Page 11 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Outside, among the carriages, he recognized the royal coach, an emblem of a crescent moon on its sides, and his heart both seized and soared at the same moment, as uncertain as he was. Night could be a boon here, or perhaps Malcolm had just brought along his mate’s execution all the more swiftly. Not knowing which side the king would take had Malcolm’s stomach tying into knots as he dismounted.

His thighs were chafed, and his body ached. He’d ridden more in one day than he had in years. He straightened his waistcoat, wishing he’d worn a proper jacket. He didn’t look at all like a lord.

“We must keep our heads,” he whispered to Solis, who was not behaving the way a shadow should, pacing side to side before him on the ground, drawing eyes from drivers and guardsmen alike.

Row Barrons was a privately run prison, its warden susceptible to bribes in situations where the offense was mild. In cases where the body count was high, money would get him nowhere. Only authority could win the day here: a king’s authority.

A hawk landed on the gas lamp closest to the doors, it’s large size and ebony feathers recognizable. Hrafn’s demon cried at him.

“I’m working on it,” he grumbled at the familiar.

Malcolm entered the cool, dank foyer and his stomach dropped. City constables and private guards bickered with a growing crowd of angry residents, some of them injured. Judging by their attire, there were twenty or so country people flooding the entryway. People from Reedlet. His people.

“Hang the witch,” one shouted, and the others took up the chant. Men pushed against a tall constable who threatened to see them all in irons if they didn’t get back. Two guards barred the main entrance. Another stood behind a desk with matching star buttons on either side of his collar. Through a window full of bars, the decorated guard shouted orders.

“If you’ve already given your statement, then go home!” a constable roared near the entrance to the prison.

Drawing from the shadows in the nooks and corners, Solis expanded about the room, until the crowd was shrouded in foreboding night, defying the gaslights that flickered along the walls. A nervous hush fell over the mob. Heads shifted toward the marquess.

The Mad Marquess of Reedholm, they called him. Mad-Maker would be more accurate. He could gather their shadows to him right now and whisper madness in their ears . . . Malcolm could have them all out of his way for good.

Lucky for them, it was a power he didn’t dare ever use.

“Get out of my way,” Malcolm snapped, and the crowd stumbled over one another to part for the menacing lord.

“We were told to expect you,” the guard said from behind the bars, the Barrows emblem of an anvil stitched into the corner of his collared shirt.

A heavy door was opened for Malcolm leading into a narrow, poorly lit corridor. He entered the hall, then paused. “I need to see a prisoner, the witch.”

“The king is expecting you. He’s with the warden, speaking with the last of the witnesses. The witch is being processed.”

Processed? What’s that mean?Solis fretted.

Malcolm shook his head. “I need to see the witch. Now.” Solis fell over him, shrouding him in intimidating darkness. That and his reputation—he hadn’t always been soft—stopped the argument before it began. Malcolm was led down the other end of the hall, into main holding where first offenders were housed in tiny cells built in a wheel and spoke pattern.

The scent of iron and sweat burned his lungs. Shouting drew his eye to the end of the block. Three guards gathered around a cell, one holding a lantern high, scolding their prisoner. A soapy white powder covered the floor where a second and third guard stood. It bubbled a concerning amount. The third hoisted a bucket that sloshed with water. Another wooden bucket sat at his feet at the ready.

“Everyone gets a bath!” the lantern wielder jeered. “Cooperate or we’ll hit you with iron again!”

Hrafn stood centered in the cell, her ebony wings drawn around her, concealing her from view. Feathers were missing, the exposed sinew red and damaged. A layer of corrosive soap bubbled across the plumes.

Mate,Solis barked. Malcolm was already running, eating up the distance between them with long strides.

Keep your head. Don’t touch the iron,he reminded his soul.

Hrafn’s body shook with pent-up violence. “Leave me be, or I’ll make you eat that soap off the fucking floor!”

The guard pulled the water back, readying to throw it at her.

“Drop the bucket!” Malcolm shouted. The guards turned to face him.

The first lowered his lantern. “My lord?”

Hrafn had pulled the bedding off the cot in her cell, building a small nest with it below her feet. Now the thin sheets were covered in bubbling powder. Water pooled on the cement floor. Malcolm recognized the acrid smell of the cleaner—ret soap, it was called. His servants used gloves when they handled this high a concentration of it. It was only suitable for keeping linens white.

Solis swarmed the guard with the bucket, dousing him in darkness. His limbs solidified, wraith-like things that made the guards gasp and cower. Solis caught the middle guard by the neck, lifting him until he had to stand on the toes of his boots to breathe. The bucket dropped from the guard’s hands, splashing water over the rim.

“Wh-what are you doing, my lord?” the guard with the lantern begged. “We’s just processing this here witch. Every johnny and jane gots to have a bath. It’s the only thing that keeps the bugs away.”

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