Chapter 11

The warlord’s home opened with a foyer large enough to hold an army. White marbled floors lead up to two sweeping staircases connected to the next floor. Meira looked up at the glistening chandelier as she closed the door behind them.

Bram’s boots squeaked against the marble as he stopped and turned to take in the expanse of the room. At his side, Lowell was sighing dramatically and folding his arms over his chest before leaning against a wall.

Their steps echoed through the open space. Meira found herself reaching out to touch the railing of the stairs, half marveling at the dark polish and half annoyed that anyone spent their money on making something so shiny when there were much more practical and meaningful ways of doing so.

In the next room, a hearth was lit, though the flames had begun to dwindle. Warmth called her forward to warm her frozen fingers and toes. Seeing as there was no one to stop her, she strolled right past Bram and Lowell and weaved around the arrangement of furniture to get to the fireplace. She nearly sighed with the same exasperation as Lowell had as the heat washed over her skin.

Her heart beat against the insistent tug that demanded her to hunt. Though she did her best to look relaxed, her attention kept jumping between the doorways and the shadows of the room. Underneath her glove, the mark began to itch.

“How long do we wait before we let the boy get himself to Croughton?” Lowell said, still leaning against the door.

Bram’s voice came only a few feet behind Meira. “We’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Despite the odd nature of their mission, to leave without seeing it to completion would be a shame upon their legion. The words to the end were more than a tradition to say; it was the heart of the scale riders and their devotion to seeing every mission through. Meira wondered then how much shame would be upon her if she had to abandon this mission. In the fifteen years she’d spent with the scale riders she’d only heard of one banishment, a rider who’d run from their post during a particularly brutal skirmish on the Empire’s border. They’d been called a coward and forbidden from returning. As far as she was aware the banishment even went as far as to the man”s bonded dragon. There was a small relief in knowing that no matter what she wouldn’t be torn away from Mrithun.

The bond of a rider with their dragon was a strange one. On her end, she felt an immense endearment toward the animal, a stronger desire to ensure her Bold Wing was always cared for and protected. Yet Mrithun could damn near read her mind. She got the feeling that her dragon always knew where she was even when miles separated them. Whatever the Bold Wing felt, it was certainly even stronger than what she did, which sounded altogether impossible. She’d think so if she didn’t see the evidence of the bond every time they were together. The understanding in her Bold Wings eyes, the way her dragon was attuned to her very emotions and often put herself between Meira and any threats.

What was an itch grew to a burning sensation in her palm. She blinked and could swear she saw the backside of the Brendal home on the inside of her eyelids. Her body tensed as she closed her eyes and examined the building. The same painted brick, navy shutters, and gold accents but all from another angle, another perspective.

Meira felt that tightness in her chest strengthen until it took everything in her not to start stumbling forward and then sprint through the rooms. Her body and mind screamed for her to go and look. To hunt and to find. He was close, he had to be.

She had to find a reason to get away from Bram and Lowell, a reason that would allow her to search the spacious home. Lowering her hands and turning toward Bram, she did her best to look natural, but the movements felt stiff and Bram watched her with a curious gaze. After over ten years of knowing each other, he knew her well enough to notice her tells. She forced a smile.

“Think they’ve got a bathroom somewhere in here?” she asked.

Bram’s lips twitched as he fought a frown. “Why? Are you feeling sick?”

“Just need to relieve myself.” She shrugged and turned back toward the fire offering her hands again as if it was of no rush, but the urgency was building, a terrible constriction in her chest that made each breath harder to take than the last. Embers glowed and the firewood crackled before her. She watched it with rapt attention.

“They probably have a gold toilet,” Lowell snickered to himself. “I’d bet they were fed as babies with golden bottles and laid to sleep in their little golden cribs.”

“We had a nursemaid for our son and I doubt he would have slept at all in a golden crib. I can’t imagine it would have been very comfortable.”

A man stepped out from an open doorway to the right of the fireplace. Meira almost expected to see that stranger. Her stranger. But this man was far from the sharp jawline and tempting eyes she’d seen in her visions. Everything about him was round from the shape of his face to the slope of his belly resting over his navy trousers.

“Warlord Vigor,” Bram spoke first. That was for the best seeing as Lowell had turned a dark shade of scarlet and Meira was sweating from forcing herself still. “We’ve come to accompany your son to Croughton as requested.” Bram leaned ever so slightly, looking around Vigor for a glimpse at the son who’d not yet shown himself. All that was behind the large warlord though was more darkness.

Vigor took a step forward. Flames reflected off the golden handle of his cane, shaped into the menacing effigy of a roaring lion. Meira felt the intensity of his gaze laze over each of the scale riders one by one.

