Page 131 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

The brown-haired fae to his left raised his shackled wrists, the magic-blocking cuffs as detrimental to their inherent strengths as the collar was to Azriel. “Can you get these off?”

“I know who can once we’re outside these walls.”

“We need our magic to face them,” said the redheaded fae to Liulund’s right. “Or they’ll kill us on the spot.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Do you think I’m stupid? That I wouldn’t have a plan?”

Liulund set his empty bowl in the sand. “Do explain, then.”

Merely having their undivided attention was more than Azriel anticipated. After what he’d done for Liulund, he’d hoped it’d work in his favor. Now it was time to cash in on what he’d sacrificed for his life.

“I think you give me your oath,” Azriel explained, “and then stay out of my way. I’ll distract the Desmo and her goons. You kill them. Simple.”

The fae chuckled, then the redhead said, “You think you’re enough to distract them while the rest of us act? Did you cry out all your thoughts yesterday? Or did Melia fuck them out of you?”

It wasn’t often that Azriel reacted with vampire-like reflexes. His hand shot out faster than his own eyes could keep up, pinning the smart-mouthed fae to the wall by his throat. He bared his sharp teeth. The other two jolted in surprise. “When you have your mate’s head dropped on your fucking lap, come talk to me about keeping your thoughts together. My head is clear, but yours will be broken on this wall if you aren’t careful.”

Liulund hissed something in high fae as the redhead choked under the pressure of Azriel’s hand. Then he turned to him. “She killed your mate?”

Pain throbbed through him. He nodded once, still not loosening his grip or taking his eyes off the redhead. “I will raze this fucking prison to the ground for what she’s done, and anyone not beside me will be buried in it.”

Whether it was the threat or mention of his mate that swayed Liulund, Azriel did not know, nor did he care. Nonetheless, the high fae said, “A blood oath it is. From all of us.”

Azriel eased his hold on the fae, who sucked in a rasping breath. He studied them for a long moment. All fae had their own versions of blood oaths, but none bound others quite so completely as the dhemons’. Perhaps it was connected to their physical strength. Perhaps it was all about mental fortitude. Perhaps the dhemons merely had more practice in the art of oaths after spending millennia fighting for their ancestral homeland. Whatever it was, he only cared that it worked.

Pulling an arrowhead, stolen from the Pits by Sasja, from his pocket, Azriel held out his free hand. After a beat of hesitation, Liulund placed his own hand atop Azriel’s palm and grit his teeth as he braced for the cut.

Within a few minutes, the three fae had sworn their oaths, and Azriel left them to tend to their wounds. The cuts wouldn’t take long to seal, but since their quick healing was a direct result of magic, it’d take longer than normal.

When he moved on to where the humans sat finishing their breakfast, Raoul joined him. The man pulled up short to look him up and down, his hazel eyes narrowing, before saying, “I never thought you looked much like a vampire, but I see it now.”

A frown pulled Azriel’s brows together. The bond that drove him forward was purely dhemon. Whatever Raoul saw, he didn’t know. “You make no sense.”

“It’s the bloodlust.” Raoul shuddered, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “You’re starving.”

“What gave you that idea?” Azriel pushed past him. His body was frail in comparison to when he’d first arrived. He couldn’t see his reflection in anything, but he’d felt the hollows of his cheeks and could count most of his ribs without trying.

The human jogged to keep up with his long strides. “You fed at your last match.”

“All of that went to healing the hole in my gut.” Annoyance tugged at his words. He couldn’t think about the fact that his palm wasn’t healing. “Melia wants to keep me weak. That’s why I need you and Sasja and all the others at my back.”

Raoul grabbed his arm, jerking him to a halt. For once, his expression was grave. Worried. “Do you really think we’ll make it out of here?”

Azriel cocked his head, gaze flickering to the chateau on its hill. “Death is an escape of its own.”

“That’s not helpful,” Raoul grumbled. “Not even a little.”

“Fight hard, and if you get the chance to kill her…don’t hesitate,” Azriel said, pulling his arm away. “She won’t.”

With that, he stalked toward the humans, blood still dripping from his fingertips. He’d collect them, then the few new lycans who’d been added to their arsenal, and he’d have his army.

The letter from Madan did not help ease the ache in Emillie’s heart. He, like her and Alek and Kyra, was imprisoned in his own home, guarded by soldiers who did not care for him. The brief message did not give details about what he was doing nor did it mention Ariadne.

But even as she sat in the parlor, clutching a cup of steaming tea with a shawl around her shoulders and staring into the flames dancing in the hearth, she felt no warmth. Not from the fire. Not from the shawl. Not from the tea. It was as though ice had lodged its way into her chest, seizing her up from the inside, and refused to relinquish its hold.

Over and over, Emillie saw it in her mind’s eye. She could hear the fleshy breath punching from her father’s lungs as the blade slid through his heart. The blood that pooled on the floor had soaked into her dress so completely that the skirts appeared to be dyed red. Again and again, she felt the warmth of her father’s life spilling out of him, coating her hands as she knelt on the drenched rug.

How many times had she cursed him for all he had done? She had foregone the traditional greeting at her wedding reception, giving him no well-wishes or words of love as his final child went into the world, leaving him alone in a manor entirely too large for a single Caersan.

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