Page 31 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

She slipped into the prepared bath and sighed in relief. The heat eased the aches of riding for so long. Come morning, she would be more than grateful for the bed she had yet to find—even if getting into it without her husband to keep her warm sent waves of sorrow through her.

After cleaning, Ariadne found her wardrobe hung and ready in a massive closet off the main bedroom. The imposing canopied four poster itself had been at its center, almost distracting her completely from the doorways leading to the closets. She chose a simple house gown of emerald and soft soled shoes before combing out her hair and making her way back out to the main corridors of the manor. Having a bedroom on the ground floor was…strange.

She found the dining room thanks to the butler, Ean, and froze, one foot in the room with her heart lurching into her throat.

A dozen dhemons stood about, speaking in their language that had begun to sound lyrical in Azriel’s voice. From so many mouths at once, however, the sound shoved her straight into the past. The past she had just sworn would not control her life anymore.

They quieted at her appearance, and she sucked in a deep breath as she took them all in. After scanning their faces, she found two she recognized: Whelan and Kall—the dhemon who had helped fight off Ehrun and his cronies. The former gave her an encouraging smile. The latter looked about as pleased about being interrupted as he had the night he almost bled out on the highway. His twisted, scarred face remained expressionless.

“Ydhom,” Whelan said to break the silence and stepped forward.

At first, Ariadne’s stomach knotted. The last thing she needed was for him or any of the others in the room to kneel at her feet as he had done in the foyer. To her relief, however, no one else moved. Whether due to their indifference or Madan’s suggestion for it to not happen, she was not certain.

“Whelan,” she replied, her voice airy with feigned ease. She moved a little further into the room, conscious of the red eyes tracking her. “I did not expect so many for dinner.”

The dhemon grinned, and she understood what attracted Madan to him. Whelan’s eyes sparkled, his mouth curled sensuously, and the angled, symmetrical planes of his face created a pleasing sight. She had not found any dhemons attractive in the past—something else Azriel had changed about her. Now she saw beyond her own terror to see the similarities between the horned fae and vampires. And there were a lot.

“We leave.” Kall’s deep voice, bearing an even heavier accent than Whelan’s, jarred her.

Ariadne gaped for a moment, then shook her head. “No! You do not have to leave. I…I was only surprised.”

The others looked between themselves but still did not move. Her heart thundered in her chest. They studied her as though sizing her up and determining her worth amongst them. One looked her over, his eyes tripping over the brand poking out from the collar of her dress. What did they think of it?

“We leave,” Kall repeated, and this time, he turned to go.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Ariadne closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his arm. The huge, ax-bearing dhemon froze before looking back at her. His eyes, one red and one foggy and unseeing, burned like flames. Still, she drew herself up and said in as strong a voice as she could muster, “Stay. Please.”

“Well, they can’t all stay.” Madan’s voice jolted through her. She released Kall and whipped around as he continued, “Some of them are supposed to be on patrol.”

With a grumble, all but four left, leaving Whelan, Kall, and two to whom she had yet to be introduced.

But they were not in the forefront of her thoughts anymore. An old Caersan woman had an arm looped through Madan’s amputated limb. Her gray hair glittered like cobwebs, and her eyes—oh, her eyes—searched her face with quiet interest. They were the same shade of green as Azriel’s. Her heart ached at the sight.

“Ariadne,” Madan said, “meet my grandmother, Margot Caldwell.”

The last living Original vampire stepped forward, her thin lips curling into a smile. “It is wonderful to finally meet you.”

“I am honored.” Ariadne bobbed a curtsy. Then she glanced at Madan and over her shoulder at the dhemons. She had so many questions and yet no words to voice them.

But Margot did not seem at such a loss. She took Ariadne’s hand and patted it twice before finding a place at the long table. Despite her great age, the Caersan moved with slow, steady grace. As though knowing full well that every person standing in that room—in any room with her present—would wait.

“By the gods,” Margot said as she settled into her seat and looked around at each of them still standing, “sit so we can eat.”

Everyone moved at once. Madan took his place at the head of the table with Whelan to his left and Margot to his right. Ariadne hesitated, then sat beside Margot. She watched with a racing pulse as the dhemons also claimed seats. Kall across from her, his stern face unreadable. The other two she did not know sat across from one another, one next to her, and the other beside Kall.

Ariadne stared at a spot on the table just beyond her wine glass. Somehow, she had never pictured dhemons as the fae who would use cutlery or even dishes. With all of the horrific and gruesome tales told about them, she had spent her entire life imagining them clawing into their meals like animals.

Yet all four of them sat with her, straight-backed and as proper as any Caersan vampire. The dhemon beside her poured wine into the glasses he could reach, including hers, without so much as batting an eye or spilling a drop. When Rusans entered the dining room with platters of food to serve, each dhemon murmured their gratitude—particularly when a pile of raw meat was spooned onto their plates. None of the low-born vampires flinched, and one woman with mousy brown hair even leaned in to flirt with the one across the table as she served him.

She thanked the last Rusan to serve her before they departed from the room and stared at her plate of roasted chicken, potatoes, and fresh vegetables. The only difference between her plate and the one beside her was the cooked meat.

The same cooked meat Azriel had always pushed aside on his plate. Gods, how had she never noticed it before? Certainly, many fae were vegetarians, but most were not. He had never made a fuss over his food, and when served cooked meats, he had cut into it and moved it about as though to hide the fact he never touched it.

Ariadne looked up at the dhemon beside her, her heart lurching into her throat, and asked quietly, “Why can you not eat cooked meat?”

At first, the dhemon just blinked at her, his brows drawn low over scarlet eyes. The tips of his horns ended just below his jawline, and half of the ear she could see was missing. He opened his mouth as though to reply, then glanced up at Madan.

Her brother spoke in the dhemon tongue, but Ariadne could not take her eyes off the blue-skinned man before her. Whether out of fear or astonishment, she could no longer tell. She only felt the hard beat of her heart against her rib cage.

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