They parked down the street from the industrial unit and made their way on foot from there; four silent shadows clad in black. They all wore hooded tops under their jackets, and Deòthas had already tugged her hood up to conceal her white-blonde hair and cast her face in shadow. The others followed her example as they crept closer to their destination, determined not to draw attention until the last possible moment. Their bhampair talent for stealth made them little more than shadows in the darkness of night; armed shadows moving in for the kill, provided the hijackers hadn’t fled already.
Gods, if they’ve killed and run...
Tancred glanced up at the stars overhead, casting a prayer towards the heavens, asking the gods to protect the children and to ensure this trap wouldn’t break all of their necks when it inevitably sprang. He, like Eallair, felt sure a trap had been set, but he had no choice but to respond. Not when the threat targeted children. His conscience would accept nothing less than action. He only regretted that he’d dragged the Comhairle’s two newest ghaisgich into the snare with him. They didn’t deserve it. Nor did Deòthas.
“You didn’t ‘drag’ us anywhere. We came of our own volition. We knew what we were getting into when we took the trials and this is why we’re here.”
Eallair's ability to read his mind might yet prove inconvenient.
“Or it could be invaluable, depending how you look at it,” his mate retorted. “If you used your words more, then I wouldn’t need to make decisions based on what’s going on in your head.”
“I’ve ‘used my words’ more with you than with anyone else in my life.”
“Yet you still decided to come here alone, and if I hadn’t overheard the plan in your head, you would’ve done so.”
Tanc couldn’t argue with that, yet he regretted the next words to spill from his mouth even as they escaped. “Bit like someone slipping out of bed and throwing himself into Tallamarbh without telling his mate.”
“That was fucking different and you know it,” Eallair growled, sounding unusually irritable.
From what Tor had told him, Eallair wasn’t usually bad tempered, but he’d had some moments in the last week. Not surprising with everything that had happened, but Tanc didn’t enjoy adding to the strain. He didn’t want to become something his mate might resent.
“I know. Can we talk about it when we get home? We all need our head in the game,” he pointed out, because going into a potential combat situation distracted never ended well.
Eallair gave a non-committal shrug. “Sure. Whatever.”
Tor’s brow pinched at the blasé retort, shaking his head at his brother. “Focus but don’t shut down, alright, bro?”
Eallair gave a sharp nod of his head. “Sure.”
Maybe worrying about his mam had soured his mood, or maybe it was his concern about Tanc himself, or anxiety about fighting without sight. All those worries rattled around in Eallair’s head, where Tanc could hear them, but he couldn’t make any of it right, so he focussed on edging towards the wire fence that marked the perimeter of the industrial unit’s grounds.
He stuck to the shadows, using bhampair stealth to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself, trusting the others to do the same. Under the shelter of a tree, partly obscured by a large rose bush, he lifted his hand in a militaryesque hand signal to stop, knowing even Eallair would see the command. The others paused behind him as he studied the minibus in the centre of the carpark. He could see the shapes of children inside it, but none of them moved, either too scared to do so or no longer able to. He didn’t want to think about what that meant, yet he couldn’t avoid asking the question.
“Tell me they still have auras. Living auras.”
“Those on the bus? Yes, they do,” Eallair confirmed. “Except for the one stood at the font, next to the empty driver’s seat. Or where I imagine the driver’s seat is. That one... The aura around it’s body is barely there, just the faintest border of dark red. Not alive, just left in the wake of magic. The glow is only slightly brighter in its head, around the brain, the only part puppeteers cares about, so I’m assuming it’s a marionette. There are more with similar auras stood beside the bus. Enough to fight, but if they start killing the kids...”
“You said the driver’s seat is empty but it doesn’t look vacant to me. There’s a person sitting at the wheel.”
Even as he made the claim, Tanc realised what that meant. If Eallair couldn’t see him, then he had no aura. He’d been murdered in front of school children; kids who would be haunted by that image and perhaps by so much more as well if they didn’t intervene quickly enough.
