Rupert’s title, though stupid, had been designed to instill a mythos of fear. Master, though—that was a brutal, bully’s title. A master implied that those under him were slaves, Kendrick realized, disquieted.Thatwas why the word stuck so in his craw.
“I don’t know, but not ‘Master,’” Kendrick said firmly.
One long blink from the scarred man. Then, “Yes, my liege.”
Kendrick nodded, his shoulders easing.
“We’d like to look at the house,” Dominic said, picking up the thread of conversation.
Joseph put his palms flat on the table. “I can take you there now.”
Kendrick picked up his sword and stood. “Let us go.”
Joseph led them to a grand, terraced townhouse in Mayfair, just off Berkley Square. It had a fine façade and impressive stonework, and the nameplate by the door read, “Carmine House.” It loomed over the houses on either side like a shadowy vulture. No lights lit the windows. Joseph placed a great iron key in Kendrick’s hand.
Ascending the steps, Kendrick turned the bolt. The door opened with a low groan of protest from the hinges, as if unused to anyone passing this way.
Past the threshold, Kendrick stepped into silence. Not the sorrowful, neat silence of Dominic’s Fernside, or the cozy quiet of Etienne’s new abode—but a held breath. Like a silent sob.
Here and there, conspicuous furnishings were missing, Kendrick noted as he walked through the hallways. The silver was gone from the butler’s pantry—if they had ever had any to begin with—and any small ornaments or porcelain knickknacks that had been in the house had disappeared. Pictures were missing from the walls. As if any residents or servants had scarpered with whatever they had been able to set their hands on.
It was in the upper floors, the non-public rooms, where Kendrick smelled the fear and the blood. And it was in the attics that he found the stained straw pallets, and the shackles. Some iron. Some silver.
Someone had broken them open and let the prisoners loose.Good, Kendrick thought, his clenched fingers twisting the metal shackles into something unrecognizable. He should have come here sooner. He should have sought out the cancer of Rupert’s reign sooner. He took hold of the silver chain and squeezed. His flesh sizzled against the metal.
A floorboard behind him creaked. “My liege,” Joseph said in a carefully neutral voice.
“Did you unlock these chains, Joseph?” Kendrick asked. His skin slowly turned red and blistered from the silver.
“Those that still remained when we returned from the north, yes.”
“Good.” Kendrick threw down the mangled chains and straightened. “Why were they imprisoned?”
“Punishment for various infractions, my liege. Or in the case of the humans, as food. Or entertainment.” Joseph’s voice was very dry.
“And no one did anything?”
“He was the Draugadrottin. We were all bound to him.”
That was obfuscation. “What function did you serve in his court?”
“Broadly, I was his majordomo. It allowed me to…” He faltered. “I did what I could. For them.” He glanced towards the chains.
“And for us, too, if I am not mistaken.”
Joseph shot him a look.
Kendrick raised an eyebrow. He had not forgotten that Joseph had spoken up for Ophelia when they had all been captured by Rupert’s woman, Gisela.
“It wasn’t enough,” Joseph burst out. “It wasneverenough.”
“We have the chance now to do more. The both of us,” Kendrick rumbled. “Will you help me?”
Joseph stood there a long moment in the dark before he bowed his head. “Yes, my liege.”
“It occurs to me,” Kendrick said, “that I am not truly your liege lord. Not yet.”
Miss Dryden’s words about oaths and laws came back to him. The Ossuary had functioned on a bloody principle of strength for centuries. But maybe he could forge a different way. Not based on vampire traditions, but human ones. A master could do whatever he liked to those under him because he wielded absolute power over their lives. A liege lord or king, however, owed his subjects security and justice. “I shall have to do something about that.” He offered Joseph his hand, and after a second of hesitation, Joseph clasped it.
