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  The hole opened into a narrow passageway lit by dim, oily light that was a horrible yellow shade, far too similar to bile, which was also the awful scent that filled the cramped space. Sarah examined one of the lamps, held in the wall by iron sconces that appeared at regular intervals in the corridor. The glass globes contained a viscous substance, the surface of which was alight with flame. Whatever the stuff was, it seemed to be the source of the foul odor.

  Sarah had to stop and steady her breathing. The noxious scent of the burning ooze tried to force the contents of her stomach up her esophagus.

  Hold it together.

  She put her hand against the wall and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. When it did, Sarah opened her eyes and continued down the hall. The passageway sloped downward, taking her deeper beneath what she’d been told was the lowest level of the castle.

  When the floor leveled out, Sarah found herself standing in front of a door. Unlike most of the doors she’d seen in Castle Tierney, which were ornately carved and polished until gleaming, this door was built of heavy wood planks and banded with iron. Sarah reached for the iron handle, and found it so cold she almost thought it would burn her skin.

  The door was locked.

  Shit.

  Picking a lock would have been no problem for Sarah, but those tools had been taken from her, along with her weapons.

  “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  Sarah’s training kicked in and prevented her from screaming, but her heart still tried to punch through her breastbone. Seamus stood a few feet behind her.

  Damn wolves and their silent paws.

  The old Guardian’s expression wasn’t menacing; instead he looked oddly sad and disappointed.

  “I’ll take you back upstairs.”

  Sarah couldn’t fight Seamus, but she had a strange suspicion that she might be able to negotiate with him.

  “I’m going through this door,” she said.

  Seamus’s grunt sounded a bit like laughter. “You have a key?”

  “No,” Sarah answered. “But you do.” She met Seamus’s steady gaze without flinching.

  “You won’t like what you see in there,” he said.

  “I don’t usually like what there is to be seen in a dungeon,” Sarah told him. “But since I’m going in with low expectations, I don’t think I’ll be that disappointed.”

  Seamus shrugged and pushed past her. A little charge of confidence passed through Sarah. She hadn’t been certain that the locked door led to a dungeon. It could have been a storage room, hiding dangerous or valuable possessions, or a secret passage out of the castle. But Seamus’s response confirmed that Sarah’s first guess had been correct.

  What Sarah still wasn’t sure of was why Seamus was opening the door for her, and neither could she pinpoint why she’d had a hunch that he would. Something about this wolf was different from most Guardians. He carried a weariness with him that bespoke sorrow, and he treated Sarah with respect that most prison guards wouldn’t afford their wards.

  Seamus pushed the door open, and its weight groaned as it swung forward. A rush of fetid air filled the passage, and Sarah dropped to her knees, retching.

  The cold of the hall mingled with an awful heat that had been trapped behind the heavy door. And along with that heat came unbearable odors. Rot, sweat, urine, feces—all of it mixing together in a cloud of fear and despair.

  When Sarah’s choking had become dry heaves, Seamus said, “I can close the door again.”

  She was tempted to nod. To nod and then run. But Sarah forced herself to stand.

  Wiping her mouth, she shook her head and walked past the Guardian into the dungeon.

  This dungeon hadn’t been designed as a place to hold prisoners. It was clearly a den of torment. The room’s walls curved in a broad circle and featured a vaulted ceiling that could have been beautiful if not for the macabre array of devices dangling from its stone arches and lining its circumference.

  With each blink Sarah saw something she wished she could unsee. A crow’s cage that was home to a pile of bones. A chain that ended in manacles from which a rotting corpse still hung. Another chain that ended in a silver meat hook. An iron maiden that was closed and that Sarah hoped to God she would never see opened. A cauldron large enough to hold three men.

  A wheel. And oh God. The wheel held a body that wasn’t rotting.

  Though her body wanted to collapse into a shivering heap, Sarah forced herself to cross the room to the still figure.

