Mina shuddered before she nodded, as if she were enumerating all of Damian’s hideous crimes, his cowardly acts of brutality. Matthias would awaken, intimately bound to both light and darkness, in a body made strong through cruelty.
He would live with Damian’s memories forever.
Still, to her credit, Mina nodded her head and shuffled back, moving out of Dante’s way, and in this fateful, life-altering moment, the prince appreciated her obedience more than she would ever know.
With a crook of his finger and a nod of his head, Dante ushered the shadow and the warlock forward, and then he bent to Matthias’s throat and swiftly drained him of blood…
Of heat…
And of essence.
Slowly withdrawing his fangs, he turned to his loyal subjects and gave them a single command: “Begin.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
While the arduous task of cleanup began on the beach—enumerating the dead, treating the injured, and assigning all available citizens and soldiers their various dreary tasks—Dante Dragona had much more important matters to attend to. Unsure of whether he should burden Drake with the truth, he had left his youngest brother in charge of Dracos Cove and set out with Thomas the squire and Matthias Gentry, who, in every practical sense, was now Damian Dragona, for the Gilded Chalice Inn to confront Thaon Percy face-to-face.
Matthias had only been the bait.
It was far too soon for the dazed and overwhelmed dragon to take an active role in matters of the Realm: He still needed to come to terms with his new fate and identity: to process, internalize, and categorize his numerous conflicting memories; to learn the ropes around Castle Dragon and Castle Umbras—well, to recall them anyway—and to slowly ease into the part he would be expected to play for the rest of his immortal life.
Due to the neophyte’s frequent bouts of vertigo and extreme fatigue, the journey to Umbras had taken five long days by horseback, and the confrontation with Thaon Percy had been dicey at best. Prior to their arrival, Dante had planned to murder the traitorous Lycanian where he stood, the moment they entered the inn, but critical news, via messenger pigeon, had reached a previous village along the way, before they arrived, and intercepting the early missive on day four of their journey had changed Dante’s plans: “Our dragon king has executed a swift and decisive victory over the Lycanians”—this was nothing Dante didn’t already know—“and the king of Lycania, Bayard Percy, has been murdered in his palace, the apparent victim of poisoning. His brother will succeed him as king.”
This, on the other hand, was critical information.
Like it or not, Thaon Percy was the new king of Lycania, and a kingdom without a ruler was far too politically unstable to manage or predict. Not to mention, the last thing Dante needed to contend with were questions and suspicions about the mysterious disappearance of the second royal brother. Why buy extra trouble? In the end, Dante had been forced to reevaluate his strategy, and he had struck a new alliance with the terrified, yet visibly irate foreigner, who couldn’t comprehend why Damian had turned on him after all they had achieved, why the seedy prince of Umbras had revealed their duplicitous plot, as well as their future alliance, to his law-enforcing brother.
It was of no matter.
Thaon had been between a rock and a hard place, and he had swiftly made allowances to save his own skin and ensure that he made it back to Lycania…alive. In the end, he had agreed to a thousand years of peace between the kingdoms, fifty seaworthy vessels for the Realm’s commercial use, and the same, original offer he had made to Damian: to provide the citizens of Dragons Realm with knowledge and training in Lycanian weaving, engineering, and artistry, all in exchange for personal military protection for the duration of his rule, liberal use of the Realm’s warlocks and witches in matters of healing and medicine, and two hundred pounds in copper coins as payment for the ships, none of which would begin until King Demitri’s rule was over. They would not whisper, conspire, and bleed the castle’s treasury behind King Demitri’s back. It was far too risky…and far too stupid.
Peace for peace.
Knowledge for knowledge.
And fair payment for the seaworthy vessels.
