Page 2 of Hallowed Games

Ahead, the Baron’s manor house loomed over the courtyard. Made of thick stone, its sharply peaked towers gave it the look of a grand castle. From its diamond-paned windows, warm light crowned the gargoyles’ heads with gold.

A night patrolman was standing by the entrance already, and I tried not to think of how thrilling it would feel to put my hand against his face. With a smile, I nodded at him, then pushed through the heavy door.

In the vast stone hall, I could just about make out the tapestries in the candlelight. In some of them, people danced around maypoles—life before the Harrowing. Back then, you could dance in public without the Order accusing you of fornicating with the Serpent. I’d been born in the wrong decade because Merthyn’s dancing days were long over. Even this art was forbidden, and the Baron was risking everything by keeping it on the walls.

I turned into a winding stairwell as shadows crept over the halls. On the upper floor, the moonlight gave the portraits a spectral appearance.

As I reached the Baron’s ornately carved office door, I paused for a deep breath. Then I knocked twice.

“Open it!” he barked impatiently from the other side of the wood.

I pushed through the door into his office, where smoldering firelight wavered over white walls and dark wood beams. The Baron sat at his desk, cradling his closely shorn head in his hands. When he looked up at me, I felt the familiar flutter of nerves at his piercing green stare. “We have a problem.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his green velvet tunic.

“Besides the three Ravens I just killed, my lord?” Ravens—that was what everyone called the Order’s witch-hunters—the clever, shadow-clad harbingers of death. Their leader, the Raven Lord, would murder anyone caught with magic.

His eyebrows shot up. “Three?” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Only one of them came to the manor today.”

“One of them nearly slit my throat. Another stabbed me in the shoulder. The first went down without a fight.”

“Well, you seem fine. And they are dead, yes?”

“All dead, my lord.” Of course, I’d never expect sympathy from the Baron. I tightened my fist, forcing myself to shut down all my fantasies about stroking his forehead with my death-touch.

“Good. I hadn’t expected a Raven to visit today. If I’d known he was coming, I would have taken the tapestries down. But once he saw the art…you know what? I’ll take the weavings down first thing in the morning.” He arched an eyebrow. “Can’t have that obscenity, can we? The Raven Lord will burn anyone with too much beauty in their life.”

He still hadn’t told me what the new problem was, and my chest tightened. Had someone learned I was Serpent-touched? That I was a witch, as the common folk said?

“Elowen.” He sighed. “Sometimes, I sense you are uneasy around me.” He gave me a twisted smile. “My father would have absolutely terrified you.”

Probably. Once, I’d seen the Baron’s back as he’d bathed in a river. Scarred from top to bottom with ridged lines from lashes.

“Anyway, let me get to the point.” The Baron’s gold brooch shone brightly in the firelight. “I know you care about my Lydia.”

I nodded, even though it wasn’t entirely true—at least, not anymore. But I always knew what to say to keep him happy.

His forehead creased. “So of course, you’ll be as concerned for my daughter’s welfare as I am. And now, the Raven sniffing around here today has me on high alert.”

A sharp thread of regret wound through me. “I’m delighted for her upcoming nuptials, my lord.” I played my part like I was supposed to, feeding him the right lines.

He sighed. “Of course, I understand there is some awkwardness.”

At one point, Lydia’s betrothed and I were supposed to marry. The Baron never approved of that. Anselm was the son of an earl, and I was common, with hardly a penny to my name.

The corner of his mouth curled in a faint smile. “It wasn’t to be, was it? Everyone has their place in Merthyn. Yours is in the barracks. My daughter belongs by Anselm’s side.”

I schooled my expression to calm. According to the Baron, I’d become a witch ten years ago because I’d crossed the class lines. I had a different theory.

“She’ll make a beautiful bride, won’t she?” he added.

I cocked my head, not answering. But I knew what he meant. Lydia was tall, with golden hair and fair skin like Anselm’s. A classic Merthyn beauty.

“Even if you hadn’t been cursed,” he went on, “you’d have made an odd pairing, I think. Dark hair, olive skin, eyes the color of dirt. Appropriate for the peasant classes, I suppose. The Archon made you all unremarkable.”

Often, like right now, the Baron was more interested in mind games than he was in conveying useful information. And sadly, he always knew just which buttons to push to get my heart racing. My chest felt tight as he tested me.

But what did it matter, really, if the Baron thought I was unremarkable? Anselm never thought I had a boring peasant face. Years ago, my lover used to tell me I was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

The Baron wanted to see how angry I was. He wanted to see if a shadow of bitterness trailed after me wherever I went. Would I snap, or would I tell him what he wanted to hear, like always?

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