Page 10 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Madan opened his mouth to tell her the truth, but the emotions slammed his throat closed, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. “They aren’t coming.”

A silence met the words, and when he opened his eyes, Margot merely stared. Stared as the realization crept in. Old though she may be, she was no fool. She could piece together any puzzle with nary a picture to guide her. “So they know, then.”

“Yes.” The affirmation burned his throat, and he shook his head.

“What of his wife?”

“To marry the General, it seems.”

Margot nodded once, lips quivering as she turned her attention to a fixed point just beyond him. Her eyes shimmered, so much like Azriel’s, and when she blinked, a single tear rolled down her cheek.

Madan stepped forward. “I…don’t know what to do, Grandmother.”

“You carry on,” she whispered without looking at him. “As we have always done.”

We. Indeed, his grandmother had carried on through too much. Born mere days before the curse was set upon them during the Mage Wars, her parents died not long after. She’d been given to the Caldwells as a ward, and they married her to their first-born son after his transition. Then, one by one, the closest people she had to parents and family died. Garth’s father, then mother, and younger brother. When she birthed her daughter, Mariana, it’d been her first breath of hope. Two grandsons had been more than she ever imagined. Until Markus stole that life, too.

“I can’t just let them—”

“Your brother will take care of himself, as he has always done.” Margot gripped his handless arm and squeezed hard. “Your sister will survive, as she has always done. Right now…” She pierced him with her vibrant gaze. “Right now, you have visitors waiting for you in the dining room.”

Whelan. Whelan would know what to do.

“Thank you.” Madan pressed a kiss to his grandmother’s cheek before sweeping from the library to the grand staircase he bounded down, two at a time. His heart thundered. He had yet to see the horned fae he loved since arriving in Monsumbra the previous night. None of the dhemons still loyal to Azriel had lingered long in Eastwood without them around.

And he needed Whelan more than he could bear.

He hurried into the dining room where a dozen dhemons stood around a long, raw-edged table, their dark blue skin shining with perspiration in the crystal chandelier’s light. Black tattoos ran up their corded arms, rippling as they stretched and contracted their fingers. They spoke in a low hum, the casual dhemon tongue and laughter sounding strange within the powder pink vampiric hall.

The jokes and teasing faded when Madan entered. A dozen pairs of ruby eyes shifted to him, then his arm. One of the nearest dhemons, Kall, gaped at him before grimacing at the low cry of despair from the back of the crowd.

Whelan pushed his way to the front, and Madan’s heart contracted. It’d been too long since he’d seen him, and the secret he’d kept weighed heavily as the dhemon’s beautiful face crumpled in misery. His huge hands cupped Madan’s face and grabbed the amputated arm’s elbow. The massive black horns, spiraling elegantly from his hairline, bumped Madan’s cheek as he pressed their foreheads together.

“Alhija,” Whelan murmured, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes closed. He continued in his native language, “Why did you not tell me?”

Madan’s heart warmed at the soft term of endearment he’d come to relish on his partner’s lips. My love. He responded in the same tongue, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I thought,” Whelan rasped, “when Brutis said you were unable to speak, it’d been due to business with the Caersans. How did this happen?”

With a sigh, Madan pressed his lips to Whelan’s and let the larger man pull him closer. The other dhemons continued their chattering, ignoring the public display of affection. None of them cared. It wasn’t the dhemons’ custom to treat such tender moments with disdain like in the Society. They considered love, and all that accompanied it, natural and right. The culture shock when Madan began his reintegration with the vampires had been difficult.

“I’m fine now,” Madan whispered after unentangling his tongue. “That’s all that matters.”

Whelan shook his head, his deep garnet eyes snapping open to search him for any signs of dishonesty. “Tell me everything.”

“You must swear to me you won’t go to Laeton.”

The dhemon fought back a snarl. “This is from vampires?”

Madan stroked his thumb down Whelan’s sharp cheek and gave the tip of his horn a gentle tug. Oh, he’d be gripping those tighter later, but for now he needed the bonded fae’s full attention. “Swear it. I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to you.”

Still, Whelan hesitated. After a long moment of soul-searching and reining in his bond, he gave a single, stiff nod. “I swear I won’t go to Laeton.”

“Let me rephrase…” Madan glowered at him. “Swear to me you won’t go after or lure out any of the vampires involved, nor will you ask any of the others to do it for you. Not now, not ever.”

A low growl rumbled in Whelan’s chest at the tighter restrictions. “I cannot promise that, given the opportunity, I won’t take it.”

The very thought of Whelan going up against Loren made Madan’s heart crack. While he knew the dhemon could take care of himself, particularly one-on-one against the General, he didn’t trust the vampire wouldn’t use trickery or an ambush to win. At the same time, he couldn’t keep Whelan from acting on his bond if Loren were to unwisely show his face in Monsumbra.

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