“I can’t see him. He’s not alive.” Eallair’s frown deepened at his own admission.
“Those poor kids,” Tor murmured. “No kids deserve to live with this; with watching marionettes kill others, not sure if they’d be next.”
He would know. He’d witnessed the first Masquerade massacre while still a minor himself.
“We have three hours until sunrise and no idea when backup will get here,” Tanc noted. “I can only see ten marionettes so we should manage to take them out, but someone needs to focus on getting to the bus, getting in there before the one puppet on board can start killing hostages... Deòthas, you’re the most ghost-like. Fastest too. You need to be the one to get to the kids.”
Tor looked like he wanted to argue but he managed to hold his tongue; knowing he could no more stop his wife doing her job than she could stop him doing the same. Instead, he offered, “Most of the marionettes seem to be facing the gate, if you go around the property and vault the fence at the back, you might manage to approach without drawing attention. The moment you get close to the bus, we can focus on coming from this side, hopefully keeping the puppets’ attention on us. You focus on stopping a slaughter inside the vehicle and we’ll clean up the rest.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Deòthas tugged her red-bladed great sword from her back. “We ready?”
Unsheathing his sword too, Tanc nodded. He had to. If he started to worry about Eallair’s readiness and safety, he might not give him a chance to prove himself, but he suspected that refusal would ‘back his mate into a corner’, as Tor put it. Eallair needed to do his job. Still, Tancred wanted to make sure that he could track his mate even if Ambustus saw the tattoos on Eallair’s face as an opportunity.
Tugging a packet of Nate’s tracking devices from his pocket, he pulled one of the watch battery-sized transmitters from the clear plastic bag. Then popped it in his mouth, under his tongue, before holding another out to his mate.
“Nate’s tracking devices are waterproof,” he explained. “A few years back, Corvinus got himself into trouble with a criminal element who decided he needed to be taught a lesson. They took his weapons and trackers from him, except the one he’d hidden under his tongue. It was the only reason we found him...
“I don’t know if the purpose here is to kill us or capture me, but there’s a chance Ambustus might see an opportunity if he can take one or both of us. You have my name on your cheek, at least give me a way to track you if anything unfortunate happens.”
His mate took the device, slipping it under his tongue too before directing his gaze back towards the marionettes. “Ok. Give me some concept of the terrain.”
“Carpark looks pretty flat. No raised walkways or flowerbeds, no trees, and although there are streetlights, they’re not between the main gate and the marionettes. You don’t need to worry about navigating around them. There are no other vehicles in the carpark either, just the bus. Follow me and Tor to the gate and head straight for the puppets, you’ll be fine,” he murmured, trying to persuade himself of that fact as much as Eallair. Then, when the expectant silence began to lengthen, he breathed, “Move out.”
They split up, Deòthas moving one way and the rest of them the other, skirting around the perimeter of the carpark. They were almost at the main gate, still clinging to the shadows beneath trees and behind rosebushes when Tor whispered, “She’s over the fence and making a beeline for the bus.”
Perhaps some element of the mating bond allowed him to track his mate even when others couldn’t, or he heard a running commentary from her thoughts. Tanc couldn’t be sure of anything except that he’d lost sight of Deòthas as soon as they split up. She did what she did best; becoming an ethereal and silent spectre that few could follow in the darkness.
In truth, he had no idea how Cailean had gotten the drop on her.
Only that wasn’t true, was it? He knew exactly why she’d been captured; she’d been distracted, grieving for the mating she’d run from. She’d been scared, in pain, giving up the one thing she wanted for herself. Perhaps mates truly were a weakness to be exploited.
A low growl rumbled from Eallair’s throat and Tancred flinched, but neither of them spoke as they reached the main gate, finally stepping out of the shadows and into a pool of light cast by a streetlight, catching the attention of the marionettes lined up in front of the bus. As one, Tancred, Eallair, and Tor surged into a run, sprinting towards the puppets, ensuring the corpses focussed on them and ignored the invisible wraith sneaking around the front bumper of the bus, keeping low enough that the marionette inside wouldn’t see her until she wrenched open the door.
