Page 84 of Vicious Is My Throne

There, by the edge of the forest, was where Solok emerged like a wraith from the shadows.

There was where Berenger caught me on my way to the privies. To my right was where Estienne Rivière kicked me in the stomach so hard I thought he’d burst something vital. Every memory carved away at me like a knife, a cruel reminder of how vulnerable I’d been back then, how naïve, how utterly innocent and unprepared to face this world.

A fatted calf hauled off to slaughter.

I peered up at Ravenshade’s ominous facade. “Let’s get Tristan out of this rain before he freezes to death.”

A line of fat, baleful crows perched on the edge of the slate roof, peering down in either hunger or curiosity as we passed beneath them, boots catching on shards of broken glass when we reached the patio slicked over with moss and drifted half-rotted leaves.

“Watch the glass,” I warned Tristan. “There’s more inside.”

“You don’t have to do this, Anaria.” Raz’s hand trembled where his palm pressed tight against my skin, his voice filled with quiet worry. “We can find a place to rest in the forest; Tavion and I will scrounge us up some food from a nearby farm.”

I couldn’t answer, my feet moving forward as if some invisible force was pulling me toward the castle, chest heaving as we approached that room with the elegant black-and-white checkerboard floor.

The glass doors hung from broken hinges, the floor covered in smears of red-brown blood. Tables were overturned, the once plump roses withered and dried. Rotting bodies were strewn where they’d fallen, picked over by rats scuttling into every dark corner the second we entered, more crows watching balefully from the broken-out windows.

Bones protruded from once-elegant, embroidered waistcoats and silken ballgowns, matted oily hair spilling over eyeless skulls. Rings glittered against gray, tattered flesh.

“Holy gods.” Bexley’s breathing turned erratic. “What is this place?”

“We need to get upstairs,” I said, automatically heading for the grand staircase. “To the duke’s rooms. If there are any clothes to be had, they’ll be there. His chambers are untouched; there should be wood for a fire.”

Our footsteps echoed as loudly as our breathing as we crossed the ballroom as quickly as possible, dodging bodies and embroidered slippers, shattered wineglasses and silver trays. A gold tiara lay forgotten in the debris, gleaming with diamonds.

I locked myself down so completely I felt nothing, my eyes focused on the staircase leading to the duke’s rooms, not allowing a single glimmer of the horrors around us to creep inside my head.

Clothes for Tristan. Food for the rest of us. Drop the wall. Kill Corvus.

I kept repeating the mantra over and over again as we climbed the steps, as I automatically found candles and matches on the side table at the top of the steps and lit the heavy silver candelabra before continuing down the hall.

I’d walked this hall a thousand times, had memorized the slight pitch of the floor, every creaking board, how many steps it took to reach Evangeline’s room, thirty-four, and the duke’s, fifty-seven.

Dust spilled through the air when I pushed through the door, billowing in my wake as I crossed the room and opened the armoire. I pulled out a shirt, a woolen coat, and breeches. “Finest in Varitus,” I told Tristan gently, laying them on the bed while the others stood stock-still, watching.

“Let’s find you some boots and clothes that actually fit and a dry cloak. Tavion, can you light a fire?”

“I can do it,” Tristan ground out, his voice like rough gravel

“No, conserve your magic, we’ll need it later.” I set my hands on my hips, watching Tristan dress, his hands too numb to work properly. Tavion stacked logs in the hearth, the dry kindling crackling the second the flame touched it. “At least we’re out of the weather. That’s something.”

I felt…helpless coming back here.

Too exposed with them all watching me like a glass about to shatter apart.

But beneath my seething, helpless anger lurked something worse. I’d slipped right back into my role as a slave in her master’s house. Like these past months hadn’t happened. I didn’t know what that said about me.

Only that I wanted to curl in a ball and cry.

But crying wouldn’t do any of us any good, so I went to the closet and sorted through the duke’s boots, each set tooled by Varitus’s finest cobbler, and still…not even close to anything Fae-made. I settled on a pair of brown hunting boots with a thick sole, heavy enough they’d hold up until we returned to Blackcastle.

It took effort to work one boot free from the jumbled stack of footwear, but the other got stuck on something, so I ended up dragging out the boot and a small metal box the laces had become caught around.

I pulled the box into my lap, running my fingers over the top.

Why would the duke hide something like this in the back of his closet?

The thing looked ancient, all four corners knocked flat, the carvings worn down, the finish chipped. A different colored metal was inlaid in the decorative top, but years of grime had coated the entire box black, only a few hints of gold still showing.

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