The man scowled. “We had some unexpected visitors and he’s been delayed but should be here shortly.” He turned his attention back to Bram. “You are aware that someone should be with him at all times, correct? I’ve made him an appointment with several potential business ventures but the atmosphere surrounding them has already become somewhat of a mess. A meeting with any man from one of Elton Hamza’s previous business ventures and suddenly the person ends up dead. That will not be what becomes of my son, do you understand?”

Elton Hamza had been undoubtedly successful and spoiled with riches. Was it so much so that it was worth killing each other for? Meira had never had an ounce of wealth to her name, not even in her long-forgotten village years ago. The idea that any of it would be enough to bring men to each other’s throats was absurd.

The Empire loved its coin, even if the mystery of it befuddled her. They loved it about as much as they looked down on scale riders and certainly far more than they ever cared for witches.

Bram was quick to nod. “Yes, we’ve been briefed on your requests. Two riders will be at his side at all times to act as guards while within the great city. We have an entire legion prepared to escort him through the Deadwoods as well.”

Meira backed away from the fireplace, practically stumbling forward as the vise of magic gripped her and nearly stripped her of free will. She fought the curse as it sunk its claws into her mind screaming at his nearness. When Vigor shot her a glance at her abrupt movement, she feigned interest in the books upon his shelves. Letters swam before her vision, never making comprehendible words.

“Very good, very good.” Vigor nodded.

Behind him, the steady sound of footfalls grew louder until a man with short golden hair appeared. His smile was a stark contrast to the deep frown his father wore. There was a spark of excitement in the heir”s eyes as he quickly assessed the room and clapped a hand on his father’s back. He started with long strides toward Bram holding his hand out.

“I’m assuming you’re my escort to Croughton. My name is Valen Brendal. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Bram looked down somewhat reluctantly but took Valen’s hand in a firm shake. “Bram Dearson. This is Meira and Lowell.” He motioned to them, though neither Meira nor Lowell had shifted from where they stood at a distance.

“Please take a seat. I’ve already called for tea and sandwiches to be brought in and you all can warm up before we head out. I’m sure the rest is much needed. You flew here, correct?”

Bram dipped his chin in answer. Then Valen was making his way toward Meira, forcing her to stop staring so intently at the spines of novels she wasn’t actually reading. Valen was practically a foot taller than his father and of medium build, but the way he walked toward her was feline, the stalking steps of a predator. He stopped a foot in front of her and held out his hand. “I take it you’re Meira.”

All she could do was stare at his palm. A fresh trickle of perspiration ran down her spine. If she moved she didn’t trust herself not to frantically dart from the room and follow the lure of the curse. Eventually, Valen let his fingers curl into a gentle fist and dropped his hand. His smile remained though his shoulders tensed. Those ocean-filled eyes ran over her form clad in the leathers of her riding gear. It wasn’t an appreciating glance but merely an observation as if he was keeping stock of her curves and evaluating her for a threat.

“I didn’t realize you had women in your employ,” Valen continued with a flash of his all too white teeth at Bram.

Scale riders were not a job out for hire. The notion of it being some sort of employer was befuddling to hear. Meira assumed it was common knowledge that the riders had been born from a group of rebels during the war that had won Emperor Grandith Augustine his seat on the throne. They’d fought in his favor at the time, but it hadn’t been a secret that it was only because they’d shared a common enemy. From there, the tradition of taming and riding Bold Wings had mostly been passed down through family lines.

“There are many women amongst our ranks,” Bram answered when Meira stared at Valen blankly. He motioned Lowell forward and the men lowered onto the tufted couch. Lowell lounged back into the seat, crossing his legs at his ankles, seemingly enjoying the luxury he’d been so quick to put down.

“Are they all as friendly as Meira?” Valen laughed, keeping his tone light. He even passed her a smirk over his shoulder on his way to shake Lowell’s hand.

A rider didn’t need to be friendly. Though she never heard anyone complain if one of her male counterparts appeared rude or outright aggressive and cruel, she’d been told to smile or be pleasant on more than one occasion and the slight jab only made her teeth grate together. The comment only came from citizens of the Empire, never other riders. She wondered at their lives and if all their women were berated until they walked around with false grins and insincere kindness.

“They’re all as deadly as Meira.” Lowell took Valen’s hand but dropped it just as quickly.

“That’s exactly what I like to hear,” Vigor chimed in, watching them all with a considerable amount of disapproval belying the encouraging statement.

Running a hand through his blond hair, Valen finally settled into a high-back chair beside the couch. He stayed perched on the end of the seat, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, and watching the riders as if they were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

A bit of red marred his shirt sleeve, something Bram must have noticed too because he pointed toward the spot. “Are you bleeding?”

Valen’s grin faltered then. He glanced down at his sleeve and shook his head. “We had a guest with an injury. He must have managed to bleed on me while I brought him back to the physician. A shame considering this is one of my favorite shirts.”

Him.

It had to be.

Her heart was thudding in her throat making it harder for each breath to reach her lungs. Sweat coated her palms, slicking the inside of her gloves.

