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He huffed, then released his grip. He stalked back to the far side of his cell and threw himself down, looking very much like a tantrum.
Somehow that took the edge off her fear. The creature wasn’t unthinking. He heard her and understood, at least enough to stop demanding the mysterious Ethan.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said, pressing her free hand to her chest. That felt demeaning, like she was speaking to a child. She approached their shared bars. “What’s your name?”
He turned his back to her, facing the wall.
Well, how exceptionally rude.
“If I knew where to find Ethan, I would fetch him for you. But you see, I’m in the same predicament as you. We’re both prisoners,” she said. “I can’t say I’m impressed with the accommodations. How long have you been here?”
No response. Fine.
“Not a big talker? That’s fine. You don’t have to be chatty. Although, I’m afraid I am, especially when I’m nervous.”
She worried about Draven. The attack. How many people were injured? Were there casualties? How did Jane fare? Her injury did not look immediately threatening, but a surgeon needed to remove the arrow, and there was always the possibility of infection. She couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her.
“I’m afraid I’ve had a rather horrible day, you see. Although I feel embarrassed mentioning it. I assume you’ve been here for some time, so arguably you’ve had worse days and more of them. My friend Solenne says it’s not a competition. My bad day does not diminish your trials. I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I’m worried. People I care for are hurt.”
Finally, she took a breath. She read that expressing one’s inner fears helped relieve anxiety, but she did not feel less anxious. Draven was out there, under attack in his own home, and she had been unkind when they parted. She needed to see him again. She cared for him. She liked him. He was a mercurial, moody bastard, and she liked that. When he said something, he meant it. He used his words with precision. And he warned her the Aerie was dangerous. She hadn’t listened.
“Hal.”
The voice was so unexpected, cutting through the silence in the dungeon, that Charlotte jolted.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“My name is Hal.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Hal. Well, a pleasure given the circumstances. I can’t say either of us is thrilled to be here—”
Metal grating on metal was all the warning she had before the door opened.
Draven
The Aerie
Many things went wrong.
Draven left the assembly hall and took a stairwell to the restricted levels. Instinct guided him to Charlotte. It could have been scent, that heady mix of lavender-scented soap and paper, but it tugged on his chest, like a guide pulling him. He had to find Charlotte. The thought overrode all else, which was why he failed to notice the ambush waiting in the stairwell.
Silver dust exploded overhead, coating him. He breathed it in. His throat constricted and his lungs burned as he struggled for breath. His eyes burned and blurred. Everything burned. The stairs were too narrow to use Blackthorn. Draven lashed out blindly with his claws and teeth. With his vision impaired, he was unable to block the blow that shoved him down the stairs.
Sprawled out on the stone floor, he gasped for air. At least the fall removed him from the cloud of silver dust.
Then the stabbing from multiple directions. Steel and silver blades, judging by the sting. They came from too many directions to block. With each slash, he grew weaker. At one point there was a wooden stake. That did nothing except enrage Draven, mainly because the staker missed and got him in the shoulder. He roared and the staker—a soldier who seemed impossibly young—went white as a sheet and released his grip.
Draven tore the stake from his shoulder and repaid the favor. The man screamed, high and frantic. Draven grabbed the man and bit down on his throat. It was vile but it was sustenance, giving him just enough strength to use the soldier’s body as a shield and push his way out of the stairwell and into the corridor.
Draven flung the weeping soldier aside. He managed to disarm the next opponent, grabbing the baton for himself.
The corridor was crowded with enemy soldiers. Blackthorn sang as he drew the sword from its sheath. His vision had cleared enough to block the ax that swung at his head, but he could not block the knife that sliced open his stomach. There were too many. He suffered too many small wounds. The effects compounded each other. He was slow and everything hurt. Draven moved on instinct, reacting rather than striking strategically.
With one hand, he reached for the nearest warm body, sinking his fangs into them. They screamed, then gurgled. The blood was foul, barely enough to replenish the energy he spent drinking. Distantly he noted that the soldier wore a military-issued uniform. The Aerie had been invaded, a feat no one except himself had ever accomplished. Some enterprising soul seized on his distraction to drive a dagger through his kidney.
Draven dropped the donor, no longer screaming or even gurgling, and swung the sword at his attacker. A baton to the back of his knee knocked him to the ground. Blackthorn clattered as it hit the stone floor. Silver manacles clamped around his hands. The metal burned his flesh. Draven bellowed in pain, focusing all this strength to snap the bindings.
“Hold him still,” a familiar voice said.
