Blue wildfyre flames and yellow sunbeams spilling between arrow slits brightened the murkiness of the tower's staircase. I hurtled down the stone steps with Sage bounding alongside, his tufts of fur rippling with our hasty speed. After Graysen got his shit together, he'd be leaving the estate and heading to the catacombs buried beneath Ascendria, for whatever reason—who the hells knew. Right now, there was no time to waste. I needed to move on with my plan.

I erupted through the tower's arched entrance like a startled bird. The inner courtyard rang with a cacophony of sounds and brimmed with soldiers on high alert. Ferne stood amongst a small team, an adamere dagger clenched in one hand. The other hand was raised, fingers trilling slightly as if she were reading a report carried on the wind.

Vigilant soldiers guarded the various entrances to the Keep and were armed with either quarter-staffs or swords. A few more were escorting a group of servants carrying babies and toddlers from the Keep. A searing pang of guilt twisted inside my chest at the sobbed wails of a little girl clinging to a woman. But the Crowthers were versed in warfare and I was fairly confident that although the Brunnie was raising havoc within their home, no innocents would come to harm.

The stench of Brunnie-claiming clung to the air. The inner courtyard reeked of rotting garbage and putrid mildew and stinky socks. My stomach churned and I clapped a hand over my nose to stem the offensive smell.

Oh my gods, it's foul!

As for Graysen's brothers, they were nowhere to be seen. I could hear the madness drifting from the vast banks of windows and doors cast open along the wrap-around inner balcony. It seemed that the rabid Brunnie was on the second floor of the Keep heading toward the Crowther family's personal quarters.

A bellow.

A shriek.

A loud racket of clattering metal and clanking stone.

An ear-piercing eruption.

Bank after bank of windows exploded outward—

A shattering line of broken glass—

Those below streaked away from the downpour of glittering shards that rattled upon stone like heavy hail.

I sprinted toward the Keep's main entrance with its heavy door, ducking and weaving past soldiers, and dashed through the thin stream of servants taking refuge in the courtyard. My name was shouted in a low raspy voice. "Stop Wychthorn!" Ferne cried. I whirled my head sideways to see Ferne twisting around in my direction. The ends of black lace tied around her eyes danced with the swift movement. But her command was smothered by terrified screams that swelled louder as a flood of frightened school-aged children washed out from the Servants' Entrance.

I sprinted like a raging wind across dry, barren plains, my bare feet flying across the sun-warmed cobblestones. Sage's neck stretched long, his legs propelling him forward in a bounding gallop as he raced by my side.

Leaping up the short flight of steps, across the porch, I barrelled through the main entrance. And then I was inside.

The chandelier hanging from the tall recess of the foyer's ceiling crackled and sparked and fizzed and suddenly winked out. All the lighting did. Gloom fell upon me like a miserable mourning shroud. I leaped and dodged the mess strewn across the dark stone floor. The magnificent works of art on the walls were skewered, and the tables cluttered with antiques and flower arrangements had been upended. The heirlooms were scattered along the foyer's floor, some broken, others dented. It all smeared together in a dull streak as I ran on with the booming of voices, of confusion, of crashing metal echoing down a side hallway.

The Brunnie's destruction of the Keep was for my advantage. I had a specific goal, one I'd planned for over the past few days as soon as I'd discovered an interesting aspect of the cute little otherworldly critter in the book of Dustin's. However, I was supposed to have put it into motion the moment chaos exploded in the training pit.

But what had I done instead with the precious time?

I'd engaged in a hate-fest of oral sex with Graysen.

It had been brewing for some time between us. A thunderstorm of lust that threatened the horizon. And I'd been perched at the edge of a cliff as desire swallowed up all light and all rational thought before the roiling tempest had fallen upon me. I had two choices—to either give in to my craving or fight it.

The aftershocks of my orgasm still simmered in my blood. There were ghostly imprints of Graysen's hands on my body. My sex still hummed in evocation of his hot, crushing tongue, and my fingers tingled with the memory of being tangled through his damp hair as I'd guided him where I'd wanted in my eagerness to reach that mind-bending point where my body found release.

