Ciaran was awake long before he opened his eyes. Opening his eyes would probably help his nausea and stop his head from spinning, but it would make his searing headache much worse. He decided to push that off for as long as possible.
He took this time to piece together what happened. He remembered selling the boar hide and swapping out horses. He’d been on his way back to Asra when he heard Bane growl, and then everything went dark.
Why hadn’t Bane alerted him sooner? He groaned as he understood: hound’s woe. This was the second time his personal protection dog failed to protect his person. He hoped Bane wasn’t losing his edge. Even more, he hoped his dog made it out unscathed.
Don’t worry, I’ll have Bane with me was becoming as ominous of a phrase to say as What could possibly go wrong?
The wooden chair he sat on creaked as he took inventory of his injuries. Dried blood cracked on the back of his neck as he turned his head side to side. He rolled his shoulders and found the movement inhibited by tight, rough ropes encircling his arms and chest. The same rope scratched his wrists as his hands trembled uncontrollably, and kept his ankles firmly in place at the front chair legs.
Ciaran finally worked up the nerve to open an eye. The bright light in front of him bore into his skull, but he forced the other eye open as well. He blinked as he took in his surroundings.
A small, cramped space. Walls, floor, and ceiling made of rough-hewn wood. There was a door at the front right side of the building, a short barred window to the left of it. A messy desk strewn with papers and knicknacks stood before him, two shoddy cells behind him. Shadows lingered in the corners and edges of the room where the sunlight couldn’t reach.
A jailhouse. Ciaran wracked his brain for jails near where he was attacked, and the most logical answer was Cradlestone. That wasn’t too far from where he was abducted.
Would Asra be able to find him here? How long would it take her to figure out something was wrong? He’d told her to get some extra sleep—what if she slept all through the night, and by the time she figured out he’d been taken, it would be too late? He took a deep breath to quell the panic rising in his chest.
The door creaked open, and Ciaran squinted his eyes to see who entered the building through the blazing light. He didn’t need to make out the finer details of the stranger’s face to discern who it was: the figure was instantly recognizable by the confidence in his movements as he hung his duster on the coat rack by the door, and by the air of superiority that filled the space around him as he leaned casually against the desk.
Vincent.
Ciaran’s head filled with profanities he wanted to throw at the man, threats he wanted to cow him with, but the first words that sprung from Ciaran’s mouth were, “Where’s my dog?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Ciaran let out a long breath, and a weight lifted from his shoulders. If Vincent didn’t know where Bane was, that meant the dog escaped unharmed. Bane must have known this new encounter with Vincent’s men would have ended the same as their first encounter in the penthouse. Rather than fight a losing battle, he must have run to find Asra. Clever bastard.
The thought of Asra made Ciaran realize he and Vincent were talking about two different dogs.
“Jealousy is unbecoming of you, Vincent.” The words felt strange in his mouth. He realized he had slipped into his proper accent when addressing Vincent, then he realized he couldn’t remember when he’d dropped it.
“Jealousy?” Vincent’s brow wrinkled for a moment, then he smiled and shook his head. “Your arrogance truly knows no bounds. Do you really think that’s what this is about? You can’t imagine a world in which I’m not pining after you like some lovesick adolescent, can you?”
Ciaran set his mouth in a hard line. The version of their relationship he’d told Asra left out most of the incriminating details. He preferred not to think about all the groveling he’d done to keep Vincent from walking away over and over again.
He wished his hands would stop shaking.
“Where is the shapechanger, Ciaran?”
That depended on what time and what day it was, and how far away Ciaran was from the camp where he’d left Asra. He hoped she was close.
“Even if I knew,” Ciaran said, “why would I tell you?”
Ciaran’s hands quivered so badly that it caused the uneven chair legs to rattle against the floor. He clenched his fists to subdue the tremors, but it did not escape Vincent’s notice.
“When was the last time you had a drink?” Vincent said, and Ciaran wasn’t sure if he imagined the concern in Vincent’s voice.
“That’s none of your business,” Ciaran snapped.
“Yes it is,” Vincent said as he pulled a silver flask out of his waistcoat pocket. “I need you lucid.”
“Since when do you carry a flask around?”
