Page 143 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

And even though she claimed to hate him, Ariadne knew in her gut that Azriel did not reciprocate the feeling. He may have been the one who dragged her from this very manor, but what if he had been telling the truth? Were he here, they would not have killed those guards. Were he here, they would not be trying to get to her.

After all, it was him they wanted. Not her.

A shout rang out, and the three dhemons froze, the only sign of them the glint of their weapons. No guards moved in to block their path. In fact, as Ariadne looked around, she could see no one else. Had they all been killed?

She reached behind her for the door to shut herself inside. There would be no staying in that room. Not with the threat outside and no idea whether more dhemons lurked beyond her keen vision.

That’s when she saw the fourth dhemon at the edge of the woods. Her heart stumbled as she took in the Caersan clothes and sword strapped to his back. He held out a hand and from his grip—her stomach churned—dropped a severed dhemon head.

Another shout, this time more clearly in their gravelly language, and he pulled the sword from its sheath. When the three dhemons just beyond the garden walls did not move, he kicked the head, sending it tumbling closer to them. He yelled a third time, pounded a fist on his chest, and brandished the blade.

Whatever he said, the three dhemons could no longer ignore it. They turned and started back toward him at a run.

Before Ariadne closed herself in the room, Azriel looked up at her with those vibrant red eyes, inclined his head, and disappeared into the woods with the dhemons on his heels.

A bolt struck Azriel’s shoulder before he made it a dozen paces into the forest. He snarled in pain and leaned behind a tree to break off the fletched end. The tip stuck through his shirt, beside the brand on his chest.

The twin scar to Ariadne’s.

Stooping low, he pulled the dagger from his boot and, pivoting around the tree, let it fly. The wet crunch and heavy thud told him he’d hit his mark and one of his adversaries was dead. With the sentry he’d stalked now decapitated as well, Ehrun’s numbers dwindled.

Unless the traitorous bastard indoctrinated more dhemons to his genocidal cause, his command was slipping. The moment Ehrun’s blade went through the Crowe’s belly, by accident or on purpose, it didn’t matter. He lost dozens, if not hundreds, of warriors’ and clans’ support. Regicide had that effect—even if the Crowe had been King by name alone.

Which only made the taunts from the final two dhemons that much more infuriating.

“Dhomin,” one called with a low chuckle. He continued in the dhemon tongue, “Come out, little prince. We just want to talk.”

Little prince. How long had he put up with the insult? He worked harder than any other under his father’s rule at the mountain keep—called Auhla, or Palace, by the dhemon clans—to gain the respect he desired.

What hadn’t helped was his inability to change form from vampire to dhemon until his transition when he turned sixty-one. He lost track of how many times his siring had been questioned by his thirtieth birthday.

“Look at him,” they’d sneer when he passed, lanky and pale and unimpressive. No matter what they said, he couldn’t retaliate due to his title and size. “His mother was a lying, fanged whore and tricked the Crowe into keeping him.”

Azriel adjusted his grip on the sword in his hand. Thinking of the past wouldn’t help him face the dhemons Ehrun sent after him. Though he couldn’t name them if he tried, they knew full well who he was—what he was—and precisely what to say to get his blood boiling.

The dhemon who taunted him made his way to the left of Azriel. He moved with big, clunky steps that caused more noise than his comrade. The second shifted through the underbrush with such little sound, Azriel couldn’t pinpoint their location.

Neither bode well for him. While one could sneak up on him, the other was likely much larger and stronger.

The first to make an appearance was, as Azriel suspected, the massive, lumbering brute holding a long hunting knife. His horns swept back from his face and came to a vicious tip just behind his pointed blue ears. The short length meant only one thing: the dhemon had yet to reach his first century. Young. Too young.

As a race of god-born fae, they could live for thousands of years—almost as long as a healthy, warless Caersan vampire.

The youth pivoted as Azriel lifted the sword. He lunged forward with his wicked knife, and Azriel parried. Even as a dhemon, which gained him almost a foot of height compared to his vampire form, the younger dhemon stood almost a head taller.

“Is this why they call you little prince?” The dhemon snickered and lunged forward with the knife.

Azriel twisted his injured shoulder back to avoid the jab, stepped between the youth’s feet, and, using his hip as leverage, yanked the outstretched arm down to throw the dhemon to the ground. He raised the sword to stab down when a bolt lodged into his exposed side. The momentum lurched him away from the prone dhemon with another roar of pain.

The youth lashed out with the knife, and Azriel stumbled further back. He tugged the bolt free, hissing through his teeth, and heat leaked down his side.

If it hadn’t been for drinking Ariadne’s blood mere hours before, he’d bleed out in minutes. With her pure Caersan blood, however, he’d heal faster than either dhemon before him. There were some perks to being a half-breed bastard.

It didn’t save him from the pain, though.

The smaller, more agile dhemon slid out from behind a tree. Azriel froze at the slim, elegant horns and sharp, vicious face. It wasn’t often a woman was allowed in the ranks—at least not when he lived at Auhla. Ehrun ridiculed those granted a position by the Crowe, and that only meant one thing: he was desperate.

The woman steadied the crossbow on her hip and loaded another bolt, never once taking her eyes off him. She knew what she was doing, and this wasn’t her first fight. Unlike the youth now clambering to his feet.

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