Cassandra’s back hit the frame of the arch, and she turned to see a narrow stone staircase. If they could get inside, they’d only have to fend off one Brethren at a time.
Cassandra opened her mouth to call out to the wolves—flagging, tired, wounded—when Tristan materialized in front of them.
He flared his wings wide, wielding a dagger in one hand and a broadsword in the other. “Go!” he bellowed. “Go!I’m right behind you!”
Cassandra’s stomach clenched as the remaining Brethren—at least twenty—swarmed Tristan, eyes wide as a few recognized the exiled Imperial Prince.
The recognition was a blessing, as a few hesitated, allowing Tristan to strike first.
Cassandra stood in the archway, helping Silas and the wolves—who’d shifted back into their humanoid forms—through. Ronin propped up Mireille, who’d taken the worst blow fromJonas. Her left leg hung limply, and her neck and shoulders were covered in blood from a deep gash on her neck.
Ronin’s face was a cold mask of fury. Like he wanted to shift back into his wolf and go berserk on the remaining Brethren.
As soon as Silas, Ronin, and Mireille were through the archway, Cassandra hollered to Tristan, “Come on!”
Ronin scooped Mireille into his arms and covered her neck with a palm to staunch her bleeding. He turned to Silas. “Where does this lead?”
Silas grimaced. “Down into the dungeons."
“Great.”
“But the entrance to the west tower lies beyond them. Theonlyentrance to that tower in the entire castle. If we can barricade it, between the five of us we should be able to hold the door.”
Ronin’s terrified gaze darted down to Mireille. “We need to get out of here. Get back to her shop so she can heal.”
Cassandra frowned. “If we leave, they’ll be on us in an instant. We’ll lose any advantage we’d have protecting ourselves within that tower.”
“And what are we going to do there?” Ronin roared.
Tristan barreled into the narrow corridor. “Wait for our allies to come burn down the wards!”
Silas took the lead as the group raced down the staircase. Cassandra and Tristan were able to stave off the few Brethren who’d given chase.
The group barreled through the dank, empty dungeons and before long, they arrived at another archway.
The staircase beyond all but dead-ended upon the circular room at the top of the tower.
Tristan closed the door and Ronin dragged an empty bookcase in front of it.
And the crew settled in to wait for Cael and a dragon-sized miracle.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
On the mist-covered meadow behind Stoneridge, the wedding guests gathered in their finery.
And in his groom’s suite, Cael’s hands trembled as he buttoned his suit.
It was less a suit and more a military uniform. The charcoal jacket sported a row of silver buttons down the right breast and the sigil of Brachos over his left—Typhon mountain bracketed by a pair of membranous wings.
Cael studied himself in the mirror, the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes. A result of the hours he’d spent last night searching the estate for any trace of Xenia. She hadn’t been in her room. Neither Mistress Ostere nor any of the staff had seen her. He hadn’t even found any trace of her scent. He’d gone looking for Erik, too, but couldn’t find the little bastard anywhere.
As a desperate last resort, he’d visited Tomas’s room. He hadn’t found her there either, thank the High Gods. But when Tomas had licked his fangs and asked if Cael was sure he wanted to go through with the marriage, Cael had no doubt his brother knew exactly what Arran had threatened.
Cael had returned to his room tired and devastated. Had gotten a few fitful hours of sleep before Petra bustled in this morning, the picture of oblivious cheer on her baby’s wedding day.
Petra had hustled Cael down to this small room off the kitchen, shoved his suit into his hands and told him to get dressed. Said she’d come fetch him when it was time for the ceremony.
The door creaked open and his shoulders sagged. She’d come back earlier than expected.
