Barrons alighted from the carriage with an attempt at his usual grace and started toward the double doors, hobbling slightly. Blade fell in behind him, examining the outlay of the place. Two metaljackets at the main doors, another twenty in the perimeter. All of them Spitfires.

There would be none within the tower, Barrons had explained on the way. Metaljackets were dangerous but unable to use initiative—and under strict control of their handler. The Coldrush Guards were comprised of blue blood rogues from the lower families of the Great Houses. Boys who’d been ineligible for the blood rites, but infected by circumstance or accident.

Though Barrons stalked toward the doors as if he simply couldn’t fathom being turned away, Blade couldn’t help holding his breath. A pair of ladies strolling in the forum beyond glanced their way, their eyes widening as they recognized his face. They should. There’d been enough cartoons drawn and printed about his continued defiance of the Echelon. Complete with horns. One of the women’s eyes darted toward his head as though searching for them before her companion tugged her away with scandalized glee lighting her eyes.

“It starts,” Barrons murmured. “They’ll spread the word.”

The enormous gothic arch of the doors shadowed them for a moment and then they were inside. A strange hush fell. Blade looked up through the central spire of the tower. A pair of staircases circled upward, sinuously winding around each other. Rooms and chambers speared off them at each level, but the core was hollow. The top of the tower—the atrium—was almost lost to view.

Hushed whispers came from above as the members of the Echelon in all their brilliant-colored clothes came to the rails to see what was causing so much fuss. Fans fluttered and feathered headpieces bobbed as their owners whispered behind their hands to each other.

Blade’s nerves tightened and a thrill of darkness surged through him. Honoria was beneath this roof, somewhere. He wanted to run, his sword cutting through these peacocks like a hot knife through butter. To rain blood down upon the tower like they’d never seen before. Teach them the meaning of the word bloodlust. Teach them what it meant to steal his woman from him…

There was a moment where the world blurred into two; one vision was shadows, the other was brilliant with color.

“Blade?” He barely felt the hand on his arm. Barrons peered at him warily. “Did you speak?”

A thrill of fear shot through him. He blinked and his vision cleared. But they were nearly halfway up the stairs and he couldn’t remember any of it. “No,” he ground out. “Not me.”

“We ought’ve taken the elevation chamber,” Will muttered, eyeing Barrons’s leg.

The man was no longer limping, but not without effort. And there were reputedly a thousand steps to the atrium.

Barrons shook his head, the silk of his scarlet cloak draped over his arm to maximum effect. “Too fast. I want them to have time to gather. The council is in session this morning. I need them in the atrium. You need them.”

“Aye, but are you sure you can make the top?” Blade asked.

“You cannot fight pain. It must be accepted,” Barrons replied, with the odd sound of rote, “in order to be defeated.”

“Who said that?”

“The duke,” Barrons replied, his gaze intent on the stairs and the curious flock of blue bloods that was swarming from every bloody room in the tower, or so it seemed. “He had the words beaten into me as a child, so that I should remember them.”

“And what’ll ’e do when ’e finds you’ve defied ’im like this?”

Barrons glanced down. “I don’t know.” Gone was any sign of the arrogant young blue blood. World-weary cynicism now shone in Barrons’s dark eyes.

“You need an ally, I got your back.” A sudden announcement, but Blade always paid his debts. Barrons was going out on a limb for him—and for Honoria. “She’s not going to like this, you know?”

“Who? Honoria?”

“She’s got you pegged in a neat little ’ole. This is goin’ to disrupt ’er ordered view o’ the world.”

“The wicked half-brother?” Barrons asked.

“You. Carin’ more ’n you should.”

Silence greeted this statement. “Don’t tell her that,” Barrons finally murmured, looking up. “Here we go. That’s the duke of Goethe about to challenge our right to be here. Let me do the talking.”

The duke was an imposing figure, standing directly in the path before them. They both stopped three steps down, and Barrons tilted his head in a slight bow. “Manderlay.”

