Elara had to admit, they looked impressive. Guilt pinched at her. This wasn’t about d’Ambray’s people, she reminded herself. This was about keeping her people safe. If d’Ambray put his troops in jeopardy, it was on him.
The creaking of a wagon came from behind them. Slowly, carefully, George, Saladin, and Cornwall came into view, leading Dakota, a massive Clydesdale, as he pulled the wagon forward. A brown tarp hid the contents. She knew exactly what was in the cart.
Elara stepped aside to let the wagon pass. D’Ambray didn’t appear concerned.
The three men guided the wagon down the hill, slowly, as if it were made of glass. Dugas walked behind them, silent. Each of the men carried a shotgun.
The wagon came to a stop. Saladin unhitched Dakota and the three men walked away, back toward the castle.
Elara raised her head. “You said each of your people could take a vampire.”
Dugas pulled the tarp off the wagon. An undead sat in a metal cage. The moment the tarp came off, it lunged at the metal bars, its eyes glowing with insane bloodlust.
“Prove it,” Elara said.
D’Ambray nodded at his soldiers. “Pick.”
Elara stared at the rows of soldiers. She was about to sentence one of them to death. A human, even a skilled human, had very little chance against an undead.
She had to do her job. He would put his strongest people in front and in the rear, so she had to pick from the middle. “Fourth row on my left,” she said. “Third soldier.”
“Arend Garcia,” d’Ambray ordered, his voice rolling. “Step forward.”
The third man in the fourth row took a step back, turned, and marched to the edge of the line, turned, marched toward them, turned again… Dead man walking. He was in his late twenties, dark hair cut short, light eyes. Like all of them, he was lean, almost underfed. A scar crossed his face on the right side of his nose, slanting to the side and barely missing his mouth.
He was about to die. If she showed any care at all, d’Ambray would use it to get out of this test.
Arend Garcia came to a stop.
She checked d’Ambray’s face. It might as well have been cut from a rock.
“Kill the undead,” d’Ambray ordered, his voice calm.
Garcia dropped his bedroll and backpack, stepped forward, facing the cage, reached behind his back, and pulled a brutal-looking knife free. It looked like a slimmer version of a machete, its blade black.
Dugas picked up the chain attached to a heavy metal bar securing the trap door release on the cage and backed away. Garcia watched, impassive. The undead hammered itself against the bars.
Damn it. “You’re going to let your man face an undead with a knife?”
D’Ambray glanced at her. “Did you want him to kill it with his bare hands?”
“No.” She barely knew the man, and she already hated him. “At least give him a sword.”
“He doesn’t need a sword.”
Dugas yanked the chain. The bolt slid free.
The undead tore out of the cage, lightning fast, and charged Garcia.
At the last moment, the slender man stepped aside, graceful like a matador, and brought the machete down. The blade cleaved through the undead’s neck. Its head rolled onto the grass. The body ran another ten feet and toppled forward, the stump of the neck digging into the grass.
Elara realized she was holding her breath and let it out.
Garcia pulled a cloth from the pocket of his leathers, wiped the blade, slid it back into its sheath, and stood at parade rest.
“Are you satisfied?” d’Ambray asked.
“Yes.” The word tasted bitter in her mouth. She should’ve been happy. She wanted crack troops and she got them. Elara forced a calm expression over her face like a mask. “Thank you, Preceptor.”
He smiled. He was clearly enjoying every second of this. “Anything for my betrothed.”
She almost punched him.
D’Ambray nodded to Garcia. The man pulled a small knife out of the sheath on his belt. A woman broke ranks and ran up to him. Together they knelt by the fallen undead.
“What are they doing?”
“Harvesting the blood. It stays viable for quite a while when properly stored. I’ll see those barracks now.”
“This way.” Elara turned and led him inside the castle.
“About this marriage,” he said.
“I meant what I said.”
“Good, because I liked the blond that brought us tea.”
The nerve. “My people aren’t slaves, Preceptor. If Caitlyn wants to let you climb on top of her, that’s her business.”
“Excellent. Am I going to get a bedroom, or should we come up with a rotation schedule?”
He was baiting her. He had to be.
“You’re getting your own bedroom, Preceptor.”
“Splendid.”
She couldn’t kill him. She needed his troops. But she really wanted to.
“One last thing. Does the castle have a name?”
“Baile.” She pronounced it the right way, in Irish Gaelic, Balyeh.
Hugh smiled. “Home. I think I’m going to like it here.”
“We’ll do our best to make you feel welcome, Preceptor.”
4
The void had finally caught him. Hugh stood at the window while it pierced him with needle teeth and shredded him, skinning one thin layer at a time. He’d known pain before. He’d been shot, cut, burned, broken, tortured, but this was different. This was the same pain he felt when Roland had sent him into exile.
He was on the fifth floor of the keep. It was midafternoon, three or four, he wasn’t sure. The sky was blue, without a shred of a cloud. The wind cooled his skin. The sunshine played on the stone walls. Below him a sheer drop promised a speedy trip to the stone bailey. If he jumped now, even if he lived for a few seconds and reached for his magic in desperation, it wouldn’t save him. Besides, the tech was up. His ability to heal was barely there.
It would solve all his problems. A brief flash of pain, almost an afterthought compared to what he felt now, and everything would be over.
If Hugh turned, opened the reinforced wood and steel door and strode down the long hallway, he would arrive at his bride’s bedroom. She was in there, getting ready. They were going to be married today. Neither of them had wanted to delay. They’d been at each other’s throats for the past week, but one thing they both agreed on: they had to marry fast and it had to be a real wedding, with a cake, flowers, gowns, and a reception afterward. They hired a wedding photographer and a videographer, because they planned to plaster the pictures everywhere they could. Which was why the wedding had to take place today, while tech held. The marriage had to appear real, because without it their alliance wasn’t worth the forty some pieces of paper they had signed once their advisers finished bargaining with each other over the exact terms of it.
Hugh leaned on the windowsill. He never expected to get married. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. The need for marriage came when a man realized he was getting older and wanted to start a family or when he wanted to prove a commitment to a woman or get one from her. During his decades as a Warlord, Roland’s magic had sustained him. He didn’t age. Back then, Hugh had centuries ahead of him. Hugh would stay at his peak, and if he wanted a woman, he got one. There had been a few that had resisted at first, but he had patience and experience, he knew how to listen and what to say, when he chose to do it, and power was one hell of an aphrodisiac. He was Roland’s Warlord, the Preceptor of the Iron Dogs. Eventually, he won them over and they ended up in his bed.
He’d thought sex would get old, but it never did. A new day, a new interesting woman. Eventually, he ran out of new things to try and realized that the difference between good sex and great sex was passion. Great sex was less frequent, but he had no problem settling for good sex.
Marriage wasn’t even in his vocabulary.
Still, if Hugh ever got married, he would’ve expected the woman to be eager. Excited even.