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  "You said the prisoners are survivors," Padrick said. "What happened to the rest?"

  "Mihail's sister is a witch who commands the sea," Murtagh replied. "She was staying with us to watch for her brother's ship. When she saw the attack . . . Let's just say she let the sea speak for her." He waited until Padrick nodded. "Among the prisoners are barons' sons, minor gentry, sailors, warriors—and two Inquisitors."

  "I want to see them," Morag said tightly.

  Murtagh gave her another quick, assessing look. "They're in the warehouse right over there. The Fae are guarding them. We aren't influenced by the Inquisitor's Gift of persuasion, as they call it, but humans can be manipulated by it in the same way they can be influenced by the Fae's gift of persuasion. So we've kept the humans away from them. To put it bluntly, you look like a gentry lady the Black Coats could twist around their little fingers."

  Morag smiled. "That's perfect."

  Ubel watched that bastard Fae Lord walk into the warehouse. . . with two humans. His heart sped up when he recognized the man, so he turned away, pretending disinterest.

  "You there!" the Fae Lord snapped. "Baron Padrick wants to speak to you."

  Moving with feigned reluctance until he stood close to the barrier of crates, Ubel studied the man these fools thought worthy of judging him. An active man, not gone soft and fat like some of the other barons he'd seen when he'd observed the barons' council in Durham. This baron's grim expression made him look hard and ruthless, but that might have been nothing more than the contrast between him and the woman he stood beside, her arm linked through his. She was too tall and thin to be appealing for sex, but the coiled black hair looked soft and enticing, and her dark eyes held nothing but vulnerability and dependence.

  As she stared at him, he felt himself sinking into her eyes. When she stepped away from Padrick and came to stand on the other side of the crates, so close he could have lunged over the barrier and snapped her neck before the Fae could have reacted, he stopped thinking about Padrick and the bastard Fae Lord and the other Fae around them. There was only her, only the need to have her submissive. Drawing up every drop of his Inquisitor's Gift, he aimed his will directly at her.

  "You're the one, aren't you?" she asked quietly, her voice roughened by a thrilling touch of fear. "You're the leader."

  "Lady, I appeal to your sense of what is right and just," Ubel said. He knew better than to answer a question like that, but he wanted to answer. Why was it so hard to avoid giving her an answer? "We are being held unfairly. We've done nothing to harm the people here."

  "Perhaps not here, but elsewhere. You harmed so many."

  Her eyes looked so soft, so sad. "The ones who stand in the way of men claiming what is rightfully theirs must be punished."

  "You torture them, burn them, rape them, kill them."

  "I. . ." He fought against the need to answer her.

  "You've been in the west before, haven't you? You came to Bretonwood."

  "I. . ." He shook his head, as much to try to break the hold her dark eyes had on him as to indicate a refusal to answer. But he couldn't look away, couldn't break her hold. Why couldn't he break the hold of this soft, useless female? He struggled to impose his Inquisitor's Gift on her. "You have to let me go. I shouldn't be held in this place. I should be released."

  "Yes," she whispered. "You should be released. All of you should be released."

  Triumph surged through Ubel. Triumph so keen it felt like a sharp, momentary pain in his chest.

  He smiled at her. When he raised his hands, he realized the shackles were gone—and also realized he could see the crates through the flesh of his hands. He heard cries of fear from the men imprisoned with him. He noticed the startled, yet satisfied, look the Fae Lord exchanged with Padrick. But his attention was still on the woman.

  He watched as she pulled the pins from her coiled black hair, letting it tumble down her back and over one shoulder. He watched while her face changed from human to Fae, as the softness in her dark eyes changed to something exquisitely merciless.

  "I have released you, Inquisitor," she said. "But one of Death's Servants will have to take you to the Shadowed Veil. I have to return to the east. I have a gift for the Witch's Hammer."

  Ubel tried to move forward, but couldn't get past the barrier of crates. Why couldn't he get past them? He was free now.

  "What have you done?" he shouted at her.

  She flicked a glance at the floor, then smiled at him.

  He looked down—and stared at his body, the shackles still around his wrists and ankles. He looked at the other bodies on the floor inside the barrier . . . and the ghosts standing beside them.

  "What have you done?" he screamed. She just watched him. The face, the hair, the eyes. He knew who stood before him now. "You can't do this!"

  "It is done. My choice. My judgment. I have given you the release you have given others." She turned and started walking away.

  "You think you're strong?" Ubel screamed. "You think you can defeat the Witch's Hammer? He'll crush you, bitch! You're not strong enough to defeat the Master Inquisitor!"

  She stopped walking and looked at him over her shoulder. "I'm strong enough to defeat anyone. Haven't you realized it yet, Inquisitor? The only thing stronger than Death's Mistress is Death itself." She looked at the Fae Lord. "Don't move the bodies until one of Death's Servants gathers the spirits. That will keep the ghosts leashed to the flesh and contain them in this place."

  "As you command, Gatherer," the Fae Lord replied.

  Ubel screamed at her as she walked away. Kept screaming at her even after she left the warehouse. Kept screaming as the Fae who had guarded him and the others silently moved away from the barrier and took positions in front of the warehouse doors.

  He screamed and screamed as he stared at his dead body, but no one heard him, no one saw him. Except the other ghosts.

  Morag walked over to where the dark horse waited