Page 154 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Locked.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered and looked around the room. Of course they would not keep a key lying around the room. Nikolai had taken it with him. If Madan’s state was as gruesome as she imagined it to be, she doubted many people had access to whatever cells lay beneath her.

After a minute of turning in circles, Ariadne stopped to examine the lock. It had been ages since she picked one. So long, in fact, she had done it in broad daylight after Emillie had locked herself in a cupboard while playing a game of hide-and-seek. A useful bit of knowledge Alek Nightingale had passed on to her.

She pulled a long pin from her hair and crouched in front of the door. Sticking the pin into her mouth, she bit and bent the end into a pick. Once satisfied, she pulled out a second pin and bent it in half.

Ariadne paused to check over her shoulder, then inserted her pins, one down across the barrel of the lock and the other she wiggled in until she found the first pin. She turned it, slow and steady, listening for the tell-tale click. When it finally happened, she silently thanked Alek for his tutorage in such destructive tactics.

Down the barrel, she moved the makeshift key until each lock pin clicked into place. She held her breath and turned the handle. The door opened, she pulled the pins free, and she slipped into the dark stairwell beyond. She tested the inner doorknob, and when it threatened to lock her inside, she left the door ajar just enough for her to get back out.

The narrow stairs took her down into an unlit cellar with a single, thin window at the top of one wall. Enough light trickled in to reveal a room straight from her most haunting dreams.

Chains lined the stone walls. A set dangled in the center of the room beside a large table with four thick metal straps and wood covered in stains. Beside it sat a smaller surface covered in knives of all kinds. A single vial sat amidst them, giving off an eerie, golden light. Along the nearest wall, highlighted by the glow, a fae shifter male sat slumped, one mutilated and hairy arm chained above his head. His vacant eyes stared at the floor.

Ariadne made her way farther into the room, stomach churning and a silent scream ricocheting through her mind. This place looked and felt so familiar. So horribly the same as the dungeon she had been kept in. All it missed was the forge and its collection of brands.

At the far end, something—someone—moved. Ariadne froze, again checked over her shoulder, then hurried forward. She almost vomited at what she found.

Madan slumped against the wall, arms chained above his head that lolled against his chest, not unlike the dead shifter. His face, almost unrecognizable from the bruises and swelling, lay half-hidden by shadows. Beneath his chin lay prominent ribs behind a smattering of wounds. None healed. One leg lay at an odd angle, and the other dripped blood.

Yet of all his injuries, his left arm caused her the most distress. While the other seemed healthy, aside from the systematic cuts and malnourishment, the other appeared dead. Two fingers had rotted away from a foul and decomposed hand. The black skin peeled away, exposing bones and sinew, and continued up his forearm. The gruesome decay ended just below his elbow, though the farther it reached from the hand, the less it seemed affected.

Ariadne turned back to the table and picked up the small, gold-filled bottle from its place beside a pair of leather gloves. The liquid inside sloshed, and she carefully pried the cork loose to sniff it.

“Don’t.” Madan’s croak of a voice almost made her drop the vial. She slammed the cork back into place and whipped around to find him unable to lift his head as he continued in a rasp, “Liquid sun…shine.”

“You are still alive,” she breathed and abandoned the bottle back on its table to hurry to his side. The stench of his hand made her stomach roil. “Gods, Madan…”

His eyes fluttered shut again, and he wheezed in a breath. “Leave.”

“No!” She cupped his face and held his head up to look at him. “I will get you out of here.”

His rattling exhale tore through her soul, and he peeled his eyes open again. Marbled green and gold. Green like the Caldwells. Gold like the Harlows. “Please. Go.”

Uncertain what else to do, Ariadne tore her fangs through her wrist and held it to his mouth. Half-siblings be damned. Even if its strength would not be as potent for him, something would be better than nothing. Without it, he would certainly die.

But he did not drink.

“Madan, please,” she whispered. “Please drink.”

He let his lips part enough for her to push her wrist closer. At first, he did not draw any from her. He merely closed his eyes and let the blood drip into his mouth.

“I know who you are,” she said, throat burning from the emotions and stench. “I know who you are to me.”

Again Madan blinked his eyes open to look at her, dazed.

“Drink, Brother.”

He released a small breath and eased his teeth into her flesh. The feeble draws of her blood slowly refocused his gaze. After a moment, he made a small, pitiful wail of a sound as though the mental clarity brought with it the pain of his body.

“Shh.” She looked to the stairs again.

After a few more pulls from her vein, Madan jerked away with a groan and let his head fall back against the stones. He stared at her for a long moment before turning his attention to the decaying hand at the end of his arm.

Ariadne followed his gaze and stood, pulling the pins back out from her pocket and freeing one shackle, then the next. His dead hand slapped the floor like a piece of meat. He sucked back a cry of pain and instead let out a string of curses under his breath.

“Why are you down here?” she asked as she stooped down to wrap an arm under his good side.

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