Page 36 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

His father gaped. “That bastard turns into a dhemon?”

“Now you understand,” Loren crooned. “He is a liar. A traitor. A fucking enemy of this kingdom, and I saw to his fall from grace.”

“You have done the Princeps a great service,” his mother said, then shook her head. “Poor, poor Lady Caldwell.”

Loren held up a hand. “Mother. Her marriage was by no means legal—the Princeps said so himself. Miss Harlow will do.”

His mother blanched. “But then…she is ruined.”

“That is precisely why you must not speak of this to anyone.” He cast his parents a meaningful stare. “Miss Harlow was quite distraught when all of this was revealed to the Princeps. She will require a new husband as soon as possible.”

Now his father pierced him with a hard look, his lips thinning. “And you intend to be that husband? To a soiled woman?”

“I intend to follow through on my original promise to the Princeps.”

“And if she will not have your hand?” His mother watched him warily, no doubt remembering the reactions at the Teaglow Estate. At least he had successfully hidden the Caldwells’ massacre of their guards at their ball from them. Threats from the General motivated soldiers more than the prospect of their Lord Governor discovering the truth.

“If my discussions with the Princeps continue as they have already,” Loren explained, “there will be no room for dissent from Miss Harlow.”

His father sipped his wine, and Loren could almost hear the thoughts churning in his mind as he considered everything. No one had touched their food in quite some time now.

“What is your fascination with the Harlows?” his father finally asked. “I saw you dance with the younger Miss Harlow at our ball as well.”

Loren swirled his wine and studied his father. “You were the one to teach me how to advance in the Society. Why settle for the future as a Lord Governor when I can be the High Lord Governor?”

“The Princeps is still quite young.” His father studied him. “You plan to remain General for that long?”

A slow smirk curled Loren’s mouth again, and he emptied his wine glass. “Never fear, Father. I have a plan.”

“Loren…” his mother breathed, her eyes widening at the unspoken threat. “What—”

“All in good time, Mother.” Loren poured himself another glass, his father merely gaping at him incredulously. He fixed a meaningful stare on the elder Gard. “I expect your full support moving forward.”

His father did not respond for a long moment. When at last he spoke, he did so with a curt nod. “Of course, Son.”

Chapter 9

Azriel’s first fight in the Pits was a mere three days into his imprisonment under Melia. Despite the careful tallies he kept on his wall to mark the long, grueling days of training in the heat, his mind muddled the events of one day to the next. Memories of conversations he’d overheard from the Valenul soldiers mixed with those from the prisoners, contorting the past with the present.

The second time he asked Raoul to remind him about his time in Waer Province, the human had looked at him as though he had lost his mind before informing him he’d never set foot in Valenul.

Fuck. It was the only word appropriate for what Azriel knew to be happening. It’d occurred once before, not long after Madan rescued Ariadne from Auhla. He’d returned from Algorath and found he couldn’t differentiate the nights, remember critical information needed for his role as a guard to the Caldwell Estate, or even recall where his own room had been.

It’d taken Madan weeks to get him back on track. Months to begin the healing. Then a single fucking request to ruin every step of progress he’d made.

Dhemon bonds differed from other fae in one critical aspect: they lost all sense of the world when separated from the one with whom they’d bonded. Though any fae carried the risk of growing volatile or even downright destructive in the wake of separation, nothing compared to the world-shattering blind rage which took over a dhemon. Azriel had unfortunately witnessed the steady spiral into madness with both his father and Ehrun. He knew it well as an onlooker…and as someone who had tried to hang himself to avoid the encroaching darkness.

Memory loss and confusion were always the first signs.

Madan’s blood connection to Ariadne had somehow tethered Azriel enough throughout the first separation that he had been able to find his way back. The same had happened for his father with him and Madan, though not before he’d raised an army and burned vampire villages in the name of vengeance. Ehrun had had no such blood connection to his dead mate. His only daughter had been killed as well.

And without that tether to the real world, Azriel wasn’t certain what would happen to him. Though Ariadne wasn’t dead, her inability to bond with him left him without a lifeline. Most fae bonded to one another, creating a two-way connection between them. It allowed them to feel the other’s presence, sense their emotions, and, for some, communicate telepathically. Those fae knew exactly how their mate fared, for if that connection ever severed, they’d feel it immediately.

Azriel had no such connection with Ariadne. Therefore, he could never know if she was safe. His bond depended on their near-constant interaction. Without it, that horrible monster inside him reared its ugly head and whispered to him every possible nightmare, driving him down that path of agonizing worry and, ultimately, hate.

Oh, the gods were cruel for giving him someone who could not complete the mating bond. How had his father survived without his mother within arm’s reach at all times? No wonder she disappeared into the forest so often when he was a child.

So as he sat beside Raoul, picking through the bowl of Melia’s latest leftovers with disgust, he forced himself to push past the mortifying realization of what plagued him. He apologized for confusing his new friend’s history with that of an oddly friendly vampire soldier and turned the topic back to the matter at hand.

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