“Ag-heshr,” the puppets said in unison, but then they paused, one or two even tilting their heads as though Ambustus’s sudden intrigue had manifested in the motion. “You found a mate...”
Tanc bared fully descended fangs, snarling at the marionettes, a harsher sound than he’d ever uttered before, promising violence if Ambustus dared focus his attention on Eallair. The thought sent a bolt of panic through him which quickly morphed into fury, even before they clashed with the line of marionettes. His Comhairle sword came up, plunging straight through the eye of one of the puppets and out of the back of its skull, without giving the corpse time to block or dodge. When he ripped his weapon free again, congealed blood and brain matter pooled in the etchings along the blade’s length and dripped from its edges in a thick, black sludge. He didn’t pause, spinning and arcing his blade straight through the neck of another puppet.
On one side, Tor slammed his maul down on the head of a third marionette, exploding the thing’s skull like a squashed grape. On the other, Eallair plunged his sword through another puppet’s throat, front to back, spearing its spine with a precision that seemed almost surprising considering his eyes. Tanc wondered if he could see the Sycophant’s magic flowing down the corpse’s spine; sending the signals which moved its limbs. The possibility eased a little of his anxiety; despite all the problems Eallair might face because he couldn’t see the world as others did, it still meant he could hold his own in a fight. There might be workarounds for everything else.
Between the three of them, they quickly eradicated the ten marionettes waiting outside the bus. It almost seemed too easy. Or maybe Ambustus had expected Tancred to come alone, knowing he’d already diverted so many teams to other attacks. After all, Kerr knew Comhairle protocol. If he’d fed such information back to Ambustus, then Ambustus must understand that Tanc would never send the last combat team out and leave the castle under defended, especially with marionettes on their doorstep. The attacks were designed to get him alone, because Deòthas and Tor weren’t supposed to be back on rotation yet and no one in their right mind would send their blind mate into battle. It had always been about him; either because Ambustus still thought he had a claim or because Tanc led the Comhairle.
Once the last marionette decomposed at their feet, they refocussed on the bus. Deòthas had slain the puppet on-board and she held up her hands in a placating gesture, facing the now screaming children, her voice softer than Tanc had ever heard it as she promised, “We’re here to help, to get you back home to your parents. If you just sit tight for a little longer, we’ll get you out of here.”
Only then the sound of too many feet pounding against asphalt caught Tancred’s attention and he looked up to see further marionettes streaming around the side of the industrial unit. Too many of them; a silent horde focussed on reaching their master’s quarry.
“Tor, get on the bus and see if you can find the keys. We need to get the kids out of here. Deòthas will have her hands full keeping them calm.”
Tor hesitated at the order, clearly not happy at the notion of leaving his chief and brother to face an insurmountable number of puppets. He had no choice, though. They had all signed up for this; to give their lives protecting civilians if necessary.
Tor conceded, diving for the door of the bus, and relief washed through Tanc when its engine finally rumbled to life. Unfortunately, by then the charging marionettes were too close to evade. Someone had to keep them off the bus long enough for it to make its escape. Tanc knew he needed to make that sacrifice, but he wasn’t willing to condemn his mate.
“Get on-board,” he growled at Eallair, wishing he could say more, to make things right between them, but there was no way he could fit everything he wanted to say into the time it’d take for the marionettes to reach them, so he raised his sword and prepared to fight.
“Fuck you.” Eallair lifted his sword too, before calling back over his shoulder. “Tor, get out of here. We’ll follow. The kids are the priority.”
“Fuck,” Tor hissed, but what choice did he have? Arguing could condemn the children and none of them would do that, especially when it seemed likely that a ghaisgeach had sold them out in the first place.