“I don’t. I assumed you would need it.” If there had been any concern in Vincent’s voice before, it was gone now. Ciaran’s ears grew hot, but he refused to drop his gaze.
Vincent held the flask up to Ciaran’s lips, and for a moment he considered refusing. But his head was pounding, and the promise of relief was too tempting. He downed nearly half the flask before Vincent pulled it away and placed it on the desk behind him.
Vincent smoothed his waistcoat, straightened his tie, and pushed up the cotton sleeves of his undershirt past his elbows. The bright beams of sunlight from the barred window glinted off his golden hair and the silver thread in the embroidery on his riding boots. He leaned back against the desk and folded his arms, his blue eyes as icy as his expression. How did the insufferable bastard always manage to look so effortlessly handsome?
They stared at each other for a moment before Vincent said, “You look like shit.”
“You just had me assaulted and kidnapped!” Ciaran winced. Shouting made his head throb. More quietly he added, “For the second time. How did you even find me?”
Vincent reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a closed fist. He opened it over a steel tray on the desk and Ciaran winced again as small metallic objects bounced off the surface with a clamor. Each ting felt like a bullet through his skull. When he opened his eyes, he saw it was the jewelry he and Asra had pawned off along their journey.
“You’re not very good at hiding your trail,” Vincent said. “Not to mention constantly announcing your location by walking around with a breed of dog that only nobles are allowed to own. I was worried when I couldn’t find any trace of you over the last few weeks. I was afraid you’d wisened up and were being more diligent about covering your tracks. But you’ll never change, will you?”
Ciaran closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Not until the day I die.”
Ciaran focused on the flavors that still lingered in his mouth to distract himself from his nausea as he waited for the alcohol to hit his blood and the inevitable relief to flow through him. The whiskey had been far sweeter and less peaty than what Ciaran preferred, but smooth and satisfying nonetheless. Despite his humble origins, Vincent had developed an expensive taste in the time that Ciaran had known him. His own doing, no doubt.
Vincent rustled through his clothing again, shortly followed by a metallic tapping sound. When Ciaran lifted his head and opened his eyes, Vincent was spinning the open chamber of a revolver, its pearl handle shimmering in the sunbeams.
Ciaran’s heart pounded against his chest like a caged beast. He didn’t think Vincent would have the stomach to shoot him in cold blood, but he also never would have thought Vincent would have the stomach to have him kidnapped and murdered, either. Ciaran’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to stall for time. A feeling of horror that Asra might never show up fell over him when he heard a scuffle outside the door.
Vincent looked up and said, “Sounds like she’s here.”
He closed the chamber and aimed the revolver at the door. A few seconds later, the door burst open, bouncing off the wall behind it. Asra shouldered her way past into the room. The two guards who had been posted outside groaned on the ground behind her. Bane’s claws clicked somewhere in the small building, obscured in the shadows, and Ciaran praised the gods that he was safe.
“Stay where you are,” Vincent said, his tone cool and even.
Asra blinked. She looked to Vincent, then to Ciaran, then back to Vincent again. If she didn’t recognize Vincent’s face, she surely recognized his scent.
Asra’s voice rang out strong in the small room. “I hope you don’t think that thing is enough to kill me.”
Ciaran recognized it as both a statement of fact and a bluff. The small pistol may not be enough to kill her outright, but it would seriously wound her and significantly reduce their chances of escaping.
Vincent smiled gently, and swung his arm around to point the gun at Ciaran’s temple.
“Don’t!” Asra shouted, and the edge of panic in the way her voice rose was unmistakable. Ciaran kept his eyes fixed on Asra, worried that if he looked at how close the barrel of the gun was to his skull he would lose what little nerve he had left.
Asra would get them out of this. She had done so many times before.
“Close the door behind you, please.” Ciaran could hear the cordial smile in Vincent’s voice. Even in this situation he was poised and in control.
Asra kicked the door behind her and it slammed so loudly that Ciaran jumped. Vincent didn’t even flinch.
“Why is a shapechanger so interested in a prince?” Vincent asked. “What could you possibly want with a human throne?”
“I don’t have any interest in the throne.” She spat the word like it was poison in her mouth. “I just want Nolan dead.”
“Then we’re on the same side.”
Ciaran strained his eyes to look up at Vincent. He should have known his ambition wouldn’t be satisfied with a few fancy titles.
