Unknown: Scorched

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.

Up ahead, she could hear boots on the stone floor. Reynard had joined his men. Now four guardsmen were marching toward the part of the Castle where her family lived, and she had no idea what they wanted. Their mysterious treasure? Why are they looking for it here?

She whistled for Viktor. After a long moment, he came bounding out of the shadows with his doll. She dug her lingers into his heavy coat, grateful for his reassuring warmth.

“Come on, boyo,” she whispered into his ear. “We have to go home. I don’t know what we’re going to do about our visitors, but Atreus isn’t himself and Sylvius is too young to help him. You and I have to be the level heads.”

Viktor looked doubtful.

“Best leave the talking to me,” said Constance.

He woofed agreement, drooling around the doll.

With one hand clutching the werebeast’s fur, she followed the guardsmen, keeping a long way back. Viktor padded at her side, possessively close. What do they want with us? she wondered. We’ve already lost everything we had. Constance turned hot, and then cold as anger and apprehension chased each other through her blood.

There were no gates or fences to define the borders of her family’s home, but everyone in the Castle knew where their neighbor’s territory lay. Atreus’s corner of the dungeon was a handful of chambers clustered around a square hall.

The guardsmen strode directly into the hall and formed a semicircle, standing an equal distance apart. Constance lingered in the doorway like a half-remembered ghost, Viktor still at her side.

Despite the four visitors, the room felt bare. There was furniture, but it was plain wood pitted with centuries of use. At one end of the room was a high-backed armchair, sculpted like the throne of an ancient king. No subjects waited at its feet.

Atreus sat on it, one finger tapping his lips, watching but saying nothing. That stillness meant the calm before a storm of temper. Either Captain Reynard didn’t know, or didn’t care.

“Sorcerer,” Reynard said, with the merest sliver of a bow—a show of courtesy, not subservience.

“Captain.” Atreus nodded. He shifted on the great chair, light playing over the soft folds of his jeweled blue robe. A sleek circlet of gold bound his mass of ink-black hair. His face was strong, rough-hewn and swarthy, the visage of a prince. “You trespass here, you and your guardsmen. This is my place now.”

Reynard gave the specter of a smile. “You cannot bar the door from us. You have no army.”

“I have followers.”

“You have a dog.” Reynard’s eyes slid toward the door, where Constance hovered. “And a vampire who’s never tasted blood. Almost a human. Lovely to look at, but weak.”

Constance felt hot shame crawling up her cheeks. A look of surprise flickered in Reynard’s eyes, as if he hadn’t expected his words to sting. He looked quickly away. “You must negotiate with us, Atreus of Muria, if you expect to live here in peace.”

Atreus rose, taller than even the largest of the guardsmen. “I ruled a kingdom within this Castle. I kept order over the demons and werebeasts when you could not. Who are you to give or take permission? You are merely turnkeys, lackeys of the prison.”

Reynard locked gazes. “It’s no secret your magic has rotted away to nothing.”

“Lies and rumors.”

“Truth. Your subjects chose a new king and left you to scrape an existence out of dust. You’re finished. A ghost with barely a chain to rattle.”

As Reynard spoke, Atreus’s face flushed dark with rage. He fingered the hem of his wide, draping cuff, kneading it as angry tension soaked the air.

“I speak the truth,” Reynard repeated softly, almost in apology. “Think of the loyal few who stay with you. For the sake of their welfare, you must listen to what I have to say.”

Atreus looked over Reynard’s head, as if the guardsman were beneath notice. The seam of the cuff was starting to give, the ancient silk shredding between his hands. “I ruled. I held the power and wealth of the Castle’s vampire clans, the prides and the packs, between my hands. I took tribute from those who came to me for refuge from your beatings and your shackles. Do not speak to me of sacrifice for the sake of my subjects. I have sheltered them for a hundred of your lifetimes.”

Among the guardsmen, there were impatient shuffles of feet and shared glances. Constance heard tearing cloth, and winced. She was running out of thread to mend her master’s robes.

Reynard shook his head. “Prince Miru-kai sends spies deep into your territory. Soon his warriors will take what little you have left. You need our help.”

“You would help me as a jackal helps a wounded lion.”

Constance slipped from the doorway into the room, past Reynard, and took her place at her master’s side. She gave the guardsman a hot glare.

Atreus glanced down, dark eyes barely focusing on her face before he turned back to Reynard. She put her hand over her master’s, stilling his fingers, smoothing the hem of his sleeve.

The Captain rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We will keep you from harm, but first there is something that you must surrender. It tempts others.”

“But you said yourself that I have nothing.”

“You still hold one object of great value,” said Reynard.

“Do I?” Atreus returned.

“Something others will try and take.” Reynard gave Constance another of his sad looks.

“Oh!” She suddenly understood. Holy Bridget, no. She should have guessed. Should have known. Reynard had tried to prepare her—as if that were even possible.

Constance felt suddenly light-headed, as if a void had opened where her stomach should have been. Reynard, you cold bastard. This is what you consider your duty?

She looked up at her master. “No, don’t let them!”

Atreus gave her a quelling glance, his fingers working at his robe again. “Whatever I have, I can defend.”

Reynard narrowed his eyes. “I think not.”

“Don’t let them!”

“Be silent, girl!” Atreus warned, his voice sharp and dark as an obsidian blade. “You’re not a fishwife bickering at the market. The wrong word at the wrong time is as fatal as a plague.”

Constance nearly bit her tongue in her haste to close her mouth. Part of her wanted to die and turn to dust. The rest—the bigger part—wanted to explode with fury.

Atreus put one hand on her shoulder, gripping it tight. “Silence.”

Constance squirmed, until he squeezed all the harder. Reynard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Give us what we want, and we’ll keep your enemies away.”

“And if we do not?”

“If I were in your position that is a chance I would not care to take.”

Atreus dropped his hand from Constance’s shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked. “A spell book? A jewel?”

Reynard’s eyes grew hard, skating past Constance as if she weren’t there. “The incubus you call Sylvius.”

My son.

Outrage jolted Constance so hard that she gripped the arm of Atreus’s chair to keep from staggering. Her one instinct was to stay upright. If she was standing, she could defend her child.

Something moved behind the guardsmen, gliding through the shadows.