Who takes a redcap on a rescue mission without giving them something to kill? Stupid fae, that’s who.
“Aiyana should’ve challenged me.” I pout as we creep along the deserted palace corridors. “I would’ve had more fun, and Jaro could’ve used his wolfie nose to sniff Caed out.”
“Trust me,” Bram murmurs. “The only thing any shifter can smell down here is the scent of blood.”
“I should’ve brought nose plugs,” Prae grumbles, still wearing her fae glamour.
Oooh, on second thought, blood sounds promising.
“When does the stabbing start?”
“When we find Caedmon,” Bram grumbles.
“Try it.” There’s enough threat in Praedra’s voice that—if she were Rose—I would’ve gotten an instant hard on.
I wonder if I can persuade my mate to growl cute little threats at me.
“Patience, brother,” Madoc cautions. “From what I heard, there won’t be much of him left to stab.”
That’s unfortunate. I cartwheel down the dingy staircase with a whoop and a grin. We’re almost at the door to the lower dungeons now, and the damp air is thick with the smell of mould and piss. The posh stone walls have been replaced with bricks coated in pitch-blackened brick and—ooh, a rat!
Rumour has it that when the river floods, so do Pavellen’s dungeons, and the seelie use that as a way to cull the prison population. Ah, the joys of a low-lying city.
Madoc doesn’t seem impressed. “Lorcan, slow down. There are guards at the bottom and—”
But I’m already blinking past the soldiers, crashing their heads together with enough force to knock them out. They sprawl in a heap at the entrance to the small antechamber, my loud descent having lured them away from their card game.
The four others are frozen for a tense second as they wait to see if anyone comes rushing to the aid of their fallen comrades.
They don’t. Of course, they don’t. Everyone is at the arena, actually enjoying themselves.
“We were supposed to knock them out with one of Kitarni’s potions,” Madoc grumbles as the two brothers step carefully over the two unlucky sods.
Praedra just stomps over them, leaving a nice set of bootprints across their pale-yellow tabards.
“Potions are boring,” I complain, dipping down with my dagger.
“Lore!” Bram hisses. “No killing.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not killing them, but I happen to be an expert at making a point.”
I drag the shallowest of cuts along the throats of the two guards, dipping my hat in the blood to smear it slightly. Then, for good measure, I pocket the gold coins on the table, tutting at how truly atrocious their cards were. Stupid seelie, being too honourable to cheat.
Bram cracks open the heavy metal door, then shifts and darts through as a fox.
It takes a minute, maybe more, of me bouncing on my tiptoes for the shifter to return.
He shifts back, just long enough to say, “There are six guards between us and Caed’s cell,” before returning to his fox form.
Prae palms a dagger.
“Race you,” I call, tumbling through the door and into the blandest dungeon I’ve ever seen. Seriously, even Aiyana’s torture devices are boring. Racks? Thumbscrews? Times have changed.
Perhaps it’s the lack of traditional cells that make the boringness so obvious. Personally, I’m a fan of a warren-like dungeon, to keep prisoners disoriented. None of this open-plan bullshit. But Aiyana likes to keep her guests in dank little holes in the ground, covered with metal grates. If the sickly wet smell of rot wasn’t enough proof, the watermarks on the walls make it clear that the rumours about drownings are true. No one down there will survive a flood.
I yawn as I take out the first unaware guard. Blink. Another one down. Blink. Another one down. Blink. Oooh, two for one.
By the time Bram and Madoc walk through the door, I’ve arranged the guards in a nice little pile and tied cute little ribbon bows around their chests. The prisoners in the cells are reaching through the grates in the floor, pleading for their freedom.