There would be no dragon-support in raiding innocent villages, and there would be no expanded, legal slave trade in Dragons Realm, not ever: The Realm had its own sordid history with the practice of slavery as a primary resource for labor—the embittered and treacherous Malo Clan was a result of that experiment—and Dante understood only too well that the vile practice created lifelong adversaries for the monarchy, inevitable wars in the form of uprisings, and a lasting hostility, based on racial and clan identity, which was hard to overcome. In short, it placed the most embittered enemies of all, those with virtually nothing to lose, in the very midst of the Realm. The Malo Clan’s hostility had lasted for eight centuries, even though there were very few descendants of the original slaves left: Why capture, breed, and cultivate a new local opponent?
In the end, Thaon had taken the deal because he’d had no other choice. Whether or not he would stick to it remained to be seen.
Now, as Dante dismounted from his black stallion, tethered him to a tree in the thick of the Umbrasian Mountains, and approached the modest cabin tucked deep into the forest, he was glad he had sent Matthias and Thomas back to the Castle of Umbras, about eight hours ahead. He would meet back up with them shortly.
This was something he needed to do alone.
*
Raylea Louvet tossed the dirty water from the mop bucket out the back door, secured the raggedy mop against the top inner corner of the doorframe, and slowly made her way back into the front room of the cabin to kneel before her captor.
Syrileus Cain.
Despite telling herself, over and over, that she would not tremble, she would not beg, she would not give the monster the satisfaction, her skinny, knobby knees knocked against one another beneath her filthy, tattered dress. Her stockings were torn to shreds, yet he insisted that she wear them, and her shoes no longer fit her feet, causing blisters on her toes. Yet and still, she kneeled like a “proper lady,” just as Syrileus instructed.
The tall, wispy shadow-walker rose from his lazy repose in his favorite chair, crossed the room with unnerving silence, and loomed over Raylea with menace, his vacant gray eyes perusing her from head to toe, even as his thin, reedy lips drew back in a parody of a smile.
“I have finished my morning chores, master,” Raylea whispered. She knew the routine. He was waiting for her to make the same tedious announcement—three times each day—and then he would make a calculated decision that always struck fear into her heart: He would either take her back into his bedroom, where he would try to ravish her and fail, or he would drag her back to the cellar and chain her to the wall.
Raylea wasn’t sure which option was worse.
In truth, the old man had never managed to truly violate her, at least not in that way—his old, decrepit body would not allow him to do what he wanted to do—and so he would slap her mercilessly instead, venting his frustration. Whereas, if he chose to take her to the cellar, the only repercussions would be raw flesh where her wrists met the manacles and the cool, damp air that left her shivering from cold.
She almost preferred the thrashings.
At least when he was finished, he would often leave her alone. She could exit the cabin for a time, feel the sunlight on her face, feel the wild grass beneath her feet, escape her confinement in her imagination and travel back to Arns, pretend she was still living with her parents…and Mina.
Syrileus reached out a long, bony finger and tipped her chin upward to force her gaze, his dirty nails nicking her skin. “I shall have you in my bed,” he crooned.
Raylea closed her eyes, but only for a second. The threat was always chilling, even though she knew he could never follow through. She drew a deep breath for courage and slowly inclined her head in capitulation. “As you wish.” Then she rose as gently as a lamb and padded across the wide
-planked floors to the back bedroom, where she stoically began to remove her outer gown in order to lie on the bed—there was no need to remove her undergarments.
“Do not.” A dark, deadly voice rang out from the shadows, and Raylea immediately searched the corner of the room to identify the source. She could see nothing. There was no one there. “Keep your clothes on and crawl to the far side of the bed.”
Raylea gasped, stifling a scream. She didn’t know whether to run, call out to Syrileus for help, or follow the disembodied voice’s commands. Every beat of her heart pattered with rising hope—had the Spirit Keepers finally come to rescue her? Was the Bringer of Rain, at last, on her side? Or was this some cruel trick perpetrated by her master—had he finally sold her to someone else, perhaps to a warlock or another shade who was capable of defiling her? She shivered and instinctively followed the specter’s command.
Syrileus sauntered into the room, his masculine anatomy visibly aroused as it always was in the beginning. He glanced toward the bed and frowned. “Why are you still dressed?” His voice dripped with the venom of his displeasure.