“Barrons,” the duke replied. Icy blue eyes flickered past him to Blade. The last time they’d met, the duke had been a young Coldrush Guard of barely sixteen—not even through his blood rites yet—wielding a sword and standing between him and the only exit of the tower. In his madness, Blade had nearly torn the man’s head off. The heavy scarring across the duke’s left jaw was a grim reminder.

Dressed in an immaculate black velvet coat with a spill of lace at the chin and leather leggings, the duke looked to have aged well. Though that could have been the unexpected rise to leader of his House, something no other rogue had ever achieved. The black attire was evidence of the recent death of his consort.

“We meet again,” the duke said as he turned to Blade and cut him a sharp little smile. “And the scene remains the same. Only…slightly less bloodier than I recall.”

“Give us a moment,” Blade replied in the same cuttingly polite tone. “And I’ll remedy that.”

Kill him.

Not yet.

The duke looked at him, considering. “You carry a dueling weapon.”

“He’s here for Vickers,” Barrons replied.

“The prince consort—and the queen—are both in attendance,” the duke said. It was clear that the queen was almost an afterthought.

“And his quarrel is not with them.” Barrons held out a soothing hand. “I give you my word: no harm shall befall any but the Duke of Lannister.”

“Have you proper grievance?”

“Vickers kidnapped Blade’s thrall. He holds her here in the dungeons.”

Manderlay was clearly tempted. “The law is on your side should your claims prove true.” He stepped out of the way. “You shall pass. This is a matter for the council to consider.” Then his smile widened. “But not your men.” He glanced at Will. “Nor the abomination.”

Will bristled on the steps behind, looking like he wanted to pick up Manderlay and throw him over the railing. A tempting thought. Blade met Will’s amber gaze and shook his head.

“I want your word they won’t be ’armed,” he demanded. “Or imprisoned.”

“No harm shall befall your men,” the duke replied, “should they not provoke it.”

“Nor the wolf.” He wasn’t going to be caught out with word games, and no blue blood thought a verwulfen anything but an animal.

A minute hesitation. “Nor the wolf,” Manderlay repeated.

One obstacle out of the way. Blade shouldered past the duke but didn’t take his gaze off him.

“He won’t stab you in the back,” Barrons muttered under his breath. “Not here. And not until he sees how this plays out with Vickers.”

“Let’s ’ope their curiosity is stronger ’n their ’atred o’ me.”

“I’m counting on it.”

They climbed through the silken-clad flock of people thronging the stairwell. Women whispered behind their fans, more than one of them casting an appreciative eye over Blade’s figure. He ignored them all, women and men both. The one man he was looking for wasn’t among them. Vickers was the only one who mattered.

Unconsciously, his hand opened and closed on the hilt of his sword. The grip was smooth and polished by years of handling, but there was no sweat in the leather. He felt curiously distanced, his mind disassociated. His mouth spoke, but in his head all he could hear was the tick, tick, tick of the clock.

A half dozen guards waited at the entrance to the atrium, their pikes held low and at the ready. Dozens of young ladies and lords waited to see the ensuing confrontation with malicious glee on their faces.

Barrons strode toward the atrium. Blade followed. His nerves were leaping. What if he lost? What if they would not allow him to take her back?

Darkness flickered through the edges of his vision. If they denied him, he would wash the walls with their blood.

“Easy,” Barrons murmured, his hand coming out of nowhere to squeeze Blade’s wrist. “You cannot afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.”

Just as swiftly, his vision cleared, but Blade could sense the dark, hungry part of himself pacing. He couldn’t afford to let it loose. He needed to focus on Vickers. The man had fought more than a hundred duels in his lifetime. This was no pup he faced, but a fully fledged master of the sword.

