by Delia Castel
Shaking his head, he headed for Father’s study and paused. Blood covered the marble floor of the hallway and was splattered on the walls. His heart thudded, and nausea slithered up his throat. What had those shifters done to Berrin, and how was he still alive? He pulled his collar, trying to ease the tightening of his throat, and his breath came in short, shallow pants.
On legs that couldn’t stop trembling, he staggered back towards the grand staircase. He placed his hands on the wall, jostling paintings as he tried to keep himself upright.
The doorbell rang, and Matheson stiffened. What if it was the accomplices of the bear shifters? A rush of anger burned through his fear. He straightened and flared his nostrils. If they came to finish their grizzly task, he would be ready for them with his sword. Bearing his teeth, he stalked towards the front door.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched and spun, pulling out his rapier. Polaris squeezed, stepping in front of him. “I will answer.”
The tightness in Matheson’s shoulders relaxed, and he exhaled. If it was trespassers, Polaris would transform and burn them to charcoal. He followed close behind his older brother. Polaris stood four inches taller than him, and with his ability to shift into a dragon, he was ten times as strong.
Polaris reached the door first and glanced over Matheson’s shoulder at Berrin. “At the first sign of trouble, I want you to shift and take Marigold away. Is that understood?”
“But two dragons are better than one,” replied Berrin from the door of the dining room.
“Mother and father should have been able to fight off a group of bear shifters without the use of fire. I suspect that they used something else to incapacitate them. Go back inside and don’t let them see you or Marigold.”
Berrin’s head disappeared, and a lump formed in Matheson’s throat. He swallowed. He could not bear to think of his baby brother lying in a pool of blood, let alone Mother and Father’s final moments. If he had not been consumed by distilled wormwood and papaver, he might have seen the warning signs and prevented all the bloodshed. Guilt knotted in his stomach, twisting and turning like a tangle of worms. It threatened to consume him from the inside. Breathing hard, he pushed away the memories of all that blood and focused on vengeance.
Throwing back his shoulders, he growled, “Are we going to stand here all evening?”
Polaris gave him a grim nod and unsheathed his sword. He unbolted and opened the door into the balmy evening.
Nanny stood at the doorstep, her face twisted with anguish. “Oh, young masters! We came as soon as we heard the news.”
Cool relief swept over Matheson like a breeze, and his knees softened. Nanny was a half-blood who had served as Mother’s lady’s maid since she was a girl. Since moving to the Auburn household, she rose up the ranks and now served as Major-Domo over all the staff. Behind her stood her three sons, Buckley, Giles, and Grison.
“Nanny,” said Matheson from over Polaris’ shoulder. “I’m so glad you came. Let them in, Polaris!”
Polaris didn’t step aside.
She pressed her thin lips together and smoothed down her charcoal-colored, wool dress. “We would have been happy to stay for the festivities, but your dear departed parents always wanted to spend Festival Week alone as a family.”
“You are all the family we have left, now.” Matheson’s throat thickened, and he nudged his brother. “Get out of the way, Polaris.”
Nanny eyed Polaris, her back straight with irritation. “We would have used the servants’ entrance, but it’s locked.”
“Buckley.” Polaris folded his arms. “How did you meet the young bear shifter who came into your employ?”
Matheson gasped. Surely Polaris wasn’t suggesting that Nanny’s eldest son had been working with the bear shifters? He wanted to protest that Nanny and her family were loyal to the family, but then he remembered that Father had been assassinated on the orders of his own brother.
Nanny narrowed her eyes. “What are you suggesting, General?”
“That shifter was part of a gang who infiltrated the mansion today and stabbed Berrin through the back.”
Her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears. “Is he alive?”
Buckley’s mouth fell open, lips trembling. “He came around the side of the house looking for work, General. Said he was from Boreas and had lots of experience with horses.”
Matheson choked. “And you believed him?”
“I check every new employee’s references thoroughly before they’re even allowed near the main house,” said Nanny.
“Do you have records?” asked Polaris.
She smoothed her black hair, which was pulled in its usual tight bun. “I would be happy to supply them as soon as you grant me entrance.”
Polaris stepped aside. “I would also like details of all employees who joined in the past five years, all bear shifters, and all who hail from Boreas.”
She stepped over the threshold and headed toward the servants’ quarters. “Of course, sir.”
Buckley, Giles, and Grison followed their mother, all wearing somber expressions. Buckley ducked his head, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
Polaris closed the door. “Buckley, I want you to tell me everything you know about the young stable hand, starting with the identities of all his friends.”
The stout, half-blood stable master gulped. “Why-yes, sir.”
He turned his gaze to Grison. “You supply the mansion’s firewood, do you not?”
He licked his lips. “That’s correct, sir.”
“Who has access to the wood?”
“Everybody. It’s available for anyone who wants it.”
Matheson furrowed his brow. “I can’t see anyone throwing papaver on the fire wood. That would be too expensive, even for Uncle Hertz. Mother and Father would have to have been inhaling it for months before it doused their flames. It’s most likely that someone put it in their fireplaces.”
