Hrolf waves his hammer at us dismissively. "Go, both of you. Take your corpse problems elsewhere. I'll watch the students."
Shade looks affronted. "I'm not a child that needs watching—"
"You write like one," Hrolf interrupts. "Now hush and practice."
Shade bends back over his parchment without further argument.
I remove my leather apron and hang it on the peg by the door. "Lead the way, Garrett."
As we exit the forge, I catch one last glimpse of the wolf. It's watching Red leave, those sapphire eyes fixed on his retreating back.
Hrolf is right.
That is very odd indeed.
The stairsin the palace dungeon go down further than I expected. Red moves through the dark without hesitation. He has been down here often enough that his feet know the way without him.
These are his hunting grounds.
"How far?" I ask, my voice echoing off damp stone walls.
"Bottom level."
We pass through three iron gates, each one requiring a different key from Red's collection. The walls shift as we descend further, rough-hewn stone darker and older than the castle above. Red stops before a heavy door banded in black steel.
The hinges groan as he pushes it open.
This is Red's torture chamber. The room itself is exactly what I expected.
Iron chains hang from the ceiling, their links crusted with rust. The walls are lined with instruments I recognize from my own darker centuries. A table sits in the corner, its surface scarred with countless blade marks. It's stained so deeply that the original wood color is long forgotten.
This is what I am. Dealer of death, keeper of dark places. I'm not a teacher, a smith, or whatever else Rhianelle's love is trying to make me.
The body is sprawled across the stone floor. Blood pools beneath it, threading toward the drain at the center of the room.
The Grimsbane is enormous. He is easily seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick musculature. His dead eyes stare at nothing.
"You didn't tell Shade you were torturing one of his own."
Red crouches beside the corpse. "That would complicate things. This guy is one of Rainer's mercenaries as well. The fucked-up ones."
Yes, her uncle's hired guards.
Six of them were responsible for laying hands on Rhianelle during the battle in Tavan. My jaw tightens. Could this be one of them?
"How are we moving that?" I ask.
Red exhales. "He wouldn't fit in a sack. We'll have to roll him in the tarp."
I consider calling Coinneach. The shadow familiar answers before I speak.
No,his voice brushes my thoughts, irritated.Red is your acquaintance. I will not be summoned to clean up his messes. Call me when it concerns Nel.
He's not my fucking friend,I bite back—but Coinneach severs the connection.
So much for help.
Red reaches into the dead man's inner coat and pulls free a folded scrap of parchment. He scans it once, then tucks it into his own jacket.