The bus clanked and hissed, then rumbled forward, turning towards the gates as Tanc and Eallair clashed with the first of the marionettes. Just as they had at Haze, they fought with a synchronicity that would have stolen Tanc’s breath if he hadn’t been focussed on taking out puppet after puppet. When he twisted, Eallair guarded his exposed side, when Eallair’s sword caught between a marionette’s ribs, Tanc kept the others off him long enough for him to wrench his blade free. Despite the tension that had burgeoned between them since they convened in the castle’s carpark, fighting together still felt right. It felt essential. Yet it also wasn’t enough.
“How many of these fucking things are there?” Eallair grunted as he dodged back, away from a knife blow, skipping further away than he would have if he’d seen that his attacker wielded a dagger. Tanc guessed that was caution. No point in staying close when his assailant could have a great sword in his hands. It didn’t stop Eallair moving back in as soon as his attackers arm over-extended, twisting around the puppet’s side and sending his own sword slicing through the corpse’s neck.
Warmth flooded Tanc’s chest when he realised how impressed he felt; how awed. Knowing what Eallair had to contend with, he couldn’t help but admire the grace and self-assuredness with which he fought. He was everything every other ghaisgich was; strong, determined, capable. So, so capable. Yet this was a battle they couldn’t win. Tanc couldn’t even estimate how many marionettes surged towards them. Thirty? Forty? The first ten had been a lure and nothing more. Second by second, more and more walking corpses pressed in around them; overwhelming.
“I’m sorry,” he hissed as he took down another foe, his words punctuated by breathless exertion and the meeting of blade against blade. “I’m sorry... if... this is... it.”
“I’m... not,” Eallair retorted as he blocked the downward swing of a sword. “I’m... a ghaisgeach... If I die... as a ghaisgeach... ensuring the... safety of children... then... I’m alright... with that... and... with finding... you... Tha... gaol... agam ort.”
“I love you... too... mo leannan,” Tanc answered, but then the pommel of a sword collided with his temple, hard enough that he barely registered the eruption of pain and the stars that burst in his vision before the world went dark.
When awareness returned, it felt like swimming through molasses. The blackness only receded slowly and even sound seemed far away, muffled, like being under water. He felt the tell-tale pressure of an iron slave collar around his throat; not the first he’d worn but still enough to have shame pouring through him. A ball of disgust lodged in his throat, choking him. He hated that collar as it chaffed against his neck, cutting into him to poison his blood. He even hated it more than feeling the cold air blowing across his naked body from the air conditioning unit, a sensation which revealed he’d been stripped, warning him that Ambustus would take what he thought he had a right to, just as he always had.
At least Tanc could still feel the tracker lodged under his tongue, but who knew how long it would take the Comhairle to find them, especially if dawn had come, or if they moved again, or if they were underground, layers of concrete and steel smothering the signal the tracking devices emitted.
Though, in truth, none of his situation caused as much panic to crush his chest as not knowing what had happened to Eallair. That terror finally forced his eyes open. Gods, his head hurt. His vision blurred too. The dizziness might have just been from the concussion, but based on the gnawing hunger in his belly, he’d been drained. Drained so completely that he blinked several times before he could even focus enough to see Eallair slumped against the opposite wall, awake, but from the way his eyes had sunken into bruised hollows, he’d been drained too. Likely too weak to stand. A bruise still stained his jaw and right cheek, and blood oozed sluggishly from a cut on his brow, slower than it should have been if his body hadn’t struggled against the dehydration that came from bloodloss. At least he hadn’t been stripped.
“Are you alright?” Tanc managed to croak, barely casting a glance around the rest of the room; a white painted room with a ceiling made almost entirely of floodlights, only one of which currently illuminated the space. There might have been Tannoy speakers in the corners too, but nothing mattered except for his mate.
Eallair didn’t meet his eye, studying the concrete floor instead. His shame soured the air inside their white box.
“Eallair?”
“When you went down, I couldn’t save you. There were too many... and...”
“And?” he prompted when Eallair’s explanation trailed off.
