Myths grow with the telling,” he said. “Both guardsmen and prisoners teeter on the edge of panic. It gives new fuel to the wars, and you know the guards aren’t invincible. No new recruits have come since my time. There aren’t enough of us anymore to stop every skirmish.”

Constance frowned, her mind scrambling to sort through the conversation. “Captain Reynard, why are you here? Why are you telling me this? Were you with the patrol? What has any of this to do with my family?”

“That was no patrol.” Reynard lowered his eyes from her face. In that instant, he seemed to age a decade, the lines around his mouth and eyes falling into bitter grooves. “We’re on a different errand. You know I will do what I can to keep peace here.”

She nodded, not liking his tone.

“There is something they all desire—Prince Miru-kai, Shoshann, and all the other warlords and sorcerers of the Castle. This thing is a danger to both the prisoners and my men, and it is left carelessly unguarded. For a time, the warlords lost all knowledge of its location, but now their spies have found it. Precious secrets don’t lie hidden forever.”

His harsh expression, even more than his words, fanned her anxiety. “Then you must lock it safely away!”

He lifted his chin. “That’s my intent.”

“Why are you telling me this? What is it?”

“I want you—of all people—to understand.” He said it quickly, the words clipped, and turned away.

Constance grabbed his sleeve. “Captain, wait! Why does it matter what I think? I’m no one.”

He pulled himself free, his touch nearly as cold as her own. His eyes had gone flat, all sympathy between them ended. “You’re still an innocent, Constance, despite all that you’ve seen. Maybe I’m looking for absolution for doing my duty.”

Constance let her hand fall away. “What is this thing that everyone wants?” she demanded.

But Reynard strode away from her instead, stiff and silent. He moved as if the uniform alone kept him from crumbling to ash.

She slumped against the wall, bewildered. She didn’t have patience for this sort of riddle. Captain Reynard should have just spit out what he had to say. Now he’d made her afraid.

Deeply afraid.