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  She is gasping for breath, smothered by me, bleeding from a wound in her shoulder and another across her thigh. Red hair covers the ground beneath her, like blood, like fire, and those eyes turn into a woman’s once again. She jerks and twists under me. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. So instead, I put one great paw on her chest and push my claws into her skin. She screams, and the sound rips through me as my nails sink deeper, stopping just short of her heart. She clenches her teeth, her eyes, refusing to lay down and die. She has lost. She knows that she has lost. But she still thrashes beneath me, refusing to surrender.

  I remove my claws, pulling out beads of blood that run down her chest. She looks up at me, her eyes now a golden color, like some caramelized treat. She watches me, mouth open and gasping for breath, brows tense with pain. I take my Shift, clenching my teeth and growling. The sword lodged in my shoulder makes the Shift especially painful, and when it is finished, I grab the hilt and rip it out, now sitting on the woman’s stomach in my human form. She is barely conscious, her chest straining under my weight, blood running from the wound in her chest, her shoulder, especially her thigh. She grinds her teeth, glaring at me defiantly, even in this.

  I am gasping, holding the bloody sword. I raise it up, put the point on her chest, preparing to end her. Her companion moves forward, but Claque calls out to him. Their sounds are deaf to my ears. “Is this…how my brother looked… when he died?” I whisper to her, knowing that she can hear. I know now. I know it. She is the one. The one who killed him.

  She pants a breath and then the damned creature dares to turn her lips to smile at me. Some pained, cruel smile. “No,” she gasps out, “he…begged for his life…cried…”

  I clench the blade tighter, and she does something I do not expect. She leans her head back and sighs, pushing her chest up towards my blade so eager to sink between her breasts. I hold there for a while, clenching the hilt, staring down at where it has just barely split her skin, adding another little river of blood to the many that roll down her side and pool onto the ground. After a moment, I realize that she is not moving, and I fear that she has died from her wounds before I can kill her. “No!” I scream. “Don’t you dare!” I want to watch her die as my sword takes her life! Not let her fall unconscious from blood loss! I drop my sword and snatch up her hair behind her head, jerking her head up. Her eyes are closed, her face serene, but her lips are parted slightly, breath passing warm and slow between them. Alive. She is alive.

  I stare at her for a long moment, her face before mine, my fingers tight in her hair, holding her head up at an unnatural angle for my view. She doesn’t stir, completely incapacitated from her wounds. I drop her head, and she thumps back onto the ground like a discarded doll. Looking down at her, I can see the damage, the wounds, the blood. But there is more than that too.

  Scars. So many scars. They cover her chest. Like patterns on a dress, delicate curves and arcs carved into her skin, across her chest, her stomach, down her arms. Everywhere. There are brands and cuts, some smooth and intentional, some jagged and pained. I trace one of the patterns with the pad of my finger, following what would have been the path of the blade, and I feel something sick twist in my stomach. Dear Chelyah…what in the hell has this woman done?

  Shifting my weight, I try to push myself off of her, and realize that I am not far behind her in collapsing. My world spins, and my body feels not itself. My knee sinks, slamming into the earth beside the woman. I hang my head, just breathing for a moment, trying to keep from falling unconscious. I can do nothing but watch her sleep, my head unable to turn any other way. Blood is smeared across her cheek, and there is a scar beside her temple. Her eyes are closed, black lashes laying heavy on her cheeks, face turned to the side, away from me.

  I summon another breath, another burst of energy, and this time, I am able to stand. I don’t move for a moment, just finding myself on my feet once more. I turn my head. Claque stands solemnly by his horse, his face set in a severe scowl. My eyes move to her companion, and he is ghostly pale, his eyes on the crumpled form beneath me. I move at last, pushing my foot up over her and landing on the other side, slowly slinking towards my horse. I flip open one of his packs and drag out my cloak and a pair of breeches, pulling them on.

  Turning around, I can see her companion collapse to his knees and gather the woman in his arms. “La’centa?” his voice is shaking, desperate. “La’centa! La’centa!” It chokes into a sob.

