53. Veyka

I was torn between wanting to throw myself into Arran's arms and beg him to remember me, or stab him with one of my daggers. Unfortunately, neither action would achieve anything productive.

Productive.

Was it only months ago that I had slept my days away, drowned the hours in aural and food and orgasms? At least when I had been lost in melancholy and revenge, I did not have to deal with so many Ancestors-damned feelings.

I half-expected the black stones to launch some sort of trap, dropping me through the battlements into a torture chamber or for restraints to spring up. Not that either could have held me. But my feet landed on the even stones of the gatehouse without incident.

My daggers were already in hand, well-suited to the close combat an attack between the rising stone walls would demand. But none came. The battlements were exactly as they'd appeared from below—deserted.

Slowly, I rotated on the spot. No one jumped out from the recesses of a hidden refuge. No doors opened to reveal a fighting force. There were not even any plants to be summoned by a flora-gifted terrestrial. Maybe nothing could grow this close to the Split Sea.

I'd sensed Arran's unease. Mine concurred.

There was something very wrong with this place.

The next question—a feature of Castle Chariot itself, its location, or its new owner?

Even from a considerable distance above his head, I felt Arran's growl of disapproval. I paused in my exploration to throw Arran and Lyrena an irreverent wave from the top of the round tower.

The growl deepened.

I licked my lips and swallowed down the needy, lustful part of me that wanted to answer. I was only partially successful. But it was enough for me to control my step through the void into the inner bailey of the black castle.