Page 29 of The Artist and the Dragon

Blood. Shape. Intention. The three elements necessary for any spell.

The moment he finished the last swirl, the blood vanished as if it had never been, the spell settling into place.

Malik backed away, and Drystan jerked against the shackles. Red flared in his eyes. A deep growl rumbled from his chest.

The shackles held firm.

“Go,” Drystan snapped. “Put a silencing spell on the door, if you can. Do not come back until well after dawn.”

The king sagged against the wall, head drooping. Then, all at once, his head snapped up. Elongated fangs speared from his open mouth. “Go!”

Malik’s heart leapt into his throat as he turned and lurched from the room, slamming the door behind him. An unearthly whine came from within, raising the hair on his arms. Blood still seeped from the cut on his hand, and he used that to paint another spell on the door to mute the sound.

Once the spell was complete, the silence that surrounded him was so eerie he almost wished the monstrous cries would return.

Almost.

Chapter 13

Malik

Thedepartureofthemonarchs to their wedding moon went without a hitch. Adair had been correct: Lydia was willing to help and had played her part better than many an actress Malik had witnessed on stage. It was as though she had studied Ceridwen’s pleasant laughter and bright smiles. She truly looked like the queen as she and Adair, who was dressed in the king’s formal regalia, hurried through the corridors of the castle to their awaiting carriage. Fanciful masks hid their faces, but they did not seem too out of place considering the gaudy outfits they’d chosen.

Adair said nothing, only smiling and bowing. A wise choice. His voice was too high to be that of the king. He could pass for Drystan in appearance, though he was slightly shorter and wirier in build. Most wouldn’t notice that, certainly not when glimpsed briefly on the way to the carriage. Most would be focused on the couple’s attire anyway, a clever part of the plan.

Bronwyn had managed to look bright-eyed and happy that morning, giving her fake sister a hug and wishing her well before she entered the carriage. If Malik hadn’t known better, he would believe everything was right in the world.

He’d never doubted Bronwyn’s dedication to the cause, but seeing her so pulled together despite the previous night’s events was truly awe-inspiring. She was a far better actress than he expected.

The rest of the queen’s family wasn’t so skilled, but it was easy to pass off their sniffles as ones of joy, wishing the couple well but already missing them and awaiting their return.

When the carriage had turned out of sight, Malik found Bronwyn staring at him, her smiles gone and stoney expression back in place.

“Care for early luncheon later, Miss Bronwyn?” he asked, raising one brow for emphasis.

“That would be lovely.” Her reply was polished and stiff as her curtsey. With barely another glance, she turned and walked back into the castle.

How he yearned to follow her…

But there was another pressing task awaiting him.

Malik crept through the secret passageway with Jackoby in tow. They’d decided that Kent would go with the fake monarchs to Merryweather Hall. After all, it only made sense for them to bring staff, and he could keep in check those who resided at the hall full-time.

There was no telling what they would find when they reached the hidden room. A multitude of possibilities taunted him, each one landing like a heavy weight in his stomach. By the time they reached the door, it was all Malik could do to put one foot in front of the other.

“Ready?” he asked the other man.

Jackoby was solemn and resolute. Usual for him, though he looked pale as a ghost in the flickering lamp light. “It will not be the first time I have seen His Majesty after such a night,” he replied.

Malik frowned. No, he supposed not. The butler had seen much in his years of service to the king.

Malik was prepared, he thought, for the sight that lay beyond, but the moment he opened the door and his eyes adjusted to the gloom within, he swayed on his feet, his chest hollowing out like an empty barrel.

The shackles had held. Somehow.

Drystan was slumped against the wall, curled in on himself. Shredded bits of clothing were strewn about the chamber. Worse were the deep gouges in the stone—sharp and refined, still pale from where claws had cleaved the walls and floor. The metallic tang of blood filled the air.

Jackoby hurried forward toward his king, but Malik threw out his arm at the last moment, blocking his path. “Wait.” His harsh whisper sounded loud as a gong in the quiet space.

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