His mate hesitated, still not looking at him as he murmured, “They overpowered me. When they brought us here... he bit me.... You were the first person I’ve ever fed. I wanted you to be the only person.”
He was the first?
On one hand, every possessive instinct Tanc had fired, horrified that Ambustus had dared touch his made; dared take something from Eallair that he didn’t want to give. At the same time, that same possessive drive made his heart swell. He accepted that his mate had bedded many partners, he’d assumed others would’ve taken Eallair’s vein. To bhampairean, sex and blood were so connected that it had seemed implausible for any other scenario to be possible.
“I was the first?” Tanc breathed, more touched than he could say. The idea that Eallair had given him anything ‘first’ humbled him. If they’d been anywhere else, he might’ve been turned on by the admission.
If Eallair had retained enough blood in his body, he might’ve flushed. He finally lifted his beautiful purple eyes to Tanc’s and nodded. “Yes...You were... I’ve never wanted to let anyone do that. Not until you. I’ve never bitten any of the people I slept with either.”
Tanc’s throat constricted and he wanted to go to his mate, but when he tried to push himself up onto his feet, his body refused to co-operate, so weak that he barely made it onto his knees before he collapsed back against the wall. The dizziness intensified, either from the blow to his head or because of his need for blood. Although the room was only five metres by five metres wide, there may as well have been acres between him and Eallair.
His mate looked apologetic. “He drained you too. Bit you first because he said he couldn’t resist, then he stuck a cannula in your arm. He took a lot from you. Too much. I wasn’t sure you’d wake as all, and I don’t recommend trying to stand.”
“I love you. I’m so sorry,” Tanc insisted. “I’m sorry for every stupid thing that’s gone through my head, or that I’ve said, and for putting you in this position. I’m so very sorry, mo leannan.”
“I love you too. But, mo mhiann, you didn’t put me in this position,” Eallair refuted as he shook his head. “Ambustus did this. Kerr likely had a part in it too. As for the rest, everyone has thoughts they could regret. Thoughts aren’t actions. I know who you are, and you have nothing to be sorry for. If I’m about to die, I’m pleased I got to be with you first.”
He hated the thought of Eallair dying, but after what Ambustus had done to Pakhom, Tanc didn’t dare hope for more than that. Instead, he found himself praying, begging Ràsbàrd to accept Eallair into his halls to join the warriors who’d gone before. He deserved that honour. He deserved much more, but Ambustus had always been cruel, murderous, and it had to be almost day by now, if it wasn’t day already. The chance of anyone coming for them before Ambustus did irreversible harm seemed slim. He wished he could expect a rescue, just as they’d rescued Deòthas, but he didn’t dare hope.
Then the door of their cell opened, and for the first time in two millennia, Tancred’s gaze landed on the monster who’d tormented the earliest decades of his life. Ambustus entered, flanked by several marionettes, one of whom pushed a trolley loaded with various weapons and implements of torture.
It seemed Ambustus had some of his own vengeance to reap.
His one-time owner’s hair was longer than it had been, fashionably tousled rather than close-cropped as he’d worn it in the past. Now it hung in feathered layers around his haughty, clean-shaven face. He’d always been vain, and everything from his hair to his designer-yet-flamboyant suit of purple velour said that hadn’t changed. He even had a satin pocket square tucked in his breast pocket, co-ordinated to match his black cravat.
Gods, Tancred hated that man. He hated his slimy attitude, his arrogance, the entitlement with which he carried himself while abusing and using others. He would’ve given anything to punch him in the face, to tear his head from his body and set fire to his corpse.
“Ag-heshr, you two are going to make be throw up, which would be a shame when I’m so deliciously full of your mate’s blood. I can see why you like him; he is an exquisite wine. It’s almost enough to persuade me to keep him too. I wonder, would he be as effective at getting you hard enough to service sows as Pakhom once was?”
“Fuck you,” Tanc growled, baring his fangs.