I shouldn't have engaged with Graysen. I had a mission, which had been diverted by our sexual encounter. If I'd had my wits about me I would have let him spank my ass and then left as soon as he'd mete out my punishment. But no, apparently I'd wanted to get off.

And he was the only one available.

I couldn't actually say I didn't like it.

I did. A lot.

Sage and I darted into the library and found it untouched by the Brunnie. A woodsy smell tainted the air from the fire smoldering low in the hearth. Sunshine poured through the mural above. Its amber rays lightened the night side of the stained-glass image, and I ran through a rainfall of heather hues that turned my skin into a radiant lilac and Sage's fur into soft waves of mauve.

I raced along the orderly row of long wooden tables with arched reading lamps and comfortable mismatched leather chairs. My feet shifted from stone to soft rug and back to stone again, before I bolted between giant bookshelves and swung wide to dash to a dim corner of the library filled with the lovely smell of parchment and ink.

Old tomes were dumped haphazardly on the floor beside my crouched figure as I dug them out from the bottom shelf. Reaching an arm into the dark recess behind the books, I blindly searched until my fingers latched around the rough canvas. I dragged a black messenger bag out. I'd hidden everything I needed for the next part of my plan in it last evening while Graysen had been down in the garage.

Flipping open the bag, I fished out the cloth, careful not to prick my fingers with the porcupine quills. Sage sat by my side on his haunches, his tail swishing across the stone. I arched an eyebrow. "Okay, Sage, ready?"

He rose to his paws and huffed eagerly.

I carefully drew the cloth over Sage's long back, adjusting it before tying up a series of loose strings around his barrelled chest, winding another set around his front legs, quickly knotting it, before doing the same with the string ends around his back legs. I'd made a bloodthirsty Brunnie disguise for Sage, and we'd been practicing the past day in the library. I'd stolen bits and pieces from Graysen's art and craft box and hacked up one of his shirts, collected quills from the forest, and glued and stitched everything together to make it look like the blood-lusting Brunnie sketched in the book Dustin had given me.

Once more, anxiety stirred deep in my chest. I hadn't seen Dustin since we'd first met here a few nights back. The same sinking feeling that had plagued me this morning began to rise. I was desperate to meet with Dustin and ask about Evvie and my family. To find out if there was a plan underfoot to get me out of here. But, as yet, he hadn't returned to the Keep. And as I kept reminding myself, there was only one person I could rely upon to get me out of this Crowther mess—me.

I pulled a half-hood of sorts over Sage's head, the porcupine quills, clouded with puffs of gray cotton and thin strips of tee-shirt, flopping forward to half conceal his face and flatten his large ears. Sage would get away with looking like a Brunnie if he moved fast enough. Hopefully, with all the pandemonium happening around the Keep, there would be fewer guards posted outside the barracks. All I needed my wraith-wolf to do was lure them away from their post so I could sneak in and locate the armory.

I ruffled the fur beneath his chin. "Okay, you ready?" Narrowing my gaze, I lifted my hands, splayed my fingers wide, and swept my hands dramatically through the air. "Think Brunnie. Feel it. Breathe it. Be it."

He arched his throat and let out a strange high-pitched yowl that broke the quiet of the library and it sounded nothing like a wraith-wolf. The movement jostled his headgear a little and I ducked back to avoid being pricked by the sharp quills.

I flipped a hand over, and cool misty fur and the rough pad of his paw met my palm as we shook on it. Rising, I quickly tied my loose hair into a knot at the nape of my neck, whipped a black scarf around my head like a hood to hide myself further, and scooped up the messenger bag, slinging it across a shoulder. I jerked my chin toward the library door and whispered, "Let's go."

Urgency fueled my blood and pumped my heart faster.

We slunk like bandits from the library. The lighting returned in stuttered bursts, the bulbs overhead crackling dimly before dying for long stretches of time. The black dress I wore blended with the dark stone walls and thankfully concealed me within the shadows now that the electricity was interrupted in the Keep. In the distance came noises echoing down a staircase that led to an upper floor—crashing footsteps, a sparking-clashing sound of metal on stone, and the distinctive voices of the brothers shouting orders.

