Page 70 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

With a quick thanks and incline of his head, Madan took the glass and started off. The name and title had yet to settle in. Though he certainly could get used to the perks of being a Lord Governor—membership to places like Boone’s being just one—the business behind it all didn’t sit quite right.

This was meant to be Azriel’s position. Though his brother had hated the very idea of it, he’d known it was coming the moment Garth Caldwell took ill. Madan never considered the title and all its responsibilities being passed down to him. The very notion had been preposterous, for he knew that, as much as Azriel said he would give it to him, his brother would’ve never forced the role on him unwillingly.

Unfortunately, just that had happened the moment Loren fucking Gard revealed Azriel’s true heritage. That bastard would pay for his crimes one day.

For Madan continued to hold tight to the possibility that Garth Caldwell’s illness hadn’t been from old age. Gods knew his wife was ancient in comparison and continued to move freely about the Caldwell Estate in Monsumbra—if not with some assistance from time to time. Someone had poisoned him, and it was likely the same substance that took Madan’s arm: liquid sunshine.

The liquid acted slow, from what Madan could remember of his time in the cellar of Loren’s guardhouse. If it’d been given to Garth in small doses over time, it would’ve wreaked havoc on his innards. Even a single helping of it would’ve been enough to cause death. His grandfather’s sudden decline in health all but screamed foul play. Partnered with the fact that he’d been working to create a peace treaty between vampires and the Crowe, Madan’s suspicions only grew.

There was only one person in power who profited from war. And it was the only vampire he was aware of having access to that terrible potion.

The thoughts plagued Madan as he ascended to the second, then third floor of Boone’s. The number of patrons in the wide open rooms in the upper levels decreased the higher he went. By the top floor, he was almost completely alone.

Boone’s ceilings soared in the highest rooms, the slants painted with murals of the gods of Empyrean. Sora, the Goddess of the Heavens, shone brightest of them all with her brown skin, pointed ears, and feathered silver wings. Her gray eyes and silver hair almost glowed amongst the soft clouds, outshining even the Goddess of Flame, Emry, who ruled over the desert and steppes to the east.

Yet neither goddess, despite Emry’s stark tattoos, shaved head, and iridescent wings, was the one who drew Madan’s attention. Instead, it was Bastien. The God of Rain was positioned away from the others amongst the stormy clouds. Despite his burgundy complexion and leathery wings, his long, dagger-like fangs were the closest to a vampire’s. He was beautifully ethereal, like the other celestials, but it was his brassy eyes, the tone so similar to the marbled gold in Madan’s, that held his attention.

Madan didn’t find the vampires’ history books tasteful in terms of their take on the timeline of the Keonis Valley, yet he couldn’t fault their artistic renderings of the gods. They took the ancient texts of the fae and created magnificent visuals based on what was written.

“Lord Caldwell.” Alek’s voice cut across his thoughts, and when he turned to follow the sound, he found the Caersan lounging in a leather wingback chair. “I am pleased you made it.”

He started across the room, away from where the handful of others on the third floor played a rousing game of billiards, and took a seat in the matching chair beside Alek. “Of course.”

After all, it had been Madan who requested the meeting. It hadn’t taken much convincing. Alek always seemed ready to accept such invitations.

“I don’t believe I’ve offered my congratulations,” Madan said, “on your engagement to Miss Harlow.”

Alek’s black eyes glittered. If nothing else, Madan couldn’t deny the fact that the man was wickedly handsome. His long, inky hair shone blue in the firelight, and his hooded gaze always seemed to be filled with steam, no matter who he looked at. Right now, they smoldered at Madan, and he didn’t appreciate the way it made him yearn for Whelan.

“You have my thanks.” Alek raised his glass. “But I assume you did not ask me to meet you here to speak about my future bride.”

“Would that be strange?” Madan took a sip from his drink and raised a brow. “I was her guard for more than a year.”

The Caersan responded with a dark chuckle. “I suppose that is true. Is that all this is, then? A chance for you to get to know me and ensure her…safety?”

“No, you’re right.” Madan reached across himself to set the glass onto the coaster of the small table between them and winced. It wasn’t often he felt phantom pain in his missing limb, but he certainly didn’t appreciate it when it happened. “I wanted to thank you for your help with the Council. I understand why Azriel was so quick to trust you.”

Alek inclined his head. “It was not so long ago that I was in the same position. When my father passed, it was…unexpected. I had not been appropriately prepared.”

“No one expects their predecessor to die so suddenly.”

Alek didn’t flinch at Madan’s remark, and that let Madan decide on two things. The first was that Alek was not upset by his father’s passing. Whatever happened between the two of them left its mark, and he was, likely, thankful for the Caersan’s sudden departure. The second was that Alek knew what really happened to Azriel, and he had the suspicion that Madan also knew the truth.

Between both of these realizations, he was ready to dissect the Lord Governor’s knowledge about it all. To do so, however, he needed to make sure he could trust him.

“Everyone dies eventually.” Alek studied Madan’s face, those dark eyes roaming and analyzing. “Though I am deeply disappointed by your predecessor’s fate, I am pleased to have finally made your acquaintance. He spoke very highly of you.”

Madan’s heart gave a twang. It isn’t the first time Azriel’s life had hung in the balance, but to think that his fate rested in the hands of a Caersan woman riddled with self-doubt and a dhemon with poor self-control made it all the worse. He wouldn’t have sent them alone if he truly doubted it. The worry, however, ate at him.

“Did he tell you anything the last time you spoke?” Madan asked, checking to ensure the others in the room were all still hulking around the billiards table.

After following his gaze, Alek tilted his head. “You ask as though I were one of the last to see him.”

“Were you not?”

Now Alek’s eyes narrowed. He knew something, and Madan could feel it. The brief telepathic tête-à-tête he had with his brother thanks to Brutis and Razer had been informative yet lacked substance. Between what Azriel and Ariadne had said, combined with the cover story provided by Lord Knoll, he’d pieced it all together. Almost.

“I was at the Harlow Manor shortly after the news broke.” Alek’s words were careful. Weighed. Precise. As though he’d practiced them again and again. “The younger Miss Harlow was quite distraught.”

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