“Oh no, Ag-heshr, I am going to fuck you, but you need retrained first. You need to remember what I expect of you. You need to remember that YOU. ARE. MINE.”
“The gods say otherwise,” Eallair snarled, and Tanc feared his mate might make his future bleaker still. Or maybe he’d decided they’d already struck rock bottom. “You swagger in here looking like a fucking plum-coloured powder puff but what are you really? A weak fucking wanker who needs to own, torture, and murder people to feel powerful. You’re so fucking fragile you need to kidnap children to get what you want, while he’s led the Comhairle for centuries. He’s stood in Tallamarbh and proved himself to some of the meanest fuckers in any realm. He’s been honoured by the gods. But you? You're fucking pathetic.”
Tanc didn’t know how Eallair had guessed what Ambustus was wearing, not unless his mate had read his own scorn from his thoughts. Not that it mattered. Ambustus wouldn’t stand for being called ‘weak’. Maybe Eallair didn’t realise the risk in drawing Ambustus’s ire, but then how could he? He had no frame of reference; no experience with him. He couldn’t appreciate what a savage bear he poked with each reckless word. Tancred knew, though. He knew exactly how vindictive his master could be.
His master. Already his brain wanted to refer to Ambustus with fearful deference.
“You should learn to hold your tongue, puer, lest you get yourself into trouble. Maybe I’ll break you before I kill you. Will your ‘chief’ be so enamoured when you’re begging for release?” Ambustus asked, his maroon eyes brimming with scorn.
Eallair only snorted, dismissive.
Ambustus arched a brow. “Do you think you won’t beg? Oh, puer, you’ll beg many times before I get bored.”
Snatching up an iron poked, their gaoler speared it through Eallair’s gut, through his abdomen, so deep and with so much force it drove into the concrete behind him, pinning him to the wall. Eallair barely grunted even as his thoughts issued a stream of expletives straight into Tanc’s mind, instead his lip peeled back from descended fangs, a defiant growl issuing from his throat.
“I’m going to have fun with you,” Ambustus chuckled, but he wasn’t ready for that, not yet.
He returned to the trolley of weapons and tools, selecting an axe while his marionettes closed in on Tancred, the putrid stench of their decomposition filling the air until Tanc wished he could stop breathing like some horror movie vampire. The puppets pressed against his chest and thighs, keeping his body pinned to the wall and his legs pinned to the floor. Panic filled him as Ambustus drew closer, wielding that damn axe.
His master grinned, a callous smirk curving his mouth as he took the axe’s grip in both hands. “You are my property, Ag-heshr. You have always been my property.”
“That’s a lie. Whoever I am, I wasn’t born a slave. That’s a lie you told in the hope you could keep me subservient,” Tanc spat back at him, even as he tensed, knowing that pain would follow and dreading whatever Ambustus intended.
“Your father died before you were born, one more defeated barbarian who dared think he could fight the march of Rome, of progress. You? You were barely a month old when you were torn from your mother’s breast and given to us by her people as the price of their continued life. You were born to be a slave, Ag-heshr. Your parents tried to resist it, but it doesn’t make it less than the truth. As for your mother, she was raped over and over again, passed around a legion until she finally killed herself. That’s your heritage; your parents were a failed warrior and an enslaved whore. It’s no wonder you are... this.”
Ambusus’s eyes slid over the length of Tancred’s body, making his skin crawl. Even the weight of that gaze made him feel dirty; sullied. A familiar shame settled over him, twisting in his heart, in the pit of his stomach, and through his mind. He wished he could disappear; that the ground would open up and swallow him rather than leaving him there; exposed, vulnerable, subject to the whims of a monster.
Then Ambustus moved, hefting the axe and swinging it so suddenly downwards that Tancred barely followed the motion as it came down towards his leg. The razor-sharp edge cut through flesh and muscle, and the force of the blow shattered bone, separating Tanc’s foot and lower leg from the rest of him at mid-shin.
