Page 10 of The Blood Queen

Maybe Mary’ll hear her English cousin invaded and send an army of her own to counter. But that’ll take weeks to mobilize, and we don’t have weeks.

It’s morning now, and I have nothing, and Alyth’s been in a cell all night.

She’s been locked away. All night.

The High Blade needs Alyth alive.

The High Blade needs her alive.

She wouldn’t kill Alyth. Not yet.

It’s all that’s keeping me from losing my mind. Because there’s far more they can do to her without killing her.

I take a seat at the end of the table, far down from Cecil. I don’t have the energy to fake camaraderie with him and his cronies. Don’t have the energy to eat either, not as the old woman shuffles a bowl of lumpy brown mush in front of me.

She’s got her eyes downcast, so I don’t even have a chance to let her know silently that I’m not like them. A reassuring look or something. Off she’s gone, and I’m here at this table, one of the High Blade’s monsters.

“Sammy, my boy.”

My body seizes.

Not yet. Not yet.

Slowly, I flick my eyes to the side, looking at Cecil, now standing behind my chair. “Yeah?”

“Our High Blade wishes to see you,” he says.

The room’s quiet. All Cecil’s Red Caps are watching, smirking, porridge dribbling off one’s chin. They’re eager—eager for me, I realize. Excited by whatever opportunity the High Blade has for me. If I’m lifted, maybe they will be too.

I shove my chair back and stand.

Cecil heads out of the room, and I assume I’m to follow.

We wind our way through the castle, passing battle preparations. The High Blade’s due to leave soon. For where?

A servant hustles past, arms laden with washing. No eye contact, of course.

Get out, I want to scream. Run while you still can.

Cecil leads me to a heavy wooden door guarded by two more men. The moment he stops in front of it, all the blood in my body crystallizes, instinct overpowering me.

It’s the dungeons.

I don’t know how I know.

Cecil nods at one of the men, who takes out a key, fits it into the lock, and opens the door. It groans mightily, the shriek of age and swelling, hinges creaking, screaming—

Screaming.

Not the door.

Down below, in the cells.

Panic tethers to my gut, and I stagger forward, needing to get down there. Now. It’s clawing at me, tearing streaks through my soul.

We descend a narrow staircase, and the door thuds shut behind us, but those details barely register. I’m not grounded in this world, hovering out of it on revulsion and grief.

Screaming.