Page 78 of Blackthorn

The cluster of soldiers parted to allow Stringer through.

“Traitor,” Draven spat.

Stringer crouched down until he and Draven were at eye level. He wore a faux-friendly smile. Draven lurched forward, snapping his teeth.

“I suppose this is where I explain how you failed and my resentment festered,” Stringer said.

“I admit, I’m curious. I’ve tried to be receptive to feedback.” Disdain dripped from his voice.

“You sit on your mountain of treasure, hoarding it like a dragon.”

“And you think I should do what? Cure cancer?”

“A funny example to pick,” he said, dropping the faux-friendly smile. “My father died slowly from cancer. He trusted you. Was devoted to you. And you could have saved him, but did you? No. You’d rather play with your green toy than help the people who depend on you.”

“I’m sorry you think that. I’m rather better at causing cancer. If I could cure it, I would.” He tried—once. The results were, well, Captain Beckford had him court-martialed. Not good, to say the least. “Even if I could, I don’t have the equipment. Someone keeps sabotaging my lab. Your work, I presume?”

A new smile spread across Stringer’s face, cruel and sharp. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed a syringe. Draven fought against the hands holding him in place. The manacles burned on his wrists, nearly distracting him from the jab of the needle in his neck.

“It was very thoughtful of you to perfect the sedative,” Stringer said. “Strong enough to take down an orc. I imagine a vampire won’t prove a problem.”

“I’ll kill you,” Draven warned, his voice already slurring. He fought against the encroaching darkness.

“No, you won’t.”

Darkness swallowed him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Charlotte

The Aerie

The Dungeon

The door opened. Charlotte swallowed her words, unsure what Stringer would do if he found her being chatty with a fellow prisoner. She stashed the dagger back in its hiding place and smoothed her skirts.

Two guards not wearing the standard Aerie uniform carried in an unconscious body. Draven.

“What have you done to him?” she demanded.

The guards ignored her, dropping Draven into the cell next to hers. His body slumped to the ground, dumped like rubbish into a pile.

She hurried to the edge of the cell, gripping the bars. “What did you do to him?” she demanded.

“I wouldn’t stand so close. He’ll be hungry when he wakes,” a soldier said, laughing as they slammed the outer door.

The room plunged into darkness. Charlotte moved to be as close to Draven as possible, tripping the sensor. Light flooded the room.

“Draven. Draven!” she called. No response. “You have to wake up. Please.”

Draven appeared so small, sprawled on the floor like a broken toy discarded by a petulant child. An alarming amount of blood covered him. His head, his face, particularly around the mouth. Charlotte didn’t want to think too deeply about how that transpired, but she could only assume throats were bitten. The once-white shirt was now scarlet and torn across the abdomen. Through the mess of fabric, she saw the tears in the flesh that exposed glossy, wet viscera. How anyone could survive being gutted like a fish, she had no idea.

Charlotte gripped the bars, watching his chest, and only relaxed when it eventually rose and fell. Alive then. Barely.

“Hurt,” Hal said.

“Yes. I don’t know how to help him,” she replied. He was so badly hurt and she had no medical knowledge. This was worse than a single embedded arrow. It was too much. Even if she had a fully stocked medical kit, she wouldn’t know where to start.

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