Pain exploded through him, so intense and so abrupt that he hollered in agony. For a moment he could only scream, then he retched, vomiting onto one of the two marionettes still holding him in place. He stared at his leg in horror, barely able to comprehend what he’d lost, despising the callous way Ambustus kicked the lower part of it into the middle of the room, leaving a bloody smear across the white of the painted concrete floor.
More blood pumped out from the severed stump he’d been left with, a flood of scarlet pooling where his leg now ended, and another wave of dizziness crashed over him. Cold sweat beaded on his clammy skin and he wondered if he’d pass out again.
Gods, he wanted to pass out. Anything had to be better than the pulsing fire racing up his leg from the site of amputation. Anything had to be better than understanding that he could no longer rise to fight even if he wanted to
“What the fuck?” Eallair roared despite the poker still lodged in his gut. “You fucking psychopath! You fucking coward! You hide behind an army of puppets created with magic you had to borrow, right? Just like Cailean borrowed it. It’s not even your power, is it? Just like the Manipulator’s wasn’t his. You’re a weak fucking coward, lashing out from behind more powerful entities because you are nothing! You’re fucking nothing! You knew you couldn’t control Tancred once he found his strength, so you’ve waited until you have a wall of corpses to cower behind. You fucking wanker!”
Ambustus ignored Eallair, leaning close to Tanc so that warm breath hit his face. “You ran away, Ag-heshr. You shouldn’t have run away. I had to ensure you’d never again be able to do so.”
“How did you get out?” Tancred hissed back, needing to know. “I barred and nailed the doors and shutters. Too well even for a vampire to force. How did you escape the fire?”
A smirk played over Ambustus’s lips. “You have to be a foolish immortal not to have an escape route planned. I always expected it would be a human mob who set fire to my villa, I never could have predicted it would be you, my compliant blood-slave. There was a tunnel under the villa, leading out to pines behind it. When I woke up, concussed, flames already licking at my legs, I dragged myself to the trapdoor and tumbled into the tunnel. I dragged myself far enough to ensure the fire wouldn’t spread, then I spent the day there, healing. By the time I could walk again, you’d disappeared.”
Tancred hadn’t predicted that an emergency exit and he regretted his lack of foresight. He should have known. Ambustus had always been smart, wary of humans, and self-preservation would trump any other concern he had. Tanc should’ve found the passageway. He should’ve nailed the trapdoor shut too. Or pulled Ambustus’s head from his neck when he had the chance.
“I always knew I’d find you eventually,” the monster in question insisted. “I just needed the opportunity to present itself, and when Cailean failed his mission so spectacularly... Well, I inherited an opportunity to reclaim what belongs to me.”
Eallair growled at that. “You mean you found a shield to hide behind. He isn’t yours, arsehole. He never was.”
Stalking back to Eallair, Ambustus yanked the poker from his midriff and grabbed him around the throat. He hauled him onto his feet, pinning him against the wall before spearing him with the iron skewer for a second time.
“You aren’t the sharpest gladius in the armoury are you, puer? I’m going to have the rest of eternity to make sure he never again gets ideas above his station, but first I’m going to make him watch me break you, and when I finally nail you to a cross and leave you in the sun, I’ll make sure he can hear you scream.”
“Don’t...” The word escaped Tanc’s lips instinctively. He despised himself for begging but needed to redirect his master’s attention away from his mate. He tried to shift, to crawl forward, to intervene somehow, but two of the corpses grabbed him again, holding him in place as he pleaded, “If you let him go, then I’ll never try to run again. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Eallair shook his head, his beautiful purple eyes widening in horror and flicking towards Tanc. “Don’t do that. Don’t promise to give him what isn’t his to claim. Not for me.”
Ambustus laughed, patting Eallair’s cheek in a consolatory gesture. “Don’t worry, puer; I don’t give in to pleas. Ag-heshr knows how futile it is to beg, and if he doesn’t, he’ll learn again soon enough. You will too. That much, I can promise.”