I enter a large, subterranean space. There are rows and rows of what appear to be small casks. I’m reminded of all the casks in the secret hall of the fortress. I run my fingers along the racks, leaving deep lines in the thick dust. Another confirmation that Tersius stole her work; he used it to make the Hunter’s Elixir.
My stomach curdles with disgust at how this woman was treated. I ache for her. Erased from history, her life’s accomplishments used against her and the man she loved. Hidden by that same lover. I shake my head. If I survive this, if the curse is broken…I will erect a statue in her honor in Tempost, in Hunter’s Hamlet.Both. I will forge it out of silver steel. And I will write her name for everyone, and for all of time, to see.
Loretta. Bloodsworn of King Solos. Woman who gave the vampir their strength and Hunter’s Hamlet the ability to defend itself.
I’m so lost in my thoughts and my anger that I don’t see the movement until it’s almost a second too late. A monster scampers across the ceiling, emerging from the darkness into my periphery. It launches itself at me. I tumble back, landing hard to avoid its claws.
The Fallen crashes into the racks of casks. Old blood, inky black, the same shade as the Hunter’s Elixir, explodes, coating the monster. It shrieks with what sounds like beastly glee. A mottled and shriveled tongue laps over its face. Its all-black eyes gain a speck of gold to them.
It stills.
It looks around, jerking its head left and right, as if confused. The Fallen lets out a mighty shriek that seems to rattle the very foundation of the castle. It grips its head. Its stomach distends and shrinks from underneath its ribcage as it heaves breaths.
The Fallen are just vampir that were lost to the curse. Blood, fresh and preserved, help stave off the curse. I wonder if this bath of potent, ancient elixir has returned a semblance of awareness to this poor creature. I wonder if it’s confused, searching for an answer, a shred of consciousness that was once lost.
Slowly, as it screeches and cradles its head, I reach down. I unsheathe the dagger from my hip. I drag it through the elixir on the floor. It glows so brightly that the Fallen and I are now in a halo of crimson light, the same shade as the Blood Moon.
Thatgets the monster’s attention.
But rather than lunging for me, it scrambles away. Is it afraid of me? Afraid of this power? What does the shred of consciousness lingering in this ancient beast remember? While I pity the creature, I don’t give it a chance to flee. Allowing it to do so would give it an opportunity to attack someone else in the future. I’m putting it out of its misery here and now.
I leap. My blade sinks into its chest. Its claws reach up for me, but it doesn’t have a chance to strike before my blood silver has pierced its flesh. The Fallen dies instantly. I free the blade from the monster’s ribs. The metal is no longer glowing, the magic gone.
The Fallen Ruvan and I fought in the old castle had a tolerance for silver. This creature died with a single jab. So the blood silver both stores power, and unleashes it with lethal effect.
As I’m inspecting the weapon, movement distracts me a second time. Deep power stirs in me.
“Ruvan, good, I’m sorry for earlier. But I must tell you what I’ve—”
I turn and freeze.
The shift in power is not from the vampir lord, though it is equal to his might.
Stalking through the darkness is a monster so horrible that it was previously unimaginable to me, even in the worst of nightmares. It has the body of a man with gray skin, the color of a corpse, stretched thin over powerful muscle. There’s not a stone of fat on this creature clearly designed by Death himself.
His fingers are turned into claws. Fangs so large that they can’t fit in his mouth extend past his chin. Horns ring his head like a crown. Two, massive, batlike wings extend over his shoulders, arcing around his body.
I have never seen anything like it before, which leads me to believe that this creature is the third monster Ruvan told me about. The worst of them all.
I’m face-to-face with a Lost.
CHAPTER40
The monster doesn’t movelike the others. It seems almost conscious. The shadow of the man it once was still lives in its gaunt, haunted face. My gaze drags down its horns to the voids where its eyes once were.
Am I looking at the remains of King Solos?
I imagine him chasing after Loretta. Even though she told him not to come. I wonder if the curse consumed him while he was down in these forgotten halls—the passages that he hid her within ended up being his tomb. Abandoned. Left behind. Left for dead as he still wandered.
But whomever this creature was, Solos or some other lord who made it as far as I did chasing Loretta’s trail before the curse got them, it doesn’t matter. He’s still a Lost now. And he’s still coming to kill me.
I adjust my grip on my dagger and slowly lean down. I need to charge it again. I could use my own blood, but the elixir is stronger and I don’t want to risk Ruvan’s wellbeing again.
I’ve made a terrible choice.
The Lost moves as fast as the wind. In a second he’s behind me. I don’t have enough time to charge the blade; I swing wildly, spinning. I slash into his arm, little good it does. The creature seems more curious than hurt. At least its curiosity gives me a moment to get away.
I drop to the ground clumsily and scramble backward. In the process I rake my dagger along the elixir-coated stone. Red light shines once more, but I’m not fast enough.