  “She’s not dead,” I bark at him, cloak in my arms. I am more stable on my feet now than I was a moment ago, but I need rest and food. I need the ice, the frozen slumber. “She is unconscious from blood loss, but not dead.” I begin moving towards him as he cradles the woman in his arms. For a moment, I think lover, but there is something incredibly paternal about his affections. Brother, perhaps. Or something similar.

  “Let her go,” I say, standing before him now, the woman still completely lax in his arms. He looks up at me with alarm and then rage. “As the victor, she belongs to me. I will decide her fate.”

  “You mean to finish her then?” he asks, still not letting go.

  I frown at him. “No. Not yet, at least. I am taking her back with me.”

  “What?” he snarls, and shortly after, Claque calls, “Sire!”

  “Move aside.” I do not need to explain myself to either of them.

  He looks down at his charge and lays her head back down onto the ground gently before sitting there a moment. At long last, he drags himself up to his feet and draws his sword, his eyes locking on me with murderous intent. Behind me, Claque draws his own blade. “You’ll not have her,” the man snarls. “I’ll not let you take her to be tortured and imprisoned by the likes of you frozen demons.”

  “You do not have a choice.” Claque is beside me now, pointing the sword at the companion. He narrows his eyes. “Stand back soldier, or join the woman in death.”

  Every muscle in his body is tense with some war raging where we cannot see. He stands still and tall, honor bound to do nothing. Instead, he sheathes his sword and watches the pair of us. “Be warned,” he snarls, “She is the War Lord’s daughter. We will come for her.”

  His eyes land on mine, not quite with the same maddening fury I had found in hers, but no less determined. I give a single nod, dropping the cloak over the naked woman who lays deaf to all of this between us. Then, crouching down, I pick her up, not wanting to touch that burning skin any more than I have to. Like a limp doll, she hangs in my arms, wrapped up in my cloak. Her companion has not yet moved, watching us, and I am not entirely certain that he will not attack. I turn my back first, moving towards my horse while Claque faces the Inferno until I am mounted and prepared to go. Then, he turns away and returns to his own horse, mounting and snapping the reigns, leading his horse and mine away from the blood-soaked ground.

  The woman is heavy in my arms. Perhaps because I am so weak from my own blood loss. My arms ache, my shoulder especially. It will heal, and Magik will help, but for now, I have a very long and painful ride ahead of me. I have set her upright in the saddle, both of her legs draped across the left side while she leans into my mostly uninjured right side. Her head droops, red hair hiding her face from view. Even through the cloak, she emits warmth, pressed against my bare chest.

  I look up and find that Claque is watching me intently. He has too much respect to ask me what in the hell I’m thinking, and even if he did, I wouldn’t have an answer for him. How am I going to explain her to my father? Hell, how am I going to explain her to my mother? I cringe at that thought, glancing back down at the woman. She makes a sound, something soft, a pained little murmur, and she lays her cheek against my chest and shivers before going still and silent once more. Even though I know that it is true…I still cannot believe that she is the one, Scar, the cruelest of the Inferno soldiers. And I cannot help but wonder…

  Why?

  Chapter Nine

  Gabriel

  “Gabriel!” Dena’s shrill cry cuts thro
ugh the ominous silence filling my home. I returned days later in only my breeches, covered in blood, and carrying a naked and equally blood-covered Inferno woman wrapped up in my cloak. I have just returned from the dungeons whereupon I laid the woman in a cell and locked it, before heading to my own chambers to sleep. By now the entire castle has heard of my return, and my youngest sister cares much less for my sleep than I do.

  The little, pale-haired creature rounds a corner like a child running from her governess, taking in the sight of me. She stops in an instant and covers her mouth, giving a little cry before biting back a sob and running to me. Her little form rams right into mine, and every wound in my body that had gone at least somewhat dormant now roars to life with great angst. I groan, muttering to myself before patting my sobbing sister’s back. To cry so vehemently in public—to cry at all in public, in fact—is exceedingly unbecoming of a lady, but my youngest sister is resilient to correction, and it has yet to alter her attitude or actions.

