The Vampire & Her Witch

The hallway outside the Great Hall of Lothian Manor was wide enough for a dozen men to walk abreast, and on any other evening, its vaulted ceiling and heavy tapestries might have lent it the solemn dignity that a gathering of the march’s most powerful lords deserved. Tonight, however, the space felt more like a cattle pen, and Baron Loghlan Dunn was acutely aware that the bull at the center of the herd was strutting.

Owain Lothian moved through the assembled barons and their heirs with the easy, confident stride of a man who believed that every eye in the room existed to admire him. He wore a doublet of rich forest green trimmed with gold thread, and a heavy gold chain studded with topaz and sapphires lay across his broad chest, gleaming in the warm light of a hundred candles. His chestnut hair had been freshly washed and combed back from his face, and his square jaw was clean-shaven, revealing the strong features that had made him the subject of more than a few admiring whispers among the ladies of the court over the years.

He looked, Loghlan thought, like a man who had been born to wear a crown. The trouble was that the crown in question sat atop a head that housed the instincts of a predator and the conscience of a feral hog.

”Baron Dunn!” Owain’s voice carried across the hallway with the practiced warmth of a man who had learned to project charm the way an archer projected arrows; precisely, deliberately, and always aimed at a target.

It was a jarring sound coming from a man who would begin the following morning with his father’s funeral, but clearly, Owain had decided to play the role of the groom and marquis-to-be rather than the mourning son tonight, which only went further to convince Loghlan that Lady Ashlynn was right about who had ultimately been responsible for Bors Lothian’s death.

”I was beginning to wonder if the River Luath had swallowed you whole,” Owain said as he gestured for Loghlan to approach him. ”Come, come, there’s no reason to be a stranger.”

Loghlan approached with the measured stride of a man who had learned long ago that haste in the presence of a lord was seen as either eagerness or fear, and he intended to display neither. He’d dressed carefully for the evening, his best brown and yellow doublet, freshly pressed, with the watchtower standard of House Dunn embroidered in copper thread on his chest.

Despite their late arrival, Mairwen had fussed over the placement of his cloak pin and the styling of his thinning hair for several minutes before declaring him presentable, and the memory of her steady hands adjusting his collar was the anchor he held onto as he came face to face with the man he had committed treason to help destroy.

”My Lord Owain,” Loghlan said, offering a bow that was correct in its depth and duration without being obsequious. He deliberately refrained from bending his knee or taking the young lord’s hand to kiss his ring. After all, Owain wasn’t the marquis yet, and Loghlan had no intention of giving him the courtesies he’d have given Owain’s late father.

”Forgive the late arrival,” Loghlan said as he straightened his back and raised his head to meet Owain’s calculating gaze directly. ”The river was sluggish with the cold, and the wind on the river wasn’t in our favor until late in the day.”

”The river is sluggish, and the roads are frozen, and the whole march seems to be moving at the same pace that Baron Fayle marches to war with,” Owain said with a laugh that invited the nearby lords to share in the joke. Baron Tybal Aleese obliged with a chuckle, though his son Reynold, standing next to him, refused to join in the laughter. Serle Otker, standing near the far wall with his son Serge, offered a thin smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes while his son shifted uncomfortably at the joke.

”But you’re here now,” Owain said warmly. ”And that’s what matters. We have much to celebrate, and I won’t let the weather dampen our spirits.”

The swagger was unmistakable. Loghlan had heard the story of the Imperial Elk three times already — once from a breathless squire on the docks, once from one of Owain’s household knights in the courtyard, and once from Baron Valeri’s boy, Tulori, who had been present for the kill and seemed genuinely impressed. A fourteen-point Imperial Bull, taken with a single thrust to the heart and then beheaded in five strokes. The head was apparently already mounted above the Great Hall’s main hearth, though Loghlan had yet to see it himself.

”I heard about the elk,” Loghlan said, because it was expected and because Owain would bristle if he didn’t. ”An impressive kill, my lord. A fourteen-pointer is a rare beast.”

”You should have been there, Loghlan,” Owain said pointedly before his eyes flicked to a number of the other barons in the hall. ”A good many people should have been there. It was an excellent hunt for the rarest prey I’ve ever taken,” Owain agreed, and for a moment, the charm slipped just enough for something sharper to flash behind his eyes; the satisfaction of a man who measured his worth by the things he conquered.

”Fallen Claw took to the task beautifully,” Owain added with a smile that looked more predatory than pleasant. ”One thrust, clean through the ribcage. I’ve never held a blade that answered my intent so perfectly. It’s a shame that Father didn’t get to see his final gift to me claim its first life,” he said, performing the shallowest measure of grief Loghlan had ever seen.

The name of the blade meant very little to Loghlan, though it seemed a bit strange. A new sword, presumably, replacing the famous Mountain Breaker that had been the centerpiece of Owain’s reputation for years, but the pride with which Owain spoke of it told Loghlan everything he needed to know about the man’s priorities. A new weapon, christened in blood, on the eve of a coronation. The symbolism was about as subtle as the elk’s severed head.

”But enough about sport,” Owain said, his expression shifting into something that was still a smile but no longer warm. ”Tell me about your son, Baron Dunn. I understand Lord Liam is still missing...?”