THE BURDEN OF BLOOD

Chapter Three: The Scent of Decay

The smell of wine spilled, roast boar, and smug delight filled the hall.

Beau continued to boast about the duel he had just promised while circling Heath like a velvet vulture. Heath stood still. Heath's tongue tasted like ash every time the golden Alpha spoke. Beau exuded a thick, cloying, even obscene stolen power, yet beneath it, something else emerged, slipping through the seams like smoke beneath a door.

Something old. Something that hurts.

Heath's nose widened. Once, twice. The smell hit him more forcefully than a blow: moon-soaked fur, wild earth after lightning, and beneath that, the bitter taste of burning silver flesh. It was weak, muffled by spells and stone, but it screamed as it snagged the oldest portion of his brain.

Free mine.

Beau continued to speak. "Or are you worried that your famished dogs will see their Alpha bleed to death on my floor?"

Heath slowly cocked his head, as wolves do when they hear their prey falter.

"Pardon me," he said in a wonderfully courteous tone. "I require the privy."

Twelve wolves of Shadowed Pine snorted. Vance gasped for breath. Scarlett recognized that tone, and her eyes narrowed to green slits.

For the first time, Beau's smile wavered. "Now, the privy?"

Heath had already started to move, his boots making no sound on the plush carpets. Too much dust from the road. You get it.

He acted without waiting for approval. With his hands open and shoulders relaxed, he walked like a man who had consumed too much water during the voyage. No one wants to touch a man on his way to the latrine, so the guards parted without hesitation.

Beau's fingers snapped. "Take him with you."

Two massive enforcers hit Heath from behind. He grinned to himself as he felt their warmth against his back.

Every step away from the hall, past tapestries of Beau's ancestors standing with severed heads, and down a side corridor illuminated by flickering oil lamps intensified the aroma. The air became colder. Underfoot, stone took the place of wood. The enforcers' breathing became unsteady and heavier.

Heath halted at a crossroads and let out a broad sniff.

One guard snarled, "Lost?"

Heath replied, "It smells like something died down here." "You ought to let the place air out."

The second guard moved. "This wing is only used for storage."

Nevertheless, Heath made a left turn. He felt the aroma cling to his ribs like a rope.

After twenty more steps, the hallway came to an iron-banded door. Old. Heavy. Even from three feet away, his skin crawled as he was locked with a bar as thick as his forearm and covered in silver veins.

The guards caught up.

The first one started, "You're not authorized."

Heath shifted.

Knee to groin, palm to temple, elbow to throat. They both fell silently. He eased the bar free, stepped inside, and seized the keys before they clanged.

With a final, quiet click, the door closed behind him.

The darkness that lay down the stairs was thick with the scent of old blood, damp stone, and dread that covered the back of his throat—rusted sconces with gutted torches. Now the smell was a roar, yelling, wild magic imprisoned.

Silently, his pulse pounding with something more intense than anger, he took the steps three at a time.

Another door at the bottom. Smaller. More recent iron. Binding spells, harsh ones, runes engraved deep and flashing sickening green. Heath felt the power within buck against the wards like a storm hitting a rock as he pushed his palm on the metal.

"Hold on," he muttered, leaning close.

Then he stood up straight, took a deep breath, and slammed his shoulder against the door.

Once. Twice. His skin burned through his shirt as the runes flashed. The hinges shrieked and gave on the third strike.

A lone candle hanging from a chain illuminated the cellar he wandered into.

There she was.

With silver manacles that had gnawed at her wrists until bone was visible, she was chained to the distant wall. With hair the color of winter moonlight cascading over a body so thin that it hardly made a shadow, her head hung forward. Rags, possibly a white garment, clung to her. Now gray with old blood and grime.

Power throbbed in the air around her as she repeatedly tried to flee and was pulled back down.

Heath nearly fell to the ground.

The way a dying storm is beautiful, horrible, devastating, and amazing is how she was beautiful.

In four steps, he walked across the room.

"Hey," he murmured. "Observe me."

Slowly, her head rose. The world briefly shrank to that stare as eyes the color of frost on steel met his. Empty. Old. Enraged.

Then there was a flash of recognition.

"You..." Her voice sounded like smoke and rust. "You are real."

Ignoring the silver that burned his skin where it touched the shackles, Heath fell to one knee. "I am present. I will get you out.

Her laughter was terrible, dry, and cracked. "That is too late, crimson-eyed. He will arrive.

Overhead, footsteps thundered. Furious and tinged with panic, Beau's voice reverberated down the stairway.

"Heath! Leave her alone!

Heath found the first manacle with his fingertips. He refused to let go even though the silver burned like acid.

"Savannah," he said, recalling the name Scarlett had muttered several months prior. "Isn't that you?"

She parted her cracked lips. "You are aware of my name."

"I have a lot of knowledge." Taking hold of the chain that connected her wrists, he tugged. Metal let out a moan. "Like how your brother is going to discover the consequences of containing a storm."

The wall's runes brightened. Boots thumping, Beau barking commands somewhere above.

Savannah's eyes widened with what appeared to be hope rather than dread.

She growled, "You can't break these." "His blood is keyed to them."

Heath bent so that his forehead nearly met hers. Close enough to see the small white scar that resembles a wolf's claw across her collarbone and to feel the intense heat radiating off her flesh.

"Observe me."

With all of his strength, bone, anger, and something older that resided behind his red eyes, he wrapped both hands around the chain between her manacles and tugged.

Silver links shrieked. The runes broke like glass.

The chain broke.

The lamp burst, sending them into darkness illuminated only by the glow in her eyes and his, and Savannah gasped as a sound of pure shock and raw strength spilled outward, the wind howling through the dungeon.

Beau's howl upstairs became a cry of genuine terror.

Savannah's knees buckled, but Heath grabbed her. She was nothing but bones, rage, and moonlight.

He whispered, "I've got you," against her hair. "No more shackles."

With fingers that should not have had any strength left, she gripped his shirt, her nails pressing in as if she was worried he might disappear.

For the first time, her voice broke as she said, "Don't let him touch me again." "Please."

Easy and cautious, as though she were composed of glass and lightning, Heath hoisted her into his arms and turned to face the shattered door.

"Never," he swore.

With a dozen guards on either side and eyes burning that horrible, stolen green, Beau's silhouette filled the stairway.

"Set her down," growled Beau. Heat entered the torchlight with Savannah nestled against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder as if she were supposed to, and said, "Or I swear I'll."

"You will what?" Heath asked in a calm, lethal tone. She is accompanying me. The valley as well. Alternatively, I leave you in pieces as I leave this place with both.

Beau's attractive façade cracked into something hideous and frightened as his face contorted.

"You don't realize what you just let loose."

Heath gave a sharp, slow smile.

"That's the main idea."

Savannah's fingers gripped his shirt tighter behind him, and the storm inside her started to rise for the first time in six years.