  The woman’s face was covered by her long, thick hair. Sarah reached down and took the woman’s wrist between her fingers.

  No pulse.

  Sarah hated herself a little for being relieved.

  “She died last night.”

  Sarah snapped up but didn’t turn around. It hadn’t been Seamus who spoke.

  “It’s a shame.” Lana’s voice was closer now. “I was hoping she would last.”

  Slowly pivoting to face the succubus, Sarah asked, “Who were these people?”

  “Lost little lambs.” Lana’s wings curled around her body like a dark cloak.

  With a soft growl, Seamus came forward to stand beside Lana, but he spoke to Sarah. “The waters around this island are treacherous. Ships run aground. Fishermen. Sailors.”

  Sarah glanced at the dead woman. That could be Ian’s wife. She didn’t look at the skeleton or the rotting cadaver, knowing they could be Ian’s wife too.

  “Anyone who comes ashore without permission cannot be allowed to leave.” Seamus sounded apologetic. “Bosque Mar ordered it so.”

  With a laugh that tinkled like breaking glass, Lana said to him, “Don’t be silly, old dog. We could send them away with a pretty story and a warning.”

  Turning to Sarah with a smile that was wide and wet, Lana continued. “But we have to eat.”

  Lana might as well have shoved her hand in Sarah’s gut, twisting her intestines, for the sudden pain and sickness she felt. She wobbled from the dizziness and reached out to steady herself but ended up grasping the dead woman’s arm. This time, Sarah couldn’t stop herself from screaming.

  “Lana!” Seamus gave a warning snarl.

  “It’s just a little snack,” Lana purred at him. “It won’t hurt her. Besides, this one needs a lesson.”

  Lana came close to Sarah, grabbing her upper arms to hold her steady.

  “Whatever compelled you to wander into the belly of the beast?” Lana’s breath was sweet as roses and rain, but with a cloying edge. “They say that curiosity killed the cat, but if you think we treat kittens differently, I’ll show you how wrong you are.”

  The succubus tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over Sarah, assessing. “How deeply does your sympathy run, Searcher? Would you like a taste of what these doomed souls had?”

  Leaning closer, Lana whispered, “You might surprise yourself. Toward the end, some begin to like it. You’d be amazed at how addicting pain can be.”

  Sarah gasped when Lana nipped her earlobe. A trickle of warmth on her neck told Sarah that the succubus had broken her skin. Sarah felt a spiral of horror at the sudden mix of heat and desire that coursed through her limbs.

  It’s not you. It’s her. This is her magic.

  Summoning what strength she had, Sarah jerked out of Lana’s grasp. The succubus hissed at Sarah, reaching for her again, but Seamus was there—a wolf snapping at Lana and barring her path to the Searcher.

  Lana glared at Seamus. With a flick of her wrist a whip snaked out from her hand, its length composed of shadow rather than leather.

  “You’re a fool to challenge me, dog.”

  Seamus barked his rebuke.

  “Lana!” Owen stood at the open door to the dungeon. His wings were spread wide, threatening. Bare-chested and wearing his usual leat
her kilt, he looked like a demonic gladiator entering the arena. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Dealing with trespassers,” Lana answered, chin jutting out in defiance.

  Owen looked from Lana to the still-bristling Seamus and then to Sarah.

  Returning his gaze to the Guardian, Owen pointed at Sarah. “Get her out of here.”

  “But—” Lana began.

  “Hold your tongue,” Owen cut her off. “You know Tristan’s wishes, and you’re not above his authority, as much as you like to think so.”

  Lana glared at the incubus. Seamus, still in wolf form, nudged Sarah’s hand with his muzzle. Still dazed, she managed to cross the room and pass into the corridor. With Seamus nipping at her heels any time she faltered, Sarah clambered up the passageway and finally stumbled into the chamber that adjoined the bath. Gulping air free of hellish scents, Sarah couldn’t stay on her feet. She dropped to her hands and knees, taking deep breaths and making no attempt to hide her tears.

