“I stored it at the manor, Master.”
Skar’s chin twitched. “You know I don’t want Sephania in the presence of my rabid court until she’s ready.”
I’m ready.
Garroway said, “I made sure to hide it well. No one will see us.”
Like a disappointed, doting father, Skartovius ran a hand through his long auburn mane. He glanced over at me, saw the enthusiasm on my mug, and muttered, “Then you’d best bring the carriage around, shouldn’t you?”
We entered Manor Marquin through the eastern side, past the many tents of the white-robed acolytes. This time, with Lord Ashfen in my presence, I was bowed to instead of attacked by the servants.
It was quite a reversal of fates, and another confirmation that aligning myself with these bloodsuckers wasn’t all bad.
Past the double doors, we gained entry into the mansion, walking along the red-carpeted hallway at a slight downslope.
Fragments of memories from my two times being here made me grimace. I recalled the sticky blood dripping down the slatted floor overhead, from dead fighters, trickling down into my cage in the jail room. The eternal scream on Kemini’s face as he fell and stared down at me with unseeing eyes, through the latticework.
Garro took a torch from the wall and handed it to me as he led us in. “Thought it might be nice to reminisce. Old times, aye?”
I quirked my brow.Old times? Romantically reminisce a time when people I knew were slaughtered upstairs?
Garroway had a strange way of showing affection.
Sure enough, he led us into the jail room—the source of so much trauma in my past life. I felt a pang of sadness since I no longer fought heartily for my freedom. It was just, well, given to me now.
Even if I was a prisoner to Skar, Vall, and Garro, it was nothing like the chains of my past. Not even close.
Inside the jail, we stepped from carpets to cold stone. The room was eerily quiet without any fighters rustling around in the cages.
Garroway led us past the first cells, stopping in front of one. It was the same cage I’d once stayed in preparing for my fight at Lord Ashfen’s shadowgala, against the very same half-vampire who now drew me here.
The torchlight flickered on the iron bars and inside the cell. Toward the back, I spotted a blob of a shadow.
“Come now, it won’t bite. It can’t.” Garroway smirked and opened the gate.
Skartovius noticed it first, growling, “Garroway, what have you done?”
I moved into the cage hesitantly then leaned forward with my torch and squinted—
Backpedaling with a gasp ripping from my throat.
Dimmon Plank sat in the corner, bound with his arms and legs trussed by rope. He squirmed and shook, writhing in place as he fought against the bindings. The rope bit into his bulky gut and legs and he mewled behind a gag in his mouth. Sweat poured down his face. His eyes were ripe with fear.
My immediate shock rooted me to the ground. Then, slowly, it melded into something . . . terrifying.
Glee. Exultation.Triumph.
“Is this not a man we do business with in Nuhav, cub?” Skartovius chided. “I recognize him.”
“It is, Master. This is the boss of the human thugs called the Diplomats. A riotous, meager bunch.”
My nostrils flared. My jaw clenched tightly as I stared down at the captive, gripping the torch hard in my hand.
“Why have you’ve brought him here?” Skar asked from behind me. “This will disrupt our dealings with the human gangs. You know they serve a purpose, Garro.”
Just as their conversation was about to drown away in my mind, with the red curtain of bloodthirst taking over, Garroway snarled at his master and stole our attention.
“Don’t be blind, my lord.” His lip peeled back. “I didn’t do this for me. I did it for her.”
