Scorched

Alessandro followed Lore’s second-in-command through what must have been the worst rat maze in the Castle. These were narrow, cold passageways, some so cramped that Alessandro had to turn sideways to slip through. Torches were rare, and at times there was barely enough light for even his vampire sight to function. However, he wasn’t complaining. They had met no guardsmen, and the hounds were perfectly certain of their path. “How much farther?” he asked.

The lead hound cast a glance over his shoulder. His name was Bevan, a young, solid-looking hound who seemed to be Lore’s friend as well as his right hand—or would that be paw?

“Another five minutes,” he said, the words colored by the almost Slavic accent the hounds had. At least this one spoke with nonhounds. Many either couldn’t or wouldn’t.

Alessandro nodded, ducking as the corridor ceiling dipped. He’d already unhooked his broadsword from its hanger and carried it by the scabbard. It had proved a nuisance in the narrow spaces.

There were six hounds following him, six pairs of shuffling feet and six beating hearts. Hounds are not food, he told himself, but he could feel the vague tug of hunger, anyway. Just nerves. If he stayed long enough, the urge to feed would pass entirely, smothered by the Castle’s magic.

Smothered. The word rattled through his head. Claustrophobia tickled between his shoulder blades. Lore is going to owe me for this.

Bevan stopped, raising a hand to signal a halt. He raised his head, sniffing. Alessandro did, too, wondering what disturbed their guide. Something unfamiliar struck his senses. It was subtle, no more than a faint metallic tang.

“Run!” Bevan sprang forward, bounding down what was now no more than a hole through the stone.

Alessandro didn’t argue. He raced after, vampire speed matching the hellhounds’, pace for pace. After a hundred more feet, the passageway widened, allowing for more freedom. He could hear the hounds behind him, one beginning to howl with panic, a strange half-human, half-canine sound. What’s back there?

And then the tunnel began to tremble, dust falling in gusts as if a giant baker were tossing handfuls of flour. Alessandro heard the clink of stone shifting, the rattle of mortar shaken loose. The roof of the tunnel began to slope upward and he gratefully straightened, lengthening his stride.

The passage opened into a cave, and he took a last bound into the torchlight, hard on Bevan’s heels. The cave was filled with hounds, a babble of excited voices. Lore had said there were forty in this group. There had to be at least half that many again, some just babes in arms. Alessandro wheeled, looking behind him. The last of the hounds was leaping out Of the passage, arms and legs flying wide.

And then, with a sound like the swish of a sliding door, the tunnel disappeared. He had expected a crash, an avalanche of falling rock. Alessandro gaped for a moment, and turned to Bevan.

“That’s how it happens,” said the hound. “The outer territories have already gone.”

“If we’d still been in there?”

Bevan shrugged.

Forcing his hands to be steady, Alessandro fiddled with his sword, attaching the scabbard back on its hanger. His thoughts felt like rubber balls, frantically bouncing off the insides of his skull. I hate magic. I really, really hate magic.

He sucked in a breath and looked around the cave. There was another door. At least they weren’t trapped.

Then he took in the hounds. “These are mostly females and children,” he said.

“Yes,” said Bevan. “The males are dead. Killed by the changelings and goblins.”

Alessandro cursed inwardly. Some of the hounds were in their beast form, black dogs with long, pointed snouts and upright ears. They all looked exhausted, especially the children. He had a sudden, vivid memory from his human life, of playing with his own younger siblings. He knew a tired toddler when he saw one.

But there was no time to rest. He looked at their mothers, trying to gauge their condition. All the hounds were ragged, the clothes sewn from coarse, hand-dyed material the weight of old sacking. Their feet were bare. What they did have were bright strings of painted wooden beads— rich, gaudy colors defiant against the Castle’s gray-on-gray hues. Women always find a way to shine.

He had to believe the beads. These mothers would get their children to safety, if he and the male hounds could secure a path.

Bevan was talking to an older woman, who wore many bright strands around her neck. An elder, and probably a grandmother. She held a little girl on her hip, who peeked at Alessandro with wide, dark eyes. She’s going to break hearts someday.

The words flew fast in the houndish tongue, with a lot of pointing at the remaining door.

“What does she say?” Alessandro asked Bevan.

“That way leads to the dark pool of water. From there it is possible to find the Castle door.”

“Is that way guarded?”

“That is not the problem.”

Bevan turned back to the woman, who talked some more.

“What?” Alessandro snapped, apprehension making him impatient. “Are the corridors vanishing?”

“No,” said Bevan. He asked another question, got a one-word reply. “They’re afraid. There’s something out there.”

“What?”

“She doesn’t know. A creature that spreads darkness. They ran in here before it got too close. And then they were too tired to carry on.”

Alessandro pushed past Bevan, storming toward the doorway.

The hound caught his arm. “What are you doing?”

“You and your men stay and keep these people safe.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out what that something is.”

Connie and Mac raced down the narrow walkway that overlooked the guardsmen’s courtyard. Mac stopped, looking over the railing at the benches and empty dormitories below. The fires were burning, but the courtyard was | empty.

“Where are the guardsmen?” Connie asked.

“Up to no good,” Mac growled. “What are those?”

He pointed to a row of frames that stood in the courtyard. They looked like giant tennis rackets standing on their handles. Some sort of hides were strung in the middle, lashed to the frames as if to stretch them. They were a light brown, with dark rosettes, and whatever creatures they came from had been huge.

“Trolls,” Connie said weakly. “Those were trolls. That’s Bran’s work.”

“Do they hunt them?”

“It’s punishment. Trolls are slow but they talk. They live in tribes.”

Mac’s stomach heaved. Did one of those hides belong to the creature he’d seen thrown into a cell? Furious, he flung himself down one of the stairs that zigzagged down to the cells beneath. “Do you see anyone in the cells?”

“Are the caves their cells?” Connie asked, jogging down the stairs after him. “Because there’s someone in that one.”

“Where?” Mac asked.

“There.” She pointed to a cell across the courtyard. “He—I’m pretty sure it’s a he—isn’t moving.”

Mac squinted. She was right. “Good eyesight. That’s a guardsman’s coat. I’ll bet you a quarter that’s Reynard.”

He turned to Connie. “I need your key.”

She gave it to him with a questioning look.

“Let’s see if it works on the cell doors. Wait here.” Mac dusted across the courtyard, materializing right outside Reynard’s cell. The ledge outside the cell door was as wide as a sidewalk, allowing Mac plenty of space to crouch and look inside the bars.

What he saw disgusted him. The cell was tiny, not large enough to lie, or stand, or even sit in comfortably.