Page 8 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Yet despite their cunning narrative, the quirk of Alek’s mouth relayed just how much of it he believed. He bid farewell to her father and the General, then held out his arm to her. Together, they exited the manor to find the Caldwell carriage at the foot of the steps with no one inside.

“Odd,” Alek murmured, that sharp gaze locking onto the traveling trunks still strapped to the carriage.

Behind them, her personal guard, Sul, followed at a distance. She mounted her mare with Alek’s assistance, brought about by Thom the stablehand, and they departed from the Estate. To her relief, he did not attempt to fill the silence by drumming up memories of their childhood as he was wont to do.

Instead, she filled it with a proposition.

Chapter 3

Azriel’s second ride in the prison wagon, this time away from the Harlow Estate with his skin intact, painted a very different image. The first time, he’d knelt on the floor of the wagon, his bare chest draped over the seat to keep his ruined back from bumping anything, praying for the blood loss to drag him to the Underworld so he could escape the hell that was his life. Now, he rode on the bench he had once clutched, yet again wishing Loren’s first attempt at killing him had succeeded.

Shame and humiliation ricocheted through him in both instances. Once, it’d been for the crowd’s shock at his scars and to have slipped in and out of consciousness during the lashing. This time, both familiar emotions rolled through his chest and seized his lungs for Ariadne. She’d never recover from such disgrace.

He should’ve fought harder against the liquid sunshine. The poison still pulsed through his veins like an inferno. The invisible flames licked from his toes to his eyes and burned his throat with each breath.

Never, in all the ways he imagined Loren coming after him, did he expect the bastard to risk using the mage-made compound. Though Madan had lost his arm to Loren’s devious torture with the same liquid, Azriel hadn’t considered it being used as a way to force a transition. With Ariadne’s haphazard rescue attempt mottling what she remembered and his brother’s own memory gaps from those nights, he knew of nothing that pointed to liquid sunshine having such capabilities.

Yet the moment the poison entered his body, it triggered that hidden side of him. His vision had turned dark on the edges when he’d stumbled up the front steps, and his head had ached from the strain of holding him together. By the time Ariadne arrived, his skin crawled, and only focused, deep breaths kept his bones from cracking sooner. But losing his grip didn’t happen until Loren had mocked Ariadne’s title and belittled her much like he had in front of the Court House all those weeks ago. The single, unfocused second was enough to slip.

He’d underestimated Loren’s hate, and because the bastard always got under his skin, he lost everything.

It was Ariadne’s furious attempt to get back to him that twisted the proverbial dagger in his heart. She’d stabbed a military officer, demonstrating the huge change she’d undergone since their first official meeting when she’d frozen at the sight of dhemons attacking the Vertium ball. Rather than cower in fear for what would come, she charged forward and faced those who challenged her voice.

I love him, I love him!

Azriel shook his head to himself and pressed his fists against his eyes. The tips of his spiraling horns scraped past his wrists at the motion—a terrible reminder of what caused this fresh set of nightmares.

The wagon trundled to a halt. He straightened, dropping his hands to his lap, as the door opened. He’d be damned if he let any one of those soldiers see him crumble.

The officer on the far side, Captain Pietro Niil, lifted his lip in a sneer. “So the General was right. Filthy half-breed.”

Muscles along Azriel’s neck and shoulders tensed with indignation, then locked up as the collar around his neck sent a wave of high fae magic through him. The magic woven into the metal had been designed to entrap enemies by binding their strength and abilities to the one in possession of the collar’s key. A quick glance at Niil’s chest revealed the small skeleton key dangling by a chain.

How Loren had convinced the high fae to give him one perplexed Azriel. The dwellers of the L’Oden Forest to the west rarely dealt with vampires. Aside from traveling merchants and their lycan guards, they preferred to keep to themselves. To pass along one of their most powerful tools, the collars too often used to control new lycan prisoners, meant he’d either been very convincing…or very stupid.

Because the fae never gave without taking, and if Loren promised something in return, he knew nothing of fae dealings. Unless he was careful, his very soul could belong to them.

The Captain stepped aside, and a grunt soldier climbed into the wagon to attach a chain to the collar. His leash. As though he were an animal needing to be tamed.

They had no idea just how true that could be.

Flashes of a burning village and the echoes of screams resurfaced from Azriel’s memories. Silhouettes of vampires and dhemons alike streaked before the raging infernos, and in his mind’s eye, he lifted a short sword to meet an oncoming attack.

He’d razed armies once. Led his troops into battle at his father’s command to take back the land stolen from them. The vampires had met them with equal force. Though dhemons were strong and fueled by hatred, their enemy had been too quick and far more organized in their efforts.

Azriel never understood the Caersans’ fear of dhemons. Members of the Society rarely faced off with them, and those who did were almost evenly matched. The only upper hand dhemons ever held were their ambushes. If they could catch the vampires unprepared, they could strong-arm a victory.

The leash jangled as the soldier tugged, forcing him to follow or fall on his face. He chose the former, though he didn’t hold back the snarl of disdain or subsequent chuckle when the vampires cowered.

“Frightened of me, Captain?” Azriel’s voice, deeper in this form, commanded a level of respect he’d used many times with other dhemons. Even smaller than most, he could emulate his father’s tone with impeccable accuracy.

Niil pinched his mouth into a thin line and stood a little straighter. “I do not fear dead beasts.”

“Oh, no,” he growled back and leaned a little closer so the tips of his horns almost brushed the Caersan’s cheek, “it’s what waits after death you should fear.”

The color leached from Niil’s face before he pointed to the prison behind him. “Solitary.”

Another yank of the chain and Azriel snarled, the sound not unlike a bear. He bared his sharp teeth before gnashing them at Niil as he passed. When he spoke next, the dhemon language made the Captain step back in alarm, “You will die alongside your precious General.”

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