hands to rip him apart. But he’s always been too strong. His smaller brother and sister trot in and turn to me, their black fur shining as they advance. I don’t know how Granthos found them. Maybe he created them. But they’ve always been attuned to me, always clamored for my blood. Now, after being so long deprived, their thirst is almost palpable. I try to shrink into a ball, but I can’t get any smaller. Can’t hide from them.
“Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?” Granthos pets the bitch, her red eyes narrowing with displeasure. “You’re their favorite, you know? Something about the way you taste.” He shrugs. “I’m afraid they’ve suffered since you’ve been gone. But now you’re back.” Granthos leans down and grabs my chin, wrenching my face to his. “If you ever run from me again, I’ll have them rip you apart. Slowly. Do you understand, Lenetia?”
I can’t stop shaking, can’t hide my fear. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” His grip tightens.
“Yes, Master.”
“Better.” He ghosts his cold lips across my forehead and stands. Another whistle from him, and the monsters approach, saliva hanging in threads from their jowls.
The big one bares his fangs, the tips sharp, the bite a perfect match to the scars that litter my body.
It’s useless. Hopeless. My last chance at death left with the Catcher. The vampire hounds will drain me, but not enough to kill me. Granthos will never let me go. I’ll go back to being his blood bag, the anemic throwaway, the chew toy for his creatures.
“Get back.” I swing an arm out to strike the alpha in the face.
It pounces, its fangs clamping down on my throat. I scream and thrash as pain rips through me, the beast settling on my chest, its familiar fetid stink surrounding me.
“Not too much, Kizriel.” Granthos scolds, but his tone is doting. “Save some for your brother and sister.”
The other two jump on me, their teeth tearing into my calves. My scream dies in my throat as they feast on me—my nightmares come to life once again.
Granthos rises to his feet, a broad smile on his face. “Welcome home, Lenetia.”
8
Gareth
The makeshift tourniquet on my arm is soaked with blood, but I keep rowing. I can’t let up, not now that I’m so close to the bustling harbor as the moon shines high above, the silver glow playing on the water as if lighting my way. Boat thievery was a bit harder than I’d imagined, but after a brawl where I fought off a dozen fishermen, I managed to take the boat and make it out to sea before they could regroup and catch up.
Besides, I’m not truly stealing the boat. I intend to leave it in the Byrn Varyndr Harbor where its owner can easily find it, so all’s well that ends well. I ignore my moral perfidy and continue pulling the oars toward me in steady strokes as I glide past huge galleons that float just outside the safety of the harbor. Voices carry across the water, and I catch a few sailor terms that are best forgotten. The city rises before me, fairy lights twinkling and the cloying smell of flowers pervading the air. Everything is glaringly beautiful, the wind warm and the water mild … How in Arin do the summer realm fae live like this?
I wrinkle my nose and hew close to the ships, hiding in their great shadows as I approach under the too-bright moon. The city is alive, distant music on the air, but the waterfront is relatively quiet. I avoid the white gates that lead under the palace, the waterway always heavily guarded, and maneuver to the side of the city frequented by changelings and lesser fae.
More docks appear as the harbor begins to narrow, and I steer toward one that’s attached to a shabby-looking tavern, the sign faded and the windows coated with a rind of sea salt. A place for lowlifes and outlaws. Somewhere I can blend in.
With one more look around the hushed harbor, I ease my boat beside the rough dock and throw out a line. A few other boats bob along the low waves, and raucous music and laughter swells from inside the ramshackle building. Once the boat’s secure, I head inside.
The first thing that hits me when I walk in the door is the smell.
The second thing is a fist.
Granthos’s house is one of the finest along the lane of noble mansions. He has a flair for ornate nonsense, every bit of spare façade carved