When Asra said nothing, Vincent continued, “You should go home, Asra. Let me handle Nolan.”
“Over my dead body!”
“That’s what I’d like to avoid. Do you really think you’ll survive another assassination attempt? You’ve no idea what weapons he has at his disposal.”
Ciaran licked his dry lips. Did Vincent know what Nolan had planned for his next invasion attempt?
Asra’s eyes were wide with fury. “So I should let you take over those weapons instead?”
“I’ve no interest in attacking your people. You have my word they would be safe, for whatever that’s worth to you.”
Asra snorted in a way that made it clear his word was less than worthless to her.
“And what about Ciaran?” she said.
“He’ll stay here, safe and sound and well looked after. He was kidnapped by a werewolf, and it’s a dangerous world. No one will question that he disappeared.”
Asra folded her arms. “And what do you get out of that?”
“Nolan’s a bit of an overprotective bastard where Ciaran’s concerned.” There was venom in Vincent’s voice. Ciaran thought of all the arguments he had with Nolan about Vincent. It infuriated him that his brother had been right about him all along. “He’s been beside himself since this all started. If I tell Nolan I have his baby brother, he’ll come running.”
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Vincent pressed the barrel of the revolver into Ciaran’s temple. Ciaran’s breath hitched, but he forced himself to keep his composure. He wouldn’t show any weakness in front of Vincent. He tried to keep his thoughts away from his mother, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this is what she felt like just before she was murdered.
Asra unfolded her arms, her whole body tensing.
“And it looks like you have that same soft spot,” Vincent said. “I need something to ensure you won’t hunt me down like Nolan. Two birds with one stone.”
Asra’s eyes flicked to Ciaran, then back to Vincent. “I just need him to get me to Nolan.”
“You should go home, Asra,” Vincent said. “I know your people are dying. I don’t want to do anything to speed up the death of an entire culture.”
Ciaran searched Asra’s face for some sort of expression. He expected rage, fear, maybe even pain, but she remained impassive.
She snorted and said, “Nolan was a lot better at this than you are.”
Ciaran heard Vincent’s amused hmph and felt a breeze as he moved the gun to point down at Ciaran’s foot. There was a soft click as Vincent cocked the gun. Ciaran squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head as far away as he possibly could.
And then there was a guttural snarl, a scream, and the sound of the gun clattering to the ground. Ciaran opened his eyes and saw Asra in front of him, fishing a knife out of her pocket and sawing through the ropes that bound him.
He glanced down and saw Vincent writhing on the floor, fighting against Bane’s grip on his arm to no avail. Blood seeped through his sleeve and splattered on his perfectly groomed face. Bile rose in Ciaran’s throat and he looked away.
The final rope fell from Ciaran’s ankle and Asra sprung to her feet and helped Ciaran to his.
“Are you all right?” she said. “Can you walk?”
“I … I think so.” He was woozy and unsteady, but they needed to get out of there. They started towards the door, but Ciaran froze and said, “Wait! Give me your bag!”
Asra followed his gaze to the jewelry on the desk. She held her bag open at the edge of the desktop as Ciaran slid everything into the opening with one swipe of his arm. Asra threw the bag back over her shoulder and they ran to the door.
Ciaran slid to a halt and shouted, “Bane, out! Let’s go!”
Bane dropped Vincent’s arm at Ciaran’s command and raced towards him, his claws scrabbling against the rough floors.
Ciaran only just exited the door when he stopped. He held his arm up over his face to block the blazing light, then looked back at Vincent crumpled on the ground in agony, gripping his bleeding arm to his chest. The cotton sleeve was eviscerated, all layers of his skin torn away to reveal bare muscle.
“Asra, wait!”
She stopped and turned on a dime. Ciaran stared at her for a moment, unsure of what to ask of her, or if it was fair for him to even ask it.
“He’s hurt,” he said finally.
Asra’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious!” Then her eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”
Ciaran turned and raced back inside, Asra’s footsteps on his heels. She pointed to the gun on the floor as she ran to Vincent and said, “Unload that thing!”