“A stable hand wouldn’t have access to the main house,” said Buckley.
“Then he had at least one accomplice.” Polaris turned to the stable master. “Was that young shifter particularly friendly with anyone working in the house?”
He furrowed his thick, black brows. “A human girl… I don’t remember her name.” He gestured at Matheson. “Short, plump, and has hair as red as yours.”
Matheson raised his brows. “Penny? She’s the chamber maid.”
“Who had access to all the bedrooms and tended to the fires,” growled Polaris. “Where is she from?”
Matheson closed his eyes. Penny had been the first to offer him comfort during the dark days following Kaida’s departure. She had brought him bottles of distilled wormwood to ease the pain of his betrothed’s and best friend’s betrayal. His throat thickened. When the wormwood had failed to have the same numbing effect, she had introduced him to Lilac, his former favorite at the Papaver Palace.
Swallowing hard, Matheson opened his mouth to speak, but Nanny answered first. “Boreas.”
A muscle in Polaris’ jaw flexed. “Gather every scrap of information you can about those two. I will pass it on to the High Sheriff. If we can locate the girl, she may be able to provide incriminating evidence against Uncle Hertz.”
Matheson ran both hands through his hair and let out a shuddering breath. Words could not describe his relief at having Polaris here to take charge. His emotions were too erratic to concentrate on anything for long, and his body’s painful acclimatization to the abrupt absence of both papaver and distilled wormwood muddled his thoughts. He glanced up and caught Nanny’s hard gaze. Her lips were a thin, disapproving line.
His heart sank. She had warned him of the dangers of consorting with servants, but he had laughed off her words as a bizarre form of snobbery. Nanny’s sour expression was also likely due to him standing back and letting his brother take charge of matters instead of stepping into Father’s role. How many times had she found him passed out in his chariot, in the stables, or somewhe
re in the grounds and lectured him? She had told him countless times that as the next Lord Auburn, he needed to act responsibly and set a good example.
Matheson sagged. It was impossible to explain the magical draw of papaver. Magnus Rex had turned his stronghold into a spider’s web, and thanks to his own weakness and Uncle Hertz’s minion, Penny, he had been ensnared for years.
Berrin stepped out of the dining room, and Nanny’s face softened. “You poor dear!”
Marigold also emerged, clad in Berrin’s borrowed clothes. With the absence of padding and corsetry, she cut an enticing figure, especially in those tight breeches and fitted shirt. Unlike the few female assassins Matheson had met, Marigold had not bound her breasts. The round globes strained against Berrin’s shirt, and the linen did nothing to hide the outline of her prominent nipples. Once again, his traitorous cock stirred. He shot a quick glance at Polaris and the other male servants and curled his lip. They were all transfixed by her allure.
“And who might you be?” asked Nanny, her voice sharp. The older woman’s gaze swept up and down Marigold’s tantalizing form.
“I’m Marigold, Ma’am.”
Nanny’s lips tightened, and Matheson choked. It was clear to him that she thought Marigold was a strumpet, freshly acquired from a tavern to provide physical comfort. He would have made a joke to that effect, saying that Marigold’s favors only extended to Berrin, but that in time, Polaris would have his turn. He shook his head. Such talk would only scandalize Nanny who was already distraught.
“Let’s go to your office.” He placed an arm around Nanny’s shoulders. “You and I have a lot to discuss.”
Nanny’s office was a miniature version of Father’s study with a large, paneled window instead of patio doors. Sketches of her sons at various ages were framed in oak, alongside her paintings of flowers from around the garden. Matheson sat on her oak desk, waiting for the kettle to boil on the fireplace. While Nanny pulled out all the files of the servants that met Polaris’ requirements, he explained the plan to have Marigold pose as his mate in court to thwart Uncle Hertz.
Nanny placed her hands on her hips. “A Kaida imitation is not going to ease your broken heart.”
“Weren’t you listening to a word I said? She’s Berrin’s mate, not mine.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t want her for yourself?”
Matheson glared at the older woman. “I’m not interested.”
“I saw the expression of every male in that hallway, and they were all the same, except for Berrin’s.”
“Say what you want, but I won’t—”
A knock on the door interrupted his denials. The door opened, and Dr. Squamatus walked in, clad in his wizard healer’s green robes. His platinum-gray hair hung from two long braids that reached his chest, accompanied by a matching mustache almost as thick.
Matheson scowled. “Berrin is in the dining room.”
“And has already taken his Blood Tonic,” replied the doctor. “According to young Polaris, you have not touched any mind-altering substances since the death of Lord and Lady Auburn.”
“What of it?”
“Good, good.” He nodded to himself. “Nanny, dear lady, will you help me on an important matter?”
“Certainly, Doctor.” She sat at her high-backed oak chair.
“I wish to prescribe a healing tonic to your charge, but I will not do so unless I can guarantee he will take it.”
Matheson gaped. They were talking about him as if he were still a fledgeling. “I’m not—”
“I will supervise his doses,” said Nanny.