Raylea bit her bottom lip and trembled.
“Because…” the disembodied voice purred, drawing the serpentine word out. “She will never suffer your advances again.”
In a flash of light that sparked like fire emerging from flint, the dark, handsome male flickered into view. His thick onyx hair cascaded in virulent waves about his shoulders, framing his angry jaw, even as his sapphire-blue eyes deepened to crimson red.
Raylea clutched at the covers, her jaw dropping open. She would know that face anywhere, that proud, regal bearing, that terrifying, indomitable frame. It was the prince she had met in Warlochia, the one who had ultimately asked the old man to retrieve her doll.
It was Dante Dragona himself, and he was standing in her cabin.
Threatening Syrileus.
Her eyes welled up with tears, and she quickly blinked them back, struggling to catch her breath.
Syrileus spun around to face the corner as if he were a much younger man, his movements both rapid and true. He narrowed his gaze at the intruder, and then he jerked back, faltering for a moment in fright.
So he recognized the dragon, too.
Dante stepped forward and smiled. “Do you know who it is that you have enslaved?”
Syrileus took a cautious step in retreat, his evil eyes narrowing into fine, wary slits. He gulped in place of an answer.
“Do you know that the slave trade is illegal in this realm?”
Syrileus turned a garish shade of white. “My p-p-prince,”—he stuttered over the word—“the high mage of Warlochia both allows and supports our meager industry.” He genuflected like a clown, flashing a broad, congenial smile. “I would never defy my liege if…if…if only I had known.” He waved his arm around the room as if to dismiss its true barbaric nature. “Truly, it is a harmless pastime, all in fun.” He fixed his gaze on Raylea and gestured with an open palm. “In fact, you may have her if you wish. She is young and eager and beautiful.” He frowned. “Well, when she’s cleaned up, but I can have her washed and ready in no time if you’d like.”
“You have yet to answer my question: Do—you—know—who—she—is?” Dante bit out each word separately, as if the shadow was too dense to understand.
Syrileus’s thin, slimy tongue snaked out to wet his lips. “I—I—”
“She is the sister of a Sklavos Ahavi, one who now carries my child. She is under my protection.”
Syrileus turned from white to green and moaned. “I didn’t know, my prince. I swear to you on the souls of my ancestors, I…I really didn’t know.”
Dante nodded affably. “You didn’t care, shadow-walker. You thought only of yourself and your perverse desires.” His brow knitted in disgust, and his voice rang out like thunder, rattling the rafters above the room. “She is a child!”
Syrileus opened his mouth to protest, then shut it, clasping both hands in front of him in a gesture of supplication, instead. “My prince…”
“Kneel.”
Syrileus eyed the floor dubiously, and Raylea held her breath.
In the blink of an eye, the prince drew his sword from his scabbard, lowered it, and slashed it crossways through the air, cleanly slicing the lower half of the shadow-walker’s legs from his body, just below the knees. Syrileus fell to the ground with a shout, even as Dante singed the bloody stumps with a steady stream of bluish fire, instantly cauterizing the wounds. “I said kneel.”
The stunned shadow-walker scrabbled to his knees, such as they were, and shrieked in agony as he tried to tuck the steaming stumps beneath him. The next slash of Dante’s sword was far more harrowing and disastrous: With a quick circular twist of his wrist, the prince made sure that Syrileus was no longer a man. As the shriveled appendage fell to the floor, the shadow-walker screamed like an animal being slaughtered, and once again, Dante scorched the wound with fire, instantly staunching the flow of blood. “Raylea, it is two to three days’ travel where we are headed. Gather what you need for the road.”
Raylea jolted, unsure of what to do. She understood the prince’s words—he had spoken in the common tongue—yet she was stunned by his simple directive. Did he really intend to remove her from this hell? Blessed Spirit Keepers, it was too good to be true.
