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Blanchette inhaled deeply and summoned all her focus. Although he was much larger than she, reckless impulsiveness got the best of him. He shot forward with no discipline or thought.
Blanchette thrust the dagger through the air with a war cry. Steel squelched through fat, muscle, and the ragged fabric as she killed her second man of the night.
Blanchette pulled the dagger out with an agonized sound, her hands stained with fresh blood, her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs. She watched in silent horror as red seeped from the blond’s mouth in a glossy ribbon. He blinked, then collapsed at her feet.
Blood.
So much blood.
So much red.
She was drowning in it.
She glanced out a slanted window and saw her brother, Willem, below. A pair of laughing soldiers paraded his body. Three arrows were embedded in Willem’s chest. He was also missing an arm and a leg.
Murdered.
Mutilated.
She felt as she tried to scream, to cry out at the horror, but the sound died inside her throat.
Death at her feet. Death in her home. Death in the air.
Death screamed in every corner of her mind.
Then she saw him.
Rowan Dietrich, the fabled Black Wolf of Norland, strode through her castle like a waking nightmare. His armor was crudely made, black as the surrounding night, the helm’s dark metal twisted into the shape of a wolf’s snarling head. But the most striking thing about him was his height. He towered above the other fighters and battled with a chilling methodicalness. How he moved and fought frightened Blanchette the greatest.
He looked collected. Even mildly amused. As if this were nothing more than a game. Blood soaked his sword as the blade whirled, whipped, slashed, and claimed lives in a macabre dance of death. And that wolf clung to his heels, its muzzle wet with blood, snarling and leaping at any man who dared come close to its master.
Monster. Demons.
The Black Wolf of Norland had always had a mist of legend around him. She remembered the stories her mother and governess had often whispered after the feasts and in the dark of the night.
“To me,” the Black Wolf called to a soldier a few yards away, his deep voice effortlessly carrying above the tumult. He didn’t need to yell, not even over the mayhem. The force of his tone was enough.
One of her father’s guards raised his blade, but too slowly. Rowan Dietrich’s longsword cut his head off, then came flashing back in a terrible two-handed slash that took another soldier in the leg.
With quivering anger, she realized that this man—this wolf, this beast—was the reason the sky was falling on her family. She clutched the dagger, wishing she could stand a chance against him. How good and right it would feel to plunge the blade deep into his heart and avenge what would likely be the end of her family’s dynasty.
Of course, she’d never survive him or his demon wolf. And if she was ever to avenge her family, if she was to keep her promise, survival meant everything.
Without her survival, her family’s legacy—her promise—would turn to dust.
Blanchette slipped forward. She stuck close to the walls and kept her head low. To any of the fighters, she was just another helpless servant trying to escape the bloodbath.
Then a familiar shape caught her. It was under the great table that spanned the length of the hall.
Elise.
Except now, her lady-in-waiting’s garb was hiked up around her midsection; her pale thighs, smeared with her own blood, lay outstretched and bent at awkward angles. Blanchette knelt and cupped Elise’s cheek only to find her neck had been slit open. She reeled back with a scream that died in her throat again.
“Oh God. Oh, no, no, no. Elise… God, I’m so sorry… my sweet Elise.” Yes, her friend was dead and defiled, yet her staring eyes still lived. They seemed to look at Blanchette with a silent plea, asking her… for what? Blanchette was trapped in her home, in a waking nightmare, where she felt her sanity wearing thin.
She closed her eyes and saw what had unfolded, her imagination filling in the blanks. In her mind’s eye, she watched as poor, sweet Elise’s body was torn open, then her neck.
Blanchette gazed down at the bloody dagger in her hand, and the desire to push it through her own chest overwhelmed her. She held it up under the wavering torchlight and brought it to the front of her breast.