  “Hush, hush…” I tell her and sigh, rubbing her back and wishing she’d stop squeezing me. “All is well, girl. Let me go, you.”

  She reluctantly releases me, and I wince at the sight of blood that now stains her pale gown. If that’s how much blood is on her, I am not certain that I want to know how much is still on me. “Is it true!” she cries. “Have you brought home an Inferno captive!”

  I give a single nod. “Yes, girl. The one who slew Mit’an’av. I challenged her and won.”

  “Her?” Dena’s eyes turn into dinner plates, impossibly large. “It is a woman?”

  I sigh. This is only the beginning. “Yes. Now may I please go and rest? As you can see, I am quite injured and tired.”

  “Oh…” she says because she cannot seem to summon words to her mind. “Yes, of course.”

  “Brother!” a voice screeches from behind. Another sister. This time, the older one. I turn and see my pregnant older sister, Petara, marching towards me with furious intent, followed by a fussing maid and the midwife. As intent as any soldier and equally as frightening, the woman in her great array of pale green skirts stomps her way down the hall. Dena and I share a look.

  “Petara-love,” I say as amicably as I am able. “Should you not be resting?”

  “Dare you criticize me, Gabriel?” she snaps at me and then stands, putting a hand on her belly before righting herself and taking a few steadying breaths. She collects herself and then glares at me. I think to myself that she has very near mastered that look which our mother had perfected on us. “Pray tell me, brother, that I have grossly misheard and you have not in fact returned home with a female captive bloodied by your own sword!”

  “I would just as soon not tell you a lie, beloved sister,” I reply with a little smile.

  She is not amused, and instead seems horrified. “Gabriel! We are not barbarians to come home lugging…lugging…spoils of war! It is most uncivilized!”

  “Spoils of war?” I ask and grin at her when she threatens me with a hand grabbing the collar of my shirt. “Petara, please. I will have time to explain everything when I have rested and healed and supped. Now, my dearest heart, please let me go that I may rest.”

  “I think not.” The final voice sinks into me as if I have swallowed a rock. I turn, slowly, facing the woman at the end of the hall. Although short, she carries herself as though she were ten feet tall, her head tipped nobly back, her shoulders squared and even, her back straight. Each step is measured and precise, the flow of skirts whispering after her. In her hands, she carries a white cane with a wolf’s head at the hilt. It does not touch the ground, however, and instead remains held to her chest, one hand over the other clasping it. “Gabriel, what is the meaning of this insurrection?”

  “Insurrection?” I ask. “Mother, is that not a bit harsh a word?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Answer me, boy. Are these rumors true?”

  I sigh. “Dearest mother, I went to the Inferno lands, as decided, and challenged the Knight Protector named Scar, who was in fact a woman. I dueled her and won. She collapsed upon blood loss and rather than kill her, I—”

  “You decided to bring her home.” Each of her words bites.

  I watch her uncertainly for a long moment until realizing that she actually expects a response from me. I give a small bow, as much as my torn body will allow. “Yes, mother.”

  She draws in a steady breath, those pale blue eyes pinning me to the floor like a cat with a butterfly. “Where have you put her?”

  “The dungeon, of course,” I reply mildly.

  The cane stomps the ground once. The whole hall falls eerily silent. “We will go there at once. Come, Gabriel. Petara, Dena, you will remain here. Neither of you should witness this.”

  Petara dares an argument: “But mother—”

  Another stomp of the cane, like thunder. She levels her eyes at her daughter, and Petara obediently bows her head and dips into a very small curtsy. Mother’s gaze then returns to me. I sigh, watching her for a moment before muttering about sleep and trudging back the way I came. “Straighten up, boy. Walk presentably,” she snaps.

  I straighten as best as I can. “Mother, I’ve had a sword cut through my side and go through my shoulder.”

  “Do not make excuses, Gabriel. It is most unbecoming of a king.” I fall silent and clench my teeth, offering her my arm when we reach the dungeon. The guards open the door and one takes a lantern filled with a glowing, blue orb to take the place of fire before leading us down the stairs. We go down several cells before finally finding the one I visited earlier.

  She has still not yet woken, not through the entire ride. I left my cloak in there since I had no use for it, but she seems to have pushed it off of her. The creature is laid on her side, ghostly pale, covered in dry blood. Her red hair is matted and sticking to her face, strewn across the filthy ground. The cloak is beneath her, and the woman has curled up into a ball, shivering but otherwise unmoving.

  “Gabriel…” My mother’s whisper alarms me. It is so loud in this place, but there is an edge to it as well. I turn and look down at her. Her eyes are affixed to the creature before me. “Are those…?”

  I look back to the woman, following her gaze. “Scars? Yes…they’re all over her…”

  She is eerily quiet for a long moment. “Torture…but not ours. Those are not our techniques. What reasons are those scars on her? Look at her, Gabriel!”

  I glance back to my mother who, in all of her life, has never seen a woman with much more than blisters on her hands, much less this sort of… “I see, mother…come, let’s away from here.”

  “No.” She stands firm, even when I turn to guide her out of here. “Guard!” She turns that blue gaze on the man standing by. “Tell the servants to prepare a guest room on the fifth floor. Collect this woman and set her there.”

  “Mother!”

  She continues without noting me. “Send Heather to tend on her and set two of your strongest guards at her door and four more in the hall.”

  “Right away, your highness,” he replies, kneeling before rising and going to do as she asks. Then, she looks back at me.

  “Mother, what is the meaning of—”

  “Be silent, boy,” she snaps. For a moment, we are both soundless, and then she looks back to the woman. I cannot help but follow her gaze. The red-headed siren still lays there, unmoving and still, curled up in her ball. “We are not barbarians. This is not how we behave.”

  “But mother,” I argue in a softer tone, “She is the one who killed Mit’an’av.” The queen’s eyes root sharply in mine, cold and impassive.

  And then, she turns from me and begins walking towards the entrance. “I have given instructions. It shall be so.”

  Chapter Ten

  Scarlet

  Everything is dark. Cold. And heavy, so heavy. My chest feels as if there is some great weight forced upon it, and the blackness is like a blanket I cannot seem to pull off of my head. Everything begins to hurt, and as much as I hate it,
when I focus on that pain, the blanket grows thinner and thinner until I can grab at it and pull it from my mind, the haze with it. With a grunt and a groan, I open my eyes and focus on breathing for a few moments. I just lay there, taking pained breaths in and out, in and out. I shift, moving my arms underneath me while I watch the ceiling, and with a push, I try and force myself up. A searing pain shoots through my chest and thigh. I gasp and snarl in pain, the burning, aching pain reminding me that I am quite alive. “Mother of fire!” I hiss viciously to the air around me. The rest is a grumble of muffled curses and swears. I begin muttering nonsense, laying back on the bed, unwilling to try again, at least not for a moment.

  An old woman from across the room catches my attention, and she smiles in a gentle, inoffensive manner, standing by the fire she tends. “Good morrow, love. Poor dear, he got ye pretty badly, hadn’t he? Would ye like a bath? The water should be warm enough by now.”

  My mind is so shaken and sickly from sleep and cold that it takes several moments to process and understand what the wench says, and even when I can finally understand what she’s asking me, I cannot seem to form reasonable sentences in my mind. At last, I am left with the only reasonable thought I can form: “Where…am I?” My voice is cracked, hoarse, and severely lacks the beauty and ease with which it normally flows.

  However, before I can complain of my discomfort or even think on it too long, the old woman pads her way in worn, light boots to my bedside and calls my attention to a crystal drinking glass laid out on the simple nightstand. She lifts it and offers it to me. I accept it, and with her hand lingering as guidance, I sip slowly from the mildly warm water.