Finally, the dragon prince’s words sank in, and she scurried from the bed, darted out the door, and numbly gathered a satchel, filling it with a blanket, a loaf of bread, and a large canteen of water. When she returned to the threshold of the bedroom, mindlessly moving by rote, her eyes flew open in horror, and she gaped at the macabre sight before her: Syrileus Cain was hanging upside down from the ceiling, trussed by his thighs and his waist with linens from the bed, and an iron spike from the headboard skewered him through the ribs, like a pig being roasted on a spit. His scalp had been torn from his skull, and it lay atop a conical fire-pit beneath him, while mystical flames of red, orange, and yellow danced beneath his head. Sweat poured from his brow as he swayed back and forth above the fire, writhing and jerking in pain.
“The fire will grow no larger,” Prince Dante said, obviously sensing her presence, since his back was still to the door. “Nor will it grow any hotter.” He straightened his lapel. “His death will be slow and painful. His eyes will melt; his hearing will falter; and his skin will peel away from his bones.” He turned around slowly then, and met her gaze with one of compassion, the color of his fearsome, deep red eyes receding back to blue. “It is not enough…for what you’ve endured…but at least it is something.”
Raylea recoiled at his words, unsure of what to say or do. On one hand, she had never been so relieved or grateful in all her life. On the other, she had never been more terrified or disturbed. Falling into the familiar obedience she had practiced over the past three and a half weeks, she bowed her head and averted her gaze. “Thank you, my prince.” Despite herself, large salty tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, and that’s when the prince approached her.
He strolled to the open door, squatted down in front of her, and slowly—oh so gently—drew Raylea into his arms. They were the strongest arms she had ever felt. “You are safe now, little one,” he murmured. “The nightmare is over.”
As if all her anguish, fear, and hopelessness had been bottled behind a dam—a thick, invisible barrier erected to insure her survival—the dam broke loose, the floodgates opened, and Raylea wept like the child she was, clinging to Dante’s shoulders for dear life in an effort to keep her soul from being swept away in the current.
Time stood still as she sobbed; until finally, there were no tears left to cry. Dante pressed a soft but firm kiss against her temple, and the kiss felt funny. Her mind felt hazy. And then, all at once, it was like a burden the size of a boulder had been lifted from her chest: She still held the memories, the knowledge of her captivity in the shadow-walker’s cabin, but the deeper understanding was no longer there. She couldn’t remember the pain. She couldn’t
feel all the anguish and fear. She couldn’t connect to the horror that had been her very existence for what felt like as long as she could remember.
It was as if it had simply been erased.
Raylea was staring at a scar that had healed over a hideous wound. She knew what had happened, what existed underneath, but it was no longer open or festering.
And there was something else missing.
Something else that seemed like only a blur: Dante’s words…
Earlier.
In the cabin.
Something he had said about Mina—or a woman he knew in the Realm—someone was carrying someone’s child…or had recently given birth?
She reached for it, but she couldn’t find it.
And truly, it didn’t matter.
The eldest prince of Dragons Realm had saved her from a monster.
There was nothing else—nothing else—she could possibly need to know.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Two days later
Mina sat across from Matthias—from Damian—in the front parlor of Castle Umbras, trying not to stare. She had been with him for a total of eight hours now, and still, the bizarre combination of Damian’s all-powerful presence imbued with Matthias’s gentle soul was jarring. Every now and then, Damian’s dark brown, almond-shaped eyes would soften, transition from harsh, brutal orbs to stunning, thoughtful globes, and she would glimpse a hint of her childhood friend’s soul. But then they would harden again, and she would have to catch her breath.
Matthias’s mannerisms were prevalent, dominating the six-foot-four strapping torso: the way the prince gesticulated with his hands when he spoke, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side when he contemplated a question, and the way he softly furrowed his brow when measuring his words. Yet Damian’s voice bellowed out of that authoritarian throat. Damian’s golden hair, the color of wheat in the summer, still hung to the prince’s shoulders, fastened by Damian’s familiar thong. And a barely noticeable scar, etched into Damian’s right temple, still wrinkled when he frowned, making Mina question whom she was speaking with.