“You have a physician staying here?” Meira tried her best to sound curious and leach every ounce of hope out of her tone.

“We do.” Valen offered yet another smile in her direction.

The words, take me to them, sat on the edge of her tongue, but there wasn”t any reason to and it would only cause Bram more worry and frustration over their already strained relationship. So instead, she reverted to the only thing she could think of that would allow her time to step away and look for her stranger.

“Do you also have a bathroom?”

Bram shot her a look of annoyance. She refused to look at him, knew if she did he might see something in her that she couldn’t, wouldn’t show.

Valen stood from his seat. “Of course, you’ve had a long journey. Anyone who needs to use the facilities is welcome to.” He shifted easily around the room and pointed into the foyer. “Just beyond the stairs is a hallway, it’s the second door on your right.”

Sconces were lit in the hall, giving her a dim understanding of exactly where she was heading. She dipped her head, finally meeting his blue stare. Valen’s expression brightened at the small act of thanks before he turned back to the sitting area where Bram and Lowell watched. She didn’t stay long enough to read into their expressions before she hurried to the hall. It wasn’t long before her absence would cause questions and concerns. Then, if someone came looking for her and she wasn’t where she ought to be, she’d be in a world of trouble with Bram, potentially stripped from the mission.

The moment she rounded the corner, she eased herself against the wall and listened. No eager footsteps came after her. No one cared. She exhaled slowly, letting her attention drift down the hall. Portraits of men as large as the warlord peered back at her, but other than their painted forms there was no one else for as far as she could see. Which, to her surprise, was quite a way. Meira knew the home was large, that much had been clear the moment they arrived, but here in the maze of interconnected halls and rooms, it felt as though it went on forever.

Her hands were slicked with sweat under the gloves, and she wiped them down the cloth of her uniform to no avail. The mark felt as though she was holding her hand over an open flame. What magic connected them tugged at her chest. It pulled her from the wall and quickly through the hall. She had no sense of where she was going, only that she needed to go.

Her waking hours had all been filled with thoughts of this man. His image was burned into the space behind her eyelids. Curiosity over their link with the huntress mark drove her toward the sensation of his presence. Meira ran. Her steps were quiet, as light as she could manage, but still, the soft patter of her movements filled the space around her.

Sconces were lit down nearly every corridor. Her eyes darted at every turn but not a single maid or butler waited. It would make sense that the staff was all asleep at this late hour, but she was still surprised that no one jumped out to stop her. Only more men painted in thick strokes across canvas were privy to her daring march through the warlord’s home.

A door slammed shut. The sound came from a distance and her heart leapt into her throat. Faster. She needed to move faster.

Meira pushed herself as quickly as she dared, skidding around the next corner to find a woman standing in the hall. With gray hair slicked back into a tight bun and a deep crease between her brows, she looked as if she was only a second away from scolding Meira, but the woman turned to look at her without an ounce of anger. Her eyes swept Meira’s form gliding down to stare at her fisted hands. The woman’s eyes narrowed, then flicked back up to her face. Meira swore the woman had seen through her riding gloves, that she knew the brand that marked her flesh.

“You’ve just missed them, I’m afraid.” She folded her slender arms over her cream-colored robe and nightdress. “Though I imagine they won’t get far, two of them are injured.”

She was breathless, her lungs not as used to the effort as they had been before her long sleep. “Where?”

The woman pointed with a long spindly finger. “Down the hall, take the first two rights, and out the back door.” Her words had hardly made it out of her mouth before Meira was moving again. ”“Good luck, young witch.” The voice carried after her, a song sung between them and only them.

Meira wanted to stop and question her. It had been so long since she’d been around another witch. It was a danger for them to convene in covens as they once had. After all, it was better if only one witch was caught rather than many. Her heart longed for that connection of living amongst women so similar to her once more. Whatever loneliness she carried with the weight of her secret was drowned out by the call of the curse.

Momentum carried her into a wall as she turned. Her boots squealed against the tile when she rounded another. Another small foyer appeared, a door firmly closed ahead. The force of her body slammed against the wood as she twisted the handle and stumbled down the steps.

Cold air swarmed her. Her breaths filled her vision with fog. The curse still commanded her movements, and she sprinted toward the street. A carriage moved briskly down the road. Her body turned red hot, and she almost cried out at the demand of magic on her bones.

He was so close. Whoever he was. Whoever he was with. There, in that carriage. And all she could do was stand there and watch as it rolled away from her.

Clouds parted enough that the moon’s light broke her from her stupor. She glanced up at its position in the sky and held back the shout of frustration that threatened to spring forth. She didn’t have the time or the excuse to disappear now.

A shadow passed. Mrithun was there, ready and waiting. How quickly could she call her Bold Wing down and go after them? Not quick enough.

Perhaps her stranger knew enough of witches to evade her. Perhaps he was just lucky.