Ciaran hastened to obey. He snatched it off the floor and opened the chamber, shaking the bullets out into his hand and stuffing them into his pockets. Asra dragged Vincent over to the desk so that his back was up against one of the legs, then tied his arms behind his back around it. She cut the sleeve off his injured arm with her pocket knife.
“I don’t need your help,” Vincent sputtered.
“And I don’t want to give it to you, but here we are.” She ran her hand up and down his arm, then placed it palm-down over the eviscerated skin and muscle. She closed her eyes, and in a gentle glow of light and a slight scraping of bone, the wound slowly closed.
“You’re welcome,” Asra said as she stood. She grabbed Ciaran by the arm and pulled him to the door, Bane following along behind them.
“Where do we get another horse?” Asra asked as they stepped into the sunlight.
“I don’t … ” Ciaran searched the landscape, but he wasn’t as familiar with Cradlestone as other towns in the area. “I don’t know.”
The guards beneath them were coming to, and one of them reached for his pistol on the jailhouse porch. Asra kicked it, and it flew into the bushes.
“No time,” Asra said. She then flung her backpack into Ciaran’s arms, who gripped it between his arms out of pure instinct.
“What are you—”
Asra stripped naked in record time, then crammed her clothes and shoes into the bag. She snatched it back from him and threw it back over her shoulders.
“You’re gonna have to hold on tight to my bag,” she said as she tightened the straps around her chest and stomach. “Keep low over my back. Don’t let go.”
Before Ciaran could comment on anything, Asra changed into her gazehound shape. She bent down to help him onto her back just as a bullet whizzed past Ciaran’s head. He leapt up and held onto her bag for dear life as she darted forward at breakneck speeds, Bane following behind.
The sounds of gunfire and shouting rapidly disappeared behind them, but Ciaran didn’t dare look up until he felt Asra slow to a stop. His fingers and limbs felt frozen in place. He kept his eyes closed, running through the events of the day in his mind.
“You can get down now,” Asra said, and when Ciaran made no moves to do so, she sat and he slid down her bony back.
Before he could even register what happened, Asra’s human hands were on his shoulders.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere?” She looked down at her naked body. “Shit. Sorry, hang on.”
She threw the bag off her shoulders and rummaged through for her shawl, then ripped it over head.
“Okay,” Asra said more firmly. “Where are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. Nowhere, I think. No, wait.” He remembered the dried blood on the back of his neck. “The back of my head, maybe. Down towards the neck.” His whole body shook, though this time he was confident the culprit was adrenals.
Asra slid her right hand over Ciaran’s shoulder and up the back of his neck to the base of his skull. The sensation sent chills down his spine and eased his racing heart. She closed her eyes and he felt the familiar heat of her healing magic.
His mind drifted back to the first time she’d healed his head like this, when they stood in his penthouse. That was nearly two months ago now. Just like the first time, Ciaran took the opportunity to study her face. His eyes followed the contour of the curled magic sigils under her eyes, up to her half-missing ear. The shaved areas of this side of her head had begun to grow in and were now fuzzy, but the ear was still prominent.
Nolan had done this to her. Whether directly or indirectly, he had caused her pain that could never be taken away. His chest burned at the thought.
“Eyes to yourself, prince.” Asra’s tone was light, almost playful. She had apparently recognized the similarity of their first meeting, too.
Ciaran smiled. “Don’t worry. Just admiring your sigils.”
To his surprise she returned the smile. It brightened her dazzlingly yellow eyes, the same color as her sigils, vivid against her warm brown skin. His breath caught in his chest.
“You came for me,” Ciaran whispered.
“I was … worried,” Asra whispered back.
Ciaran smirked. “Worried I’d done something stupid?”
“No. Worried about you.”
Ciaran’s eyes widened. Those three simple words were somehow more terrifying than anything that happened that day.
He then became acutely aware that Asra still had her hands on him.
“Am I all better now?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You should probably let go, then.”
“Yeah.”
But she didn’t move. Neither of them moved. They were so close that electricity prickled across Ciaran’s arms. If he leaned forward just a few inches, his lips would brush hers. He wondered what she tasted like. If he could just …
Bane erupted into a frenzy of barking. Ciaran practically leapt out of his skin as he wheeled around to see what the dog was getting into. He spotted Bane standing at the stripped boar carcass, chasing the ravens away from his prized item. Ciaran whipped his head back around. Perhaps the moment wasn’t entirely ruined.
