Anders lowers Rylan to the ground.
“Keephersafe at all costs, Anders. Have someone tend Alain.” I swallow my panic. “The rest of you with me. The duchessisthe Beast of Brimmond,” I repeat, “and she has my mother.”
Sword in hand, I stalk across the courtyard, trailed by eight soldiers.
A few stray birds sing in the nearby treetops, and the rustling of leaves interrupts their song as the wind shifts. At the main door, I let myself into the massive structure.
“Two of you here, so no one comes behind me,” I order before carrying on into the castle proper.
Inside, I search each room with the six soldiers still with me. On the ground floor we find a few unconscious servants, whom two soldiers break off to carry outside to what is becoming a makeshift infirmary.
Unexpectedly, when I push open the door to the kitchen, I find the entire kitchen staff seemingly oblivious to the chaos on the grounds.
“Oh my!”
“M’lady! You startled us,” one of the bakers says sternly, hands still kneading a ball of dough on the wooden tray in front of her.
Are they oblivious or complicit?doubt demands.
“Stay alert,” I tell the remaining four soldiers with me. “Two here. You two with me.”
We begin a search of the vast room. The larder is a good spot to hide, as are a few of the largest cupboards. I check every possible hiding place—including the rafters overhead. With such claws, the Beast of Brimmond surely can climb.
One of the older women finally loses the edge of her temper. “What are you doing? Coming in here, waving a sword and scaring—”
“There was an attack.” I check the windows. “The garrison was set on fire. Alain was injured.”
“What?”
I ignore the question and ask, “Has anyone seen the duchess or the countess?”
“They were taking the air earlier,” a woman with a handful of turnips offers. “Her Grace is fond of a brisk walk.”
The kitchen staff seems uninjured, unaware, and unhelpful. I’m not sure I want to send more bodies into the courtyard, so I tell them, “Stay inside. Barricade the door, and do not open it unless Alain or I come to you. No one else, not even the duchess.”
“Who are you to overrule Her G—”
“The Hunter. No one but me or the steward.” I cannot tell them that the dowager duchess isn’t human. That conversation isn’t my place—or my priority right now.
A hasty search of the rest of the rooms turns up more of the same—a few oblivious people and a couple more maids who are hiding or injured. No dead.
And no countess.
Back outside I can’t stop from scanning the tall grasses and shrubs. The sky is painted in colors of evening. The red and gold swaths of light start to make the world seem beautiful, but it’s hard to believe that there can be beauty when my mother is missing and the dowager duchess is a killer.
I spy fresh footprints disturbing the muddy path toward the Maudite tomb. A few flecks of purple goop and red blood spot the crushed seashells that line the path, signifying that both women are injured.
My mother’s blood.
The Beast of Brimmond has shed my mother’s blood.
The purple isthe beast’s blood!
Memories of my father holding his organs inside flash to mind as I hurry toward the tomb overlooking the sea. The roar of the waves battering the cliff is loud enough that between it and the wind rustling the long grasses, I think my approach is surely silent.
“Mother,” I breathe at the sight of her. I know she’s injured, but she’s alive. Her throat is unbloodied, and her stomach is intact.
Her eyes burn when she sees me, and I am reminded that she is the last Hunter’s widow and the current Hunter’s mother. Her mouth shapes only two words: “Kill it.”