There were only two known entrances to the barracks. I was sure there were others, perhaps secretive entrances, but as yet I hadn't located them. Of the two, the one outside, constantly guarded, was currently inaccessible because of all the drama happening in the inner courtyard. But there was another way in and I headed through the myriad of rooms toward it. I passed through a few reading nooks and other open-spaced rooms that were dedicated to house the ridiculous amount of antiquities the Crowthers possessed. I was grudgingly impressed with the vast scale of the time period collected inside its adamere walls. Archeologists and Museum Curators would have a field day here.

Sage and I bolted through an arched entrance and hurried down a long running rug, traversing the Crowthers' gallery with its pale green walls and crown molding. My gaze swept over the collection of friezes and oil paintings, the intimidating full-scale marble sculptures of the Crowthers' ancestors. They had so many descendants. Much more than my own family. In here was a long family line that heralded back to the time, I suspected, before the Horned Gods were birthed. A chill shivered across my skin at the cold, stoic expressions of all of Graysen's ancestors.

Hundreds of Crowthers, all watching me.

And the current family that ruled their Lower House was here too. An oil painting in an ornate gold frame hung above the curve of an arched threshold. Ferne was just a pudgy babe, swaddled in a yellow blanket and tucked into her mother's arms. Varen's imperious figure towered over his wife. Sleek waves of hair were pushed off his forehead, and violet eyes so dark they were almost black, stared back at me within brutally cut features.

Varen and Tabitha stood amongst their sons, all young and gangly with a variety of wild haircuts. Graysen had an unruly mop that grazed his shoulders. A mullet graced Kenton; Caidan had spiked his hair into a faux-hawk; and long waves of black dripped down Jett's upper chest. Apart from Tabitha, with her breezy smile and dress of ivory, they all wore black suits with somber expressions but for their eyes. Though they appeared serious, their violet eyes—a set of green, another of black—were smiling. They looked like a family, and there was a sense of normality in their painted image that made my pace slow down. It wasn't what I expected.

And neither was the lone painting I saw of Tabitha Crowther.

All the muscles in my shoulders screwed tight to see her up there all by herself as if she were a queen. A servant that had risen to Matriarch to rule over their House. Something that had never happened in our world. Something barely tolerated by many of the Houses.

Tabitha grinned. Straight, white teeth gleamed behind full rosy lips and a dimple flashed in a cheek. She stood on the graceful stone steps of the Keep in a casual summer dress stained with grass. Her fingers were dusted with dirt, and hanging off the crook of an arm was a wicker basket overflowing with white roses with irregular clusters of petals. Soft locks of golden hair had escaped the loose ponytail draping over her shoulder and fine tendrils curled around her golden cheekbones.

Summer.

That was the instant impression I had of Tabitha, with a sheen of perspiration glistening on her temples and seagreen eyes as vibrant as the ocean. She seemed to shimmer with a merriment that evoked endless summer days.

There was no time to stop and gaze upon her, but I did. I wandered from the running rug, drawing closer to the oil painting, wanting to see who was the artist. I had a feeling who had painted Tabitha before I saw the flourish of a signature in the corner of the canvas.

Valarie Crowther.

Anger erupted, fierce and blazing. It flashed through my veins. Scorched the air in my lungs. I wanted to destroy the painting. To shred it with my fingernails. To gouge a hole right through the layer of glossy paint and canvas with my fist.

I knew deep down all of this wasn't Tabitha's fault. But it was always her or me. It always came down to a choice—Crowther or Wychthorn.

For a dark, twisted moment I hated Tabitha Crowther with my very essence. She, a mere servant, had inspired this entire House, every single family member, and every single servant, to fight for her freedom. And who had I inspired? No one.

I startled, swaying off balance, and blinked rapidly as I stumbled to right my stance. I glanced down at Sage who'd nudged the back of my knee with his shoulder. My wraith-wolf was always aware of my emotions. He slitted silvery eyes and let out a low growl to remind me that we had no time to loiter.