“Oh, shit!” Asra’s eyes were wide as she ripped out the contents of her bag, strewing them on the ground. “I have to get the concealment spell set up again. Get over here and help.”
Ciaran bit back a groan as he assisted Asra with digging holes for the lodestones, muttering to himself the whole time about getting Bane back onto a serious training schedule when they got back home.
----------------------------------------
Ciaran couldn’t sleep at all that night. The few hours he did manage were plagued by nightmares. The first involved Vincent holding a gun to Ciaran’s head as he lay motionless, unable to move. Vincent would pull the trigger, laugh when it turned out the round was empty, then cycle the chamber to the next round.
The next started off as a pleasant pub crawl, until Asra appeared and shook Ciaran hard, screaming at him so loud that her jaw unhinged and he was swallowed by the darkness.
He had just woken from a third nightmare. Ciaran had vague recollections of trying to chase after Asra as she ran from him, but drunkenly stumbling every time he tried to run.
His hands were shaking again, and the headache had returned with a vengeance. He didn’t need a psychoanalyst to explain tonight’s specific flavor of bad dreams, but he desperately needed sleep, and he knew a little alcohol could get him there.
Vincent’s flask had been swiped along with the other things lying on the desk the day before, and Ciaran had quietly tucked it into his pocket while he helped Asra set the concealment spell. He pulled it out and stared at it for a moment. The metal was warm from his body heat, as though it had stolen some of his vitality while he slept. He swallowed and tried to twist the top off, a simple task made difficult by his trembling hands.
Asra stirred in her sleep, and Ciaran froze. The whiskey’s scent was potent, possibly potent enough to wake Asra from her sleep. She would certainly be able to smell it on his breath the next morning. The image of Nightmare Asra screaming until her mouth enveloped him popped into his mind. He would need to mix in some hound’s woe before he drank it.
He swallowed. He’d watched Asra put the hound’s woe at the bottom of her bag. He would have to dig through it without waking her.
This wasn’t the lowest he’d gone in search of a drink, but in the moment it certainly felt like it. His face burned as he thought of the way Vincent had come prepared with alcohol, knowing that he would be in a bad state. He thought of Asra’s threat weeks before, after Ciaran’s drunkenness caused him to slip into the river and almost get them both killed.
If I ever catch you drinking again …
Back then, he may have worried about her killing him. Now he was just concerned with disappointing her, or pushing her away. He’d somehow decided that was a fate worse than death. What would she do if they kissed, and all she tasted was alcohol?
Something in the bag jingled. Ciaran froze as Asra stirred again, then waited for her to settle back into sleep. He grabbed the object and slowly pulled it out to set it aside and avoid making noise again.
It was a long leather strap with a metal buckle at one end, but too short to be a belt. Puzzled, Ciaran angled it so he could see it better in the moonlight.
It was a dog collar. Shadows caught in the grooves of tooled designs, and Ciaran squinted to make them out. There was a bird, encircled by … fangs? No, tusks of some kind. Ciaran slid the collar down his hand to examine the middle, and his eyes widened at the word that was tooled there.
Bane.
She was making a collar for Bane. Guilt raked over Ciaran’s chest like claws. He ran his fingers over the carvings, taking in every detail. It was rough, obviously unfinished, but still expertly crafted. As he traced the outline of the bird, he realized it was a raven.
He thought of their earlier conversation, of the symbiotic relationship between wolves and ravens. He felt more like a parasite. What had he provided on this journey, besides being a glorified tour guide and translator? Asra had risked her life time and time again, put her neck out to protect Ciaran. It was his fault she was out here in the first place.
Vincent’s words rang in his mind: You’ll never change, will you?
Margot’s words followed: Be a better king than your brother, will ya?
His thoughts turned again to his mother. She’d defended him, too, protected him from his father’s wrath, though he’d been too young to understand that at the time. This wasn’t the life she would have wanted for him, as bound to alcohol as a horse was to its master.
Hands still trembling, he stepped just outside the concealment spell and poured the flask out onto the ground, then tossed it into the woods. He then took his water bottle and rinsed it out under the fresh water bucket, then filled it to the brim.
He would need to be well hydrated tonight.