16. Henry
HENRY
K yrin trots along beside me as I stalk down the long corridor to my parents’ private sitting room. It’s early evening, an hour until moonrise and the start of the hunt, but it’s so dark already. It’s a reminder that we’re just weeks from the Dark Star Festival and the coldest part of the winter.
“Way to be a fearsome beast, Ky,” I tease. “You really put the fear of the Divine into her.”
The wolf chuffs as if to say he thought the same of me.
“It’s my job to get her to open up. You’re supposed to be the cagey one.”
We take the last turn in the hallway and the guards posted outside my parents’ room come into view.
Kyrin comes to a stop outside the ornate sitting room door and lies down to wait beside the guards.
The guard to the right nods. “They’re waiting for you.”
I let myself into the room and find my parents seated in plush chairs across from the fire. My mother’s face lights up when she sees me, the well-worn crease in her brow relaxing.
“Have a seat, Henry. I had tea brought up. I know you were out and about and it will help you shake off the chill,” she says.
This kind of doting makes her feel useful, but I wish she would relax from time to time.
If she’s not careful, she’s going to worry herself into an early grave.
Holly’s death cost all of us a lot, but my mother is an integral piece of the puzzle that has kept us in power and kept the fort together after the attack.
In her own grief, she pulled us all back from the brink, and she’s helped to steady tempers in the ten years since.
But I see how the burden has robbed her of vitality.
Her appearance is impeccable—her dark hair in a neat twist, her dress immaculate with not a wrinkle in sight.
But in the lines growing deeper around her eyes, I see how much she’s paid to ensure that I will be heir.
Not out of some hunger for power, but out of a desire to be a steady hand that curbs the baser instincts of our people.
If the wrong person were to rise to power here, the fort could very easily be plunged into chaos again.
I sit down in the chair across from them and pour myself tea.
“So?” my father asks.
I take a long sip, trying to decide what to say. “She’s very curious. She was casing the armory like she was planning a grand offensive on the Drained.”
My father grimaces. “Yes, it was an interesting choice beginning your tour there.”
“I thought it would lull her into a sense of security,” I say. “She’s certain we have something dreadful planned for her. I can’t expect her to open up unless she feels like she has nothing to fear. I thought this would be an effective way to make her feel at home.”
My mother wrings her hands. “We have held our people off this long with the promise of blood. They are expecting results, and without context, it looks like we’re welcoming the Carrenwells back into our home.
The clock has started now, and your father and I don’t know how much time you’ll have before their frustration boils over into something violent. ”
“I know, Mom. Don’t worry.”
My mother hums, her eyes boring into me. “She’s smart. I can tell. You can see it in her eyes.”
I know what she means. Harlow has a look about her—a hunger that I find startlingly familiar and appealing.
“Practiced with a blade, too,” my father says. “How did she manage to hold her own in the woods against that horde?”
“She can see them coming,” I say .
My father’s brows shoot up. “Even in the blood mist?”
I nod. “She closes her eyes and she says they’re like blank spots—black-hole auras. She directed me which way they were coming from and she waited until the last minute to open her eyes and fight.”
“How much training do you think she’s had?” my mother asks.
“A lot. She was unpracticed, but her instincts were good and she was fairly calm during the attack. If she hadn’t been, we would have been swarmed.”
My father rubs his chin. “Curious.”
“Have you learned anything of value?”
I hesitate. What she hinted at—killing to right wrongs in her community—makes sense, but I also can’t exactly explain to my parents about her murderous hobby without explaining how I know about it in the first place.
They’re too good at picking up my lies to fall for one now.
I also don’t completely understand her motivation for doing it or how she selects her victims to answer their questions.
“She’s very guarded, but I think I can get her to open up a bit as she settles in more,” I say.
My father nods curtly. “Good. Will you be joining hunt night?”
“Of course,” I say.
“And Harlow knows to stay in her room?” my mother asks. “It would be quite a culture shock for her on her first night here.”
“Yes. I’ll make sure of it.” I know immediately that my tone is too strained for that to be believable.
My parents look at each other and some silent conversation passes between them.