  “You’ll be all right.” Seamus stood over her.

  He waited several minutes while Sarah cried, wanting desperately for her tears to wash away the images that had been etched in her mind. At some point, Seamus decided that she’d cried enough. He grabbed Sarah under the arms and hoisted her to her feet.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Seamus said. “Don’t ever speak of it.”

  Sarah’s brow knit together as she peered at the wolf. Her eyes burned and her vision was still blurred, but she could see that beyond warning her, the Guardian was also afraid.

  “He doesn’t know,” Seamus told her.

  “Who doesn’t know?” Sarah’s voice was globby with mucus. It made her feel sick again.

  “Tristan.” Seamus glanced at the staircase behind him. “He doesn’t know about the dungeon. Not this one. There are other cells in the castle. This place is hidden, even from my master.”

  “How could he not know about that?” Seamus has to be lying.

  “As much as I can’t stand her, Lana’s right,” Seamus answered. “She and Owen have to feed, and they feed less often if they can draw out the torment of their victims. If they didn’t take prisoners, they’d go hunting on the mainland every night. It would draw too much suspicion.”

  “But Tristan must know what they feed on,” Sarah said. “Where does he think their food supply comes from?”

  “From Bosque,” Seamus told her. “When he brought Tristan to the island and sent his nether minions here as sentries, Bosque told Tristan he’d keep them fed with prisoners from the war and that Tristan never need worry about his human staff. But Bosque would never waste Searchers on the likes of Lana and Owen. Searchers have too much mettle to make good meals for incubi. Bosque saves warriors like you for his wraiths.”

  When Sarah didn’t reply, Seamus lunged forward and scooped Sarah up. Too shocked to do anything other than go rigid in the Guardian’s arms, Sarah didn’t speak. Seamus vaulted up the steps and barreled through the castle at an alarming speed until he finally deposited Sarah in front of her bedroom door.

  Still reeling from the shock of the dungeon and her unexpected transport from the bottom of the castle to its top floor, Sarah reached for the doorknob. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, but she could bury herself under pillows and blankets and hide from the world for a few hours.

  The wolf took a step toward Sarah, baring sharp teeth. “Don’t say a word to him.”

  Sarah nodded, remaining mute. It was a promise she could keep for now. Her thoughts hadn’t moved beyond chaos, and it would be some time before she’d be able to sort through them with any detachment. But Sarah knew that what she’d just witnessed, and what Seamus had just told her, might prove vital as she tried to solve the puzzle of this place. She wouldn’t tell Tristan about the horrors beneath him. At least, not yet.

  14

  I WILL NOT lose again.

  When Tristan had gone in search of Sarah that morning, he���d been greeted by a flustered Moira, who, after a few minutes of blushing and stammering, managed to tell Tristan that Sarah had gone to the study.

  Upon entering the study, Tristan found Sarah curled up in the leather club chair, a steaming cup of tea beside her and a book open in her lap.

  Looking up at Tristan, Sarah flinched at his approach. He hesitated, watching as fear slipped over her features. Sarah closed her eyes and gave a quick shake of her head, and just as quickly the expression vanished. Sarah lifted the book to show him the edition of The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night he’d pulled off the shelf two days earlier.

  “I’m hoping Scheherazade has some good survival tips for me,” Sarah told him, a sly curve on her lips and eyes alight with mischief.

  Infuriatingly, the expression filled Tristan with the desire to grasp Sarah’s shoulders and kiss her breathless. He’d battled that same instinct the night before, when he’d found Sarah hunting through his room. Her face had been so close to his. Her skin so warm as he’d held her. Leaning down to press his mouth against hers would have been so easy. But the moment for that had not yet arrived, and Tristan reminded himself to be patient.

  He folded his arms at his back and cleared his throat.

  “You’ve had breakfast?” he asked her.

  Sarah snapped the book shut. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

  Tristan ignored the reprimand implicit in her tone.