The atrium was perfectly rounded, columns circling the room. On the dais beneath the stained-glass window stood a small group of people conferring in low tones. As he and Barrons entered, Blade looked up and counted six. The prince consort, with his red-rimmed eyes, stood almost six and a half feet tall in the center of the dais. He wore a gold cloak, held together with a pearl clasp, and his wavy brown hair was not powdered. At his side was a human woman, gowned in midnight blue silk, with the golden diadem of the realm on her brow. The queen’s features were pretty but human in their ordinariness. He had heard rumors that she was clearly under the prince consort’s control, but her gaze, when he met it, was clear and firm. As she glanced away, pasting a smile on her face, he had the feeling the blue bloods surrounding her didn’t realize what was in their midst. The queen had the same cool mask as a cardsharp. He recognized the type.

“Morioch,” Barrons murmured, “Malloryn, Bleight…and Casavian.” His gaze fell on the Lady Aramina and narrowed. “That’s four of the Great Houses.”

“Vickers ain’t ’ere,” Blade observed.

“He’ll be waiting to make an entrance,” Barrons replied. “He knows why you’re here.”

“Perhaps you would care to enlighten the rest of us, then.” The voice came from an elderly man upon the dais. He stepped forward, instantly capturing the attention of everyone present. The swelling murmurs silenced. A carnival showman if ever Blade’d seen one.

“The duke of Morioch,” Barrons murmured, “who simply won’t die, much to his heir’s disgust.”

The swish of skirts was loud in the room as dozens of newcomers lined up along the walls, jostling for a better position to view the proceedings.

Barrons opened his mouth to speak, but Morioch cut him off. “You dare bring a rogue among us?”

“Considering who infected him, perhaps he is not a rogue after all but a sanctioned blue blood,” Barrons replied, his own voice loud enough to cut the air like a knife. “After all, was Vickers not absolved? If there was no crime committed, how can Blade’s turning be considered unlawful?”

The crowd stirred. Whispers upon whispers. Unease rolled through Blade. He just wanted to fight. He just wanted to get Honoria back. Where the bloody hell was Vickers?

A pair of light brown eyes met his in curiosity. Blade stilled then slowly tilted his head to the queen. Two outsiders in a world that could kill them with one word. He had to respect that.

“If he is not rogue, then he is also a nothing,” Morioch countered. “And a man not born of the blood has no right to challenge a duke.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were speaking with Vickers’s voice, Your Grace,” Barrons said. A laugh or two came from the crowd. “Tell me,” he continued, looking around with widespread arms. “Where is our good duke? Can he not speak for himself? Or does he prefer to hide behind his friends?”

Blade swung his body in a circle, hunting through the crowd.

“Unless he is…afraid,” Barrons suggested.

A chain clinked. And then Vickers’s cold voice cut through the crowd. “I am afraid of nothing, you little cur. I was merely preparing a gift for our guest.”

Honoria staggered forward as if she’d been shoved and landed on the cold marble with a gasp. Her wrists and ankles were locked in the finest of gold chains, and a black silk cravat served as a blindfold. A thick gold band circled her throat, with the delicate chain winding sinuously across the floor and leading back to Vickers’s hand.

He’d put a f**king collar on her.

Blade started forward, jerking back as Barrons grabbed for him.

“Not yet,” Barrons cautioned. “This is not how we get her back.”

“Get your ’ands off me. Get ’em off!” he snarled, his vision washing of color.

Sound amplified and the stink of perfume hit his nose like a punch. Through it all he caught a faint hint of burning flesh. As if drawn, his gaze settled on Honoria’s arm, and the crest that Vickers had branded her with. The three roaring lions of the House of Lannister.

Blade saw red.

There were hands clutching at him, a voice shouting no, and through it all, the smirk on Vickers’s face as he stepped through the ring of avid spectators. Somewhere nearby someone was bellowing in anger.

Kill, Blade’s hunger whispered. Yes.

Chapter 29

A scream of rage tore through the air. Despite her pain, Honoria pushed herself into a sitting position and tore at the blindfold.

The sudden light streaming through the airy chamber nearly blinded her. The crowd she heard appeared as merely a splash of vibrant color in the background. All she could see was Blade, his eyes gone completely black as he strained for Vickers.