Page 23 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

A man.

A tall, human man, red in the face and completely naked. Madness gleamed in his pale eyes, and spit frothed in the corners of his mouth.

“I kill,” the man shouted. He was covered in little abrasions, his feet filthy, his prick swinging between his thighs.

Crouched, Malcolm kicked at his attacker’s knee, unbalancing him. Then he swung his leg wide and knocked the man’s feet out from under him. The attacker landed with a thud. Malcolm lunged for the man’s neck, grabbing him by his dark hair and pulling him into a chokehold.

The human scratched and kicked with a strength no mortal should possess.

“I kill . . . I k-kill . . .” the man wheezed as Malcolm tightened his arm around the intruder’s throat, locking the hold in place. “Kill you!”

The human’s skin was almost too hot to hold, covered in an unnatural glamour that fueled the unusual strength and the wildness in his gaze. His veins were bright red, and they stood out around his eyes and down his neck, polluted by magic. More commotion filled the halls. Shouted madness echoed off the stone walls. Then came the sound of metal piercing flesh and a death cry.

Malcolm fought to squeeze the life out of his thrashing attacker, turning them to face his next opponent as light footsteps neared.

Hrafn rounded the corner, Solis floating at her side, viscera splattered on her jerkin, blood-soaked spear in hand. Malcolm pinned the fighting mortal down with his legs and locked his arm back against the man’s throat, squeezing tight until the body finally went limp.

Clapa soared down the corridor behind them, claws elongated and dripping red.

“How—” Malcolm began.

A whoosh of air stirred his hair as Hrafn launched her spear. It landed with a bodily thud just above his head. He craned his neck as the attacker he hadn’t seen coming fell to the floor behind him, spear jutting out of his bare chest.

“Gods’ sakes,” Malcolm gasped. “How in the blazing stars did you get out of your room?” He shoved away the limp body of his first attacker and scrambled to his feet.

Hrafn crossed to the second corpse, plucking her spear free with the wet sound of suction and a small arc of crimson. She looked Malcolm over, a quick sweep from antlers to boots, then a glance at the dead man he’d finished off. “With your bare hands.” Her chin lifted in appraisal. “Not bad.”

“Hrafn,” he growled, tail snapping at the air, “how’d you get out of your fucking room?”

“You’ve more important things to worry about.” There was blood on her cheek. Her leathers were different from the night before. The spear was familiar—

It was the same spear she’d thrown at him before.

The weapon dissolved into a dark mist in her hands, reforming into a large black hawk that glided to her shoulder. The demon bird flapped its wings, reeking of sulfur.

“You . . . You went to your home?” The scent of Hell and blood magic stung his nose.

“I needed supplies.” She bit her lip, pondering something. Shuffling her feet, her expression softened. “I thought about leaving, but I’ve unfinished business here. I’m glad I returned. I found men touched by the monster scaling your fortress. Ezra and I killed the first right off your walls then warned your servants. Little Clapa took the face off the second and ripped the throat out of another. She’s quite useful. Careful in the gatehouse, though—she had fun in there, made quite the mess of her opponent.”

Clapa chittered excitedly at that, brandishing her filthy claws.

“While your servants had the good sense to hide,” Hrafn continued, “I tried to find you, but this place is massive, and I didn’t know where your room was.” She jutted her chin down the corridor. “The dead one over there found me in the entryway. He was wily. It took a bit to bring him down. Your Solis assisted just in time.” The corner of her mouth tugged up.

“You’re having fun,” he accused.

Her brow furrowed. “Aren’t you?”

He was a little, now that she mentioned it . . . not that he planned to share that out loud. It seemed indecent to confess such a thing in a hall surrounded by piles of the dead—the naked dead, with their balls hanging out, no less. The attackers reminded him of Harrow and the time he’d been spelled, the runes he’d destroyed—the monster he’d undoubtedly disturbed—and the graves he’d violated, all while shouting that his skin was on fire.

He should have recognized the signs. That wasn’t witch blood magic. His own shadow glamour burned, but it had been an age since he’d cast anything with it. His mad magic was dangerous.

Malcolm rubbed at his forehead, his blood pressure dropping, his arms shaking from the rush of near death. “Hrafn, if anyone saw you—”

“No one saw me. My woods touch the trees outside, and I’m a quick flyer. The clouds provide excellent coverage.”

“If anyone did—”

“Malcolm,” she barked, and he met her eyes. “No one saw me aside from your servants and the dead men here. Unless you doubt the loyalty of those in your service, or you’re worried the dead will rise and summon a mob to see me hanged—”

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