My mates notice it as quickly as I do, glancing at one another with consternation, drawing their weapons slowly, preparing for the inevitable as we stalk the halls into the underground.
As we make our way into the main warren, the vast expanse that shoots off into other passages and tunnels—the place we simply call the “eating room”—I can hear crying coming from different rooms. Soft tears, sobbing, groaning. Scared. The main room is empty.
It’s never empty. Not completely.
My heartbeat kicks up a notch and I call out, “We’ve returned from battle! What is going on in here?”
A head pokes out from one of the side rooms, eyes wide, face grimy. It’s Tecca the dhampiress, a sweet brat who could easily be mistaken for a full-blooded human. “Oh thank the Damned it’s you!” she squeaks. Over her shoulder, she yells, “Girls, it’s Lady Lock!”
I hurry over. My mates are two feet behind me. When the young half-blood rushes forward and swaddles me in a hug, I know something is deeply, terribly wrong.
My stomach sinks, knowing our victory will be short-lived.
“Oh, Lady Lock, it’s awful. It’s . . .” She shakes her head, rubbing her teary eyes with the sleeve of her dirty tunic.
“It’swhat, Tecca?”
“No, I can’t.” She nudges her chin down the way, into the snaking northern halls that lead past the eating room, past the sparring room, and to the individual dwellings. “It must be seen, not spoken about. Or we risk it coming back.”
My pulse pounds in my ears while I creep down the hall cautiously. The sliding of my mates’ boots tells me they’re in battle stance, ready for anything.
I swallow hard past a dry throat, coming to one of the only wooden doors in the Firehold—the primary residence of the leader of the Grimsons.
The door is slightly ajar, which is odd.
A small mewling sound passes through my lips involuntarily, or maybe a whimper, and I slow. “No,” I whine, pushing back, back—
Bumping straight into Vallan’s stone wall of a chest.
“Silverblood,” he murmurs in his deep, gravelly voice, resting his large hands on my shoulders to still my shaking body. “Be strong.”
I push the door open fully, skittering back like a coward as it creaks open—
And my world tilts on its axis. Dizziness rushes through me in a great tidal wave that crashes against the banks of my psyche.
Antones is lifted, feet inches off the ground, body pressed against the back wall of the room. Spread-eagle, arms stretched in a grisly T, head dipped chin to chest. Crucified with nails keeping him up. He’s been stripped, torso carved open, with a circle of gore at his feet where his innards sit in a pulpy heap.
My old friend’s heart is missing. I can see it even from this distance. It’s gone from his chest, and his ribcage has been pried open. The corpse is gray, lifeless, inert. There’s a waxy, statuesque likeness to Antones now, without any of the colorful exuberance and propriety he had in life. A shell.
Next to him on the wall, just under his outstretched right arm, appears to be scribblings in a deep color. There’s a lit torch nearby to enhance the dramatic effect of our discovery.
My eyes burn fiercely with sadness and rage. In my most recent act of recklessness to recover the missing humans from the Faith Ward, gathering the impromptu army and marching on Valenthia Yurlyth, we left the Firehold exposed.
Antones was assassinated because of my negligence and carelessness.
My shoulders sink as a sob rips from my insides. This is one of the humans I’ve known the longest, ever since my childhood. One of the only humans to ever pay me any kindness, despite mebeing a guttergirl of ill repute. He saw none of that in me—he only saw possibility, and aided my various quests whenever he could.
Antones was a true steward of Nuhav, despite having to live in its dark underbelly for decades. First as the second-in-command to Lukain, then as the leader of the outcast gang himself.
And now he’s gone. Life cut short. Our recent conversations run through me at a blaring speed.
Lukain is next to me now, staring blankly. His face slowly twists into something dark and menacing—a look I haven’t seen on the dhampir in a long time. It’s the need for revenge without even knowing who that vengeance will be aimed at.
We walk toward the corpse together. The sweet smell I recognize now as blood and death. Something that’s all too familiar to me, especially given the night we’ve had.
As we near the wall, Lukain drapes an arm around my neck, hearing my sniffles. “He’s free from the wickedness of this world now, little grimmer. He always wanted peace. Now he can have it.”
His voice is sad, racked with such emotion I didn’t know a dhampir was capable of. At one point in time, this was his best friend—hisonlyfriend and ally.