“Lysander?” she called. “What’s?—”
“Go, Lennie!” came his father’s muffled voice. “Take the boy and?—”
The words cut off as the front door burst open. The wood groaned and splintered as it smashed into the wall. Screams sounded—Cedric’s?—as his father soared back through the open doorway.
His body hit one of the chairs in front of the fire, toppling it.
“Cedric, don’t!” cried his mother. But Cedric was not in charge ofhis young body as he darted forward to where his father had fallen.
The boy dropped to his knees with a wet, squelching sound, landing in the pool of crimson seeping from his father’s body. Cedric felt his mother rush to his side, felt her hands grabbing at him, scrabbling to draw him to her—urging him to safety. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t break his gaze from the gaping wound in his father’s chest.
A chest that no longer rose, nor fell.
Three shadowy figures stormed in through the doorway, the firelight glinting off the wolven medallions hanging from their chests. Cedric couldn’t make out their faces. It was as if the memory—the nightmare—obscured their features. Or perhaps this was truly how they had looked that night, their identities somehow masked, and Cedric had simply forgotten. Just as he’d forgotten what happened next.
His mother’s forearm wrapped around his chest. “You cannot have it,” she said, her voice like stone as she dragged Cedric against her. Her dagger was in her other hand. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
One of the figures laughed—a low, menacing sound. “You act as if that would be a problem for us, my lady,” he said, tipping his head at Cedric’s father’s body. “But I’ve never been one to waste a good thing.”
He nodded at his companions. They tore into the cottage, yanking drawers open, overturning furniture. They were searching for something. Cedric didn’t know what. He didn’t remember any of this. His ears were filled with nothing but crashing, slamming, scraping, and the desperate pounding of his own heart.
The companions returned. Whispered something in the first man’s ear.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
Cedric’s mother’s mouth curved into a scornful smile, even as thick tears ran down her cheeks. “You’ll never know.”
Ribbons of darkest red shot from the man’s hands, wrapping around Cedric’s body, his arms, his legs—binding him. His mother cried out as he was yanked from her, the man drawing him to his side.
She moved quickly—quicker than Cedric ever knew her to be capable of moving. She raised her dagger, aimed it...
. . . and froze dead in her tracks.
Cedric felt the cold bite of steel against his face.
Now this—this he remembered.
The boy began to cry.
“Shh, little lordling,” the man hissed. “You need to be quiet, or I won’t be able to hear what your pretty mama says.”
“Let him go,” she begged, pressing a hand to her chest. “Let him go, and I’ll tell you. Just let him go. Take me instead.”
The broken look on her face made Cedric cry harder.
“What did I just tell you, boy?”
“Stop!” His mother’s shout pierced the air as the knife sliced down, carving the scar Cedric would carry the rest of his life into his lip.
And this, he knew, must be the end. This was where his nightmares always ended. With screaming. With blood. His mother would die, and then Cedric would see and hear and feel nothing but the sweet relief of darkness as he passed out from the pain.
Not this time.
His bindings released as he crumpled to the floor, both hands covering his face. His blood was warm as it ran in rivulets down his chin and neck.
Too warm.
Hot.