“Good.” The doctor raised his staff, and white magic poured out from its quartz tip, engulfing Matheson in white.
The magic penetrated his veins, filling them with an unnatural, white-hot heat. Matheson opened his mouth in a silent scream and fell to the wood floor. He was vaguely aware of Nanny, shrieking at Dr. Squamatus to stop hurting him, but the wizard continued the attack.
Sweat ran from his every pore, soaking his clothing and plastering his hair to his face. Matheson panted and trembled and moaned. This was almost as bad as the phantom pains from his curse, except it had spread to every single bone in his body. His stomach spasmed, and its contents sprayed on the wood floor in a sour rush. A drumbeat—his pulse, he realized—reverberated in his ears, threatening to burst his eardrums, squeeze out his eyes, and shove every drop of body fluid from his nose and mouth and eyes. When he thought he would drown in his own pain, the light disappeared.
Matheson’s body collapsed with relief on top of the vomit-splattered floor.
“I apologize for the discomfort,” murmured Dr. Squamatus, his voice grave.
“Y-you have a genius for understatement,” Matheson ground out, still wallowing in his own filth.
“It is for the best and authorized by your new guardian.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. The moment he was strong enough to best Polaris, he would punch that dragon straight in his self-righteous face.
The doctor murmured some words to Nanny, who agreed and bade him goodbye. As soon as the door clicked shut, her footsteps rushed around the table, and a comforting hand landed on his shoulder. “He said he purged your body of the last traces of papaver and distilled wormwood. You should no longer crave the substances.”
“I preferred abstinence.” He allowed her to pull him upright. The moment his head rose, blood drained from his face, leaving him light-headed. He rested his head between his knees. That had been a mistake.
The pop of a cork leaving a vial shook his eardrums, and a bitter, herbal scent invaded his nostrils. “Here. He said you should take this three times a day for the pain.”
Matheson groaned. “That elixir was never particularly effective to begin with.”
“It’s the best you’re going to get until you reach your transformation,” she snapped.
His blood cooled at her tone, and he glanced up. “Nanny?”
“I can’t stand to see you in pain like this.” The tiniest of trembles formed on her bottom lip.
“Unless you can think up a way to speed up my progression to a full dragon, you and I will have to endure this curse together.”
“No,” she said.
“What?”
“That Marigold. If she’s really a dragon, she can end your pain!”
Chapter 5
Marigold pressed her lips together, holding back her irritation. That Nanny person had thought she was a woman of loose morals, come to entertain the brothers. She glared at the woman’s retreating back. How dare she jump to conclusions? In all her time of working as a servant, she had come across that type. Employees higher up in the pecking order, acting like they were the nobles and lording their positions of superiority over those they deemed lower. A couple of them had made it to the House of Corrections, and soon lost the snooty attitude when the thugs taught them their real place.
Berrin placed an arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. There was nothing else she could say, as Nanny hadn’t outright called her a tavern wench.
Polaris turned from his conversation with Nanny’s sons, his brows knitted. “Everyone will become accustomed to your presence in this household. I appreciate the great sacrifice you are making to block Uncle Hertz’ attempts to seize Matheson’s inheritance.”
Marigold glanced from Berrin to Polaris. The brothers were giving her identical, worried looks. For reasons she couldn’t explain, the sight made her heart melt. Perhaps it was because they were equally as handsome as each other. Marigold couldn’t tell, but she did know that she needed to protect their family, even if it meant enduring the boorish jibes of Matheson or peculiar stares from the servants.
Polaris gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “If you would be willing, I’d like you to practice your signature. There are writing supplies on top of the dresser.”
She nodded, and Berrin led her back into the dining room. She returned to her seat, and he walked to the f
ar left of the room to the mahogany dresser. On top of it lay an oak writing box similar to the type she’d seen on Lord Arctos desk. Marigold wrung her hands. The sisters at the orphanage had taught them their letters, but never how to write the kind of flowing script nobility used and never how to use quills. Holle’s lessons at the House of Corrections had covered reading and how to speak less common to help her get work with a better class of employer. Quills were difficult enough to use the best of times, and she hoped she wouldn’t make inkblots on the parchment.
Berrin carried back the writing box and placed it on the table in front of her. After unlatching its lid, he revealed four ink pots, half a dozen quills, several squares of blotting paper and a roll of parchment. “It might be best to practice all the letters first.”
Her throat dried, and the back of her eyes stung. It was going to be difficult to admit her shortcomings to someone who had grown up with private tutors and in an exclusive academy. She cleared her throat. “I-I learned to write with slate.”
“Oh.” Berrin’s expression froze, and an awkward silence hung between them.
Marigold’s heart sank. She had been fooling herself if she thought she’d be able to hold a gentleman’s interest. However, she had promised her help, and she could not give up just because she didn’t know calligraphy. Gathering as much dignity as she could muster, she straightened. “I know my letters, and I can draw a bit, so why don’t you write my name, and I’ll see if I can copy it?”
A look of relief crossed his features. He picked up the quill and dipped its silver nib into the ink. “I can do that.”
