Page 110 of The Artist and the Dragon

The king sighed through his nose, his jaw still stiff. “Fine. Let’s gather some of the guard. Just a few. Our best. I’ll keep them with me at a distance in case things should go wrong.”

A mirthless smile pulled at Malik’s lips. “Your men are about to have quite the surprise.”

Chapter 47

Bronwyn

WhenBronwynwokeagain,fingers of bright orange light lanced across the room. A soft sob rattled her chest as memories flooded back. Even though she knew what she’d find this time when she glanced to her side, it was impossible to prepare oneself for the reality of being in bed with a skeleton.

His mother. Goddess above, had he killed her?

Judging from the state of decomposition, she’d been dead some time.

After a dreamless sleep, Bronwyn was able to sit, some of her strength returned. Still, her head spun. She clutched it, squinting at the bright light streaming in through the window.

Sunset. But it had been night before. At least a day had passed, maybe more. The dry, cracked feeling in her mouth and ache in her belly only confirmed that.

A quick look around showed that the chair Lord Griffith had occupied before was empty. He did not appear to be anywhere in the room. A small blessing. It was an even bigger blessing that he hadn’t tied her up. If she had to linger near the corpse— She choked back a sob as she slid out of the bed.

Bronwyn’s legs wobbled a little as she gained her balance. Once she did, she rushed to the window. Unlocked! But a peek outside dashed her hopes. She appeared to be on the third floor and there was no easy way down. She could jump, but she’d probably break a leg in the process. Or worse.

Next, she tried the door. To her surprise, it opened. After hastily using a cobweb-covered chamber pot, she fled the horrid room, eager to be free of it. The musty, aged scent and the oppressive silence of the place continued in the hall. But here, tickling the edge of her perception, was the sound of a piano.

The sorrowful tune grew louder as she padded down the hallway, testing each door and finding them all locked. The tempo of the song quickened, as did her pulse. She made her way down the stairs, fingers running along the dusty banister.

A river of crimson carpet ran down the curved stairwell, which descended to the second floor and then the first. The music beckoned. An eerie invitation. She knew who played it—knew who was the only other person in this abandoned manor. Cobwebs clung to the sconces on the walls, but even the spiders seemed to have forsaken this place. The only sign of life was the new, lit candles illuminating her way down. All of it was a path, a beacon she was meant to follow.

Bronwyn ignored the second floor completely. Everything in her said the doors would be locked, same as above. Lord Griffith wanted her to come to him, and the dread blooming low in her gut said she had little choice. What other horrors lay in wait for her? What nasty spells might she encounter if she diverged from the path?

Resigned, she headed toward the music. As she did, she picked at the bandage wrapped tightly around her left wrist. He hadn’t healed her like Malik had, or had wanted to, when she’d offered him her blood willingly. She’d wanted Malik’s scar; if this bastard left a mark on her, or worse, if he obscured the one she’d asked for—a reminder of her courage—she’d be slow in her revenge. And she would have it. For all that Griffith had done, she’d find a way to end him, even if it meant haunting him after death. Perhaps she could bargain with the Goddess once she reached her. Beg for the chance to repay his ills before she entered the hallowed planes.

Up ahead, light flowed from an open set of double doors. With her heart in her throat, Bronwyn entered the room.

It was large, the ceiling arching high above, supported by thick wooden beams. The far wall was almost entirely windows, like one might see in one of the Goddess’s temples, though these were clear glass rather than colorful. It must be a study of sorts. At the far end sat a desk, but there was also plenty of seating in the center, as if it doubled as a formal parlor for entertaining. A few bookshelves rose high on the side walls between works of art and decorative little tables.

The very last place she looked—she had to force her head to turn—was the back corner of the room, near the entrance. Her nails dug crescents into her palms as she took in the sight of Lord Griffith seated at the piano bench, still hammering out the song he played with rare skill. His eyes were closed, but she had no doubt he somehow knew she had entered, especially as he turned his head her way and grinned.

It was an utterly chilling sight, one that might have made her ill if she had anything in her stomach. He continued to play, the song rising into a final flourish, his fingers flying over the keys. Finally,finally, he brought the tune to its end. The last notes still rang in the silence when Bronwyn started a slow, loud clap. It was the only thing she could think of that might truly annoy him.

Lord Griffith’s eyes snapped open. “Bronwyn.”

Goddess.How had she ever found comfort in those eyes? She glowered at him.

“Welcome to Thorngrove Hall.” He gestured to the room. “Please, have a seat.”

She huffed. “Like some guest? And here I thought you planned to bleed me out. But perhaps you prefer to starve me instead?”

He closed the piano lid and stood. “Patience, my dear.”

“I am not your dear!”

His grin twitched as he skirted the instrument and advanced on her. He had not changed clothing and was therefore a little disheveled. Whatever this kidnapping ploy was, she sensed he had not planned it, or had not planned it well. “Not yet. But things can change, can they not? I wonder. What would you give me to save your lover’s life?”

Malik. Her eyes flew wide. Her nails bit into her palms so hard she drew blood.

Griffith spared a glance toward the windows and the freshly fallen darkness beyond. “I assume he’ll be joining us quite soon.”

Not yet, then. Nothing has happened. She tried to calm her racing heart to no avail. Griffith stepped closer, but she refused to back down, simply holding her head high. “Did you kill her? Your mother?”

---