Finally, my father turns to me. “That woman is smart. Don’t let her figure out too much too soon. Carrenwells are crafty. Harlow didn’t grow up in that house without picking up some of their tricks.”
If he only knew how many. “I have it under control.”
He grips the arms of his chair and sits up straighter. “You think I didn’t think the same? That I didn’t see that family and all their children and their fierce commitment to protecting the city? That I didn’t look into Harrick’s face while he lied through his Divine-damned teeth?”
My mother clicks her tongue, presses a palm to her chest, and bows her head in apology for my father’s profanity.
She has always been more devout than all of us.
Perhaps it’s her blessing from Asher, or the way she drew and drew on the well of her magic just after the attack and it somehow never went dry.
I wasn’t there to see the miracle, only the aftermath, but perhaps if I had seen it, I would be a believer too.
I run a hand over my jaw and look at my father. “I haven’t lost focus and I don’t need to be reminded daily. It’s under control. I’ll leave you two to get ready for the hunt ceremony.”
My father offers a stern nod, and I take my dismissal before they can chide me any more.
Kyrin perks up when I step into the hall.
He springs to his feet and is immediately at my side as I walk down the hall toward the back staircase.
I pause in front of my bedroom door and listen.
The crackle of the fire is punctuated by the soft patter of Harlow’s slippers on the floor.
I put the key in the door as quietly as possible, waiting until a strong wind rattles the hall windows to cover the click of the lock.
I turn toward the back stairs and pause at the top.
“You can’t come tonight, Ky. And no going into the hunt grounds. Keep an eye on Harlow instead.”
He lets out a huff of what I can only assume is indignation at being assigned guard duty, but he turns and trots back toward my room.
I don’t go out the front door because I don’t want to be stopped and asked if I’m attending tonight’s hunt. I want to go and have a drink and see my friends for one blessed moment of peace before my life descends into total chaos over the next few weeks.
I sneak out the back entrance meant for house staff. The moment I step outside, a cold breeze nearly rips the door from my hand. That wind should make the hunt interesting. Wind always changes the way sound and scent travel, and it makes for an entertaining night.
I cut down the drive toward the busier part of the top level of the fort.
The streets are buzzing with people. Most of them are just finishing their last few errands before the hunt, but there are nervous young women in white dresses giggling as they walk toward the ceremony.
A few off-duty guards wander down the streets behind them, but most of those participating in the games are out for a drink with friends before the reveling begins.
The lights of the bar beckon to me as I turn down a long, dark lane. The heavy metal sign groans as the wind kicks up and the light catches on the bright red lettering .
The Stone Guard, named in honor of the sturdy walls that protected us from the Drained for years, is in the sixth level of the fort, closest to my family home and the hunt grounds.
It’s our favorite bar, the most popular haunt for huntsmen, which makes for good people-watching and information-gathering.
But usually we end up here because it’s where Carter’s wife, Naima, works.
The swelling of conversations, music, and laughter hits me before I even step inside and crescendos as I pull the heavy wooden door open. The bar is warm, all the wooden tables adorned with glowing sunstones that cast golden light on the drab walls.
Two drummers and a fiddler sit at the front of the bar, playing a lively tune that keeps picking up speed. Couples on the dance floor struggle to keep pace as they move through a series of complicated footwork.
On one side of the room, a long wooden table is piled with fresh breads, preserves, and the picked-over bones of several roasted chickens.
Feast nights are a sort of community potluck where the price of entry is food for the community table.
It’s meant to honor Kennymyra’s generosity and celebrate the pleasure of excess.
I push my way through the drunken crowd and find Carter and Bryce toward the back of the bar.
“I knew Carter would be here, but I’m surprised to see you, Bryce. It’s not like you to spend so little time primping for a feast night,” I say.
Bryce grins. “Stop acting like I don’t look great. Plus, I like to wait until the last minute. It takes the new prey a little longer to work up the nerve, and the newbies are more fun.”
Carter shakes his head. “Only because no one else will have you.”
Bryce scoffs and tosses his hair. “Don’t be jealous. Just because you’ve settled on one pussy for the rest of your life doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.” He winces as he meets my eye. “No offense, Hen.”