True to his word, Sir Walter cleared the way for our entry into Newkirk. The narrow walls of the tunnel band around me as we travel toward the keep. Our footfalls are drumbeats. Wren and Dax’s breathing behind me are gale winds. Their racing hearts are the deafening claps of frantic thunder. Damp, stale air permeates my black leather breeches and matching, heavy jerkin to seep straight to the void where my soul should live.
Above all, Rapunzel and Eleanor are beacons guiding me down this endless, murky corridor. Their energy tugs me forward, cutting through the darkness.
In enemy territory, I keep my sword palmed. I can’t wipe the smirk off my face when I remember the night beside the lake with Rapunzel.
There’s an arched wooden doorway at the end of the tunnel. I give a pull. Locked from the other side. Fuck. If Sir Walter betrayed us, I’ll kill him last. Kill him slowest. Make his death the messiest, and make it hurt the most.
But I smell him on the other side.
Wren’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Problem?”
I shake my head. “No.” Then I give the door the faintest rap of my knuckles.
He answers back with a tap. Then there’s a whisper so low, I need to strain to hear it, “A moment.”
“He’s there,” I rasp. “Waiting.”
Time crawls over us in an excruciatingly slow march. I listen to the activity in the hallway. Feet shuffling over the stone floor. The echo of unfamiliar voices. Beads of sweat accumulate on my upper lip as each passing moment slides into the next as frustration builds into a frenzy.
“Quinn!”
Wren’s voice calms me. “What? I’m fine,” I hiss.
Skeptical, he narrows his worried brown eyes on me. “You fucking better be.”
Dax squeezes around Wren. He settles a heavy—and reassuring—hand on my back. “The man said he’s fine, Wren. Leave it be.”
But I glance at the dead space down the corridor, and for a moment, I swear I see the shadow of the demon who owns my soul watching us.
Is it here as an omen to predict our failure…or because, win or lose, I’m dead either way?
Whatever it may be, I have no time to contemplate it because the door opens. Muted torchlight light floods the corridor. Sir Walter waves us inside the main hallway. We push past him with memories from my family’s years here flashing unbidden through my mind. Pleasant memories of my mother and siblings pave the way for the reminder of Stephan and my father plotting against my sister.
“The courtiers linger in the hall,” Sir Walter explains as he leads us to a steep, darkened stairway. “But John has already retired with his mistress. My men are securing the garrison as we speak.”
Perfect.
We climb the stairs, and the hallway is empty when we reach the top. Sir Walter points down one length of the corridor. “The queen is there. Princess Rapunzel’s chamber is that way.” He gestures in the other direction, where the passageway splits. “We didn’t have time to clear their guards.”
Dax swings his sword in a wide arc. Anticipation lights his eyes. “Not a problem. I’ve got Rapunzel.”
“I’ll see to the queen.” Sir Walter motions down the last direction. “John is this way. Hurry.”
As if we don’t rememberexactlywhere the King of Rygard’s chambers are in this massive fortress. Quinn and Wren break away from the others, with Dax racing off one way and Sir Walter in the other. Wren and I take off toward John. I follow the wheezing, indrawn breaths, and shuttering exhales of a sick man mingling with the feminine whimpers and muffled sobs coming from the last room at the end of the hallway.
I shake off the abhorrent sensation of the demon’s breath blowing hot across my neck as I slice through the soldier guarding the door. Then I kick open the last barrier that stands between John and us. The metal sliding lock snaps, and the door slams open. Undaunted, John is already off the woman. Hastily, he tugs on his breeches. His white shirt hangs loosely around his body. He dissolves into a coughing fit.
Gone is the robust sportsman who never missed a hunt. This man stinks of decay. His rotting body is half the size it was when last I was at court. His clothing drapes on his frail frame like a child wearing his father’s garb. And when he finally regains his breath, he still can’t muster the dignity he once had.
Wren, ever the gentleman, acts fast to cover the terrified girl cowering on the bed. Barely old enough to be called a woman. “Go,” he tells her.
Her chin quivering and tears raining down her cheeks, she shoots a glare at John, then spits at his feet. She turns her wide, wild eyes on Wren. “I hope you kill him.”
With one hand clutching the blanket around her body and the other slapped over her mouth, she dashes from the room in a mess of tangled brown hair. Wren kicks the door closed. It can’t lock now, thanks to me breaking it, but at least we have some semblance of privacy with this son of a bitch.
“If you wanted an audience with me, you didn’t have to sneak in like rats through a sewer,” John sneers.
“Audience? No.” Wren walks a circle around John. “We’re here for a reckoning.”