  “Yes,” she answered with a withering glance. “Moira brought it to my room.”

  “Good,” Tristan said. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll get on with the next challenge.”

  “No rest for the wicked, I see.” Sarah stood, but when Tristan stepped back to look her up and down, she put her hands on her hips. “What?”

  “I just wanted to be certain your attire would serve for this task,” he answered.

  Sarah glanced down at her leggings, long-sleeved tunic, and suede vest. “There’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “No, it should be fine,” Tristan told her. “Follow me.”

  He walked out of the study, not looking back to be sure she was following. A moment later he smiled, hearing the rush of her footfalls as she hurried to catch him.

  “Where are we going?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s a rare, fine day.” Tristan cast a pleasant smile in her direction. “I thought some fresh air might be nice.”

  “You mean you didn’t get your fill of it on your midnight ride?” Sarah teased him.

  He grimaced in return. “If you knew how often it rains here, you’d also know that only a fool lets a sunny day go to waste.”

  They exited the castle and were rewarded by a near-blindingly bright day. The sky boasted a rare turquoise hue broken by only a few tufts of cotton-white clouds.

  Tristan led Sarah past the stables to a flat, grassy space in the courtyard, where Seamus and Owen awaited them. Tristan turned when he heard Sarah draw a hissing breath. She’d stopped walking, her eyes fixed on the incubus.

  “Are you all right?” Tristan asked in a low voice, returning to her side. Some of the color had bled from her cheeks.

  “Why is he here?” Sarah asked without removing her gaze from Owen.

  “Owen and Seamus are here to assist with the challenge,” Tristan answered carefully, though inwardly he cursed himself for not considering how Owen’s appearance might affect Sarah. After all, the incubus had snatched her from the cliffside and made her prisoner within the castle, not to mention assisting Lana with stripping her and tying her to Tristan’s bed.

  Tristan laid his hand on Sarah’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. “Neither of them will harm you. You have my word.”

  As if suddenly aware of how much raw emotion she’d given away, Sarah shook her head and pulled back. “I’m fine.”

  Without waiting for Tr
istan, she continued toward the incubus and the Guardian, though her movements were forced and stiff. Tristan smiled grimly. Her discomfort would give him an advantage in the challenge, and while he didn’t take pleasure in her uneasiness, he intended to win this round.

  Sarah’s steps slowed when she noticed that Seamus held two sabers. When she glanced back at Tristan for reassurance, his pulse ratcheted up.

  “How are you at swordplay?” Tristan lengthened his strides to catch Sarah.

  “Fair.”

  “Only fair?” Tristan lifted his hand and Seamus tossed him a blade, which he easily caught by the grip beneath the bell guard. “We Keepers are schooled from birth in the notion that Searchers do nothing but weapons drills—that even at night you continue to fight in your dreams, living only for thoughts of killing us.”

  “That’s a bit overdramatic,” Sarah said, a smile reappearing on her mouth. “We do get Sundays off.”

  “Seamus.” Tristan nodded toward Sarah. The wolf sauntered over and offered Sarah the other sabre.

  Tristan watched as she tested the weight of the sword and took a few practice swings.

  “So, we’re dueling?” Sarah asked.

  “Within specific parameters,” Tristan replied. “These are fencing sabers, which means the tips are blunted but the blades can still do damage. The challenge isn’t to draw blood—the winner is the first person to disarm his opponent three times.”

  “Or her,” Sarah said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said ‘his’ opponent,” Sarah told him. “I’m merely pointing out that you must have meant his or her opponent. Or have you already forgotten that I won the first challenge?”

  “Forgive me, gracious lady.” Tristan offered a sweeping bow. “His or her opponent.”

  “Thank you, good sir,” said Sarah, returning his bow.

  “Ready?” Tristan lifted his sword.

  Sarah nodded.

  They began to circle each other. Sarah never took her eyes off Tristan, and while he’d planned to let her strike the first blow, it became clear that she was waiting for him to do the same.