Page 9 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Then the collar’s magic locked up his voice, choking the air from his throat so all he could do was glare at the cowering Caersan. A faint glow emitted from the key, and a moment later, his legs jerked forward, disconnected from his own will. The sensation unnerved him, an uneasiness curling in his gut.

If the fae magic could control his very movements, what else could it do?

“Not so confident now, are you, monster?” Niil spat from behind him.

Azriel grit his teeth, fighting back to regain control of his limbs. It burned, and the pressure, near bone-breaking, reminded him of transitioning between vampire and dhemon.

He broke through the barrier and lurched back, his fist colliding with Niil’s jaw. The Caersan stumbled. Before Azriel could strike a second time, the sharp edge of a sword pressed against his neck. Through the blind rage, the pain didn’t register—only the trickle of warmth down his throat.

“Just as ill-tempered as your bitch,” drawled a bored voice behind him. Nikolai.

“She was kinder to you than I would’ve been,” Azriel hissed back, once again unable to move thanks to the glowing key.

“You will be pleased to know,” Nikolai continued, lowering his voice, and he shifted into view, “she will be well taken care of by the General.”

True pain lanced through him at that. No blade or broken bone could compare. A fire danced through his blood at the memories of Ariadne dancing with Loren, wearing his engagement necklace, and hiding the bruise he’d left behind.

“Does that upset you?” A smirk curled Nikolai’s thin mouth. His whispers, meant only for Azriel’s ears, could only mean one thing: they didn’t want others to know who he was.

But he, once again, couldn’t reply. The notion only spurred Nikolai’s amusement, and he said, louder this time, “Continue, Captain Niil. I shall debrief with you shortly.”

This time, when the key glowed, Azriel let them lead him inside the prison. The moonlight disappeared behind the thick, windowless walls, and with it, the last shred of hope to which he’d clung.

Madan froze, fingers of his remaining hand gripping the back of the couch in Monsumbra’s Caldwell Estate. The words, echoing in his mind from Brutis’s telepathy, sent ice-cold dread leaching through his gut.

He’s been exposed.

“Ariadne?” he asked back, the mental thread between him and his closest companion growing stronger with each exchange. If he couldn’t save his brother, the least he could do was protect his sister. “Do they know what’s happened to her?”

It wouldn’t be the first time. After her abduction and the torture that followed, Madan had pulled Ariadne from the dhemon’s mountain keep while Azriel distracted Ehrun. The bastard had ignored the Crowe’s command to cease any retaliation against the vampires, his need for vengeance too strong to ignore.

Madan’s shared blood with both Azriel and Ariadne, through different parents, always placed him in a difficult position. He’d abandoned his brother when he’d been needed most to protect his sister from any further harm. The result almost cost Azriel his life.

Now Madan stood in the fine manor, overseeing the care of Eastwood Province to prepare for Azriel’s return as Lord Governor, and watched with wide, unseeing eyes as his world fell out from beneath him. Once again, he had to choose: save the brother he’d loved for five centuries or protect the sister he’d just begun to know.

The pause stretched between them as Brutis and Razer, Azriel’s telepathic link, became the bridge between him and his brother. Finally, Brutis’s raspy thoughts slid through Madan’s mind, “She’s safe at the Harlow’s. For now. The General plans to marry her.”

“Fuck.” Madan pushed away from the green velvet couch and looked around the dark wood library. Moonlight streamed in through the ceiling-high windows behind him, casting a long shadow across the library’s fanciful rug. “When?”

Another pause and then, “Uncertain. Razer turned back.”

If ever there were a time to ask Azriel’s companion to rain hell down on Laeton, it would be then. He could picture the fire and hear the screams as he had during so many of their raids.

Yet to do so would be detrimental. They needed their friends if they had any hope of one day defeating Ehrun, and Razer wouldn’t make it out alive. Loren’s soldiers were insufferable grunts, but they weren’t useless. They were more than capable of taking down someone even as devastating as—

“Madan?” The wizened voice broke through the tempest of his thoughts.

He turned to the door, taking in his grandmother’s small, ancient form. Margot Caldwell, the oldest living vampire and the last of the Originals, stood just beyond the threshold in her long, trailing periwinkle gown. She no longer wore black in mourning for her husband, the late Lord Governor Garth Caldwell, but the weight of his passing remained heavy in her wrinkled green eyes. Her hair, once as dark as his own, twisted back from her face like a wave of pearls.

“Grandmother.” Madan pushed away from the couch and held out his hand—no, his stump of an arm, thanks to Loren—before dropping it to his side. He silently cursed the arm, as he always did, for making him look foolish.

Margot’s pale brows furrowed, and her eyes, sharp as always, seared into him. “What troubles you?”

How could he tell her? She had been so pleased to hear of Azriel’s acceptance as the Lord Governor. Ecstatic, even, to know he’d soon return home with his bride. Not only his bride but the woman he’d silently pined for over the months he’d lived with her at the Estate before transferring to become the Harlows’ personal guard. The woman for whom he nearly lost his mind and all sense of who he was.

Children, she had said over dinner just that morning. She couldn’t wait to hear the pitter-patter of little feet again. The last set she’d heard in these halls, after all, had been his and Azriel’s, and they had disappeared so suddenly. She’d been told they’d both been murdered. Markus had refused to let her see their bodies, claiming it to be too gruesome for her eyes.

Now her dreams of seeing the next generation raised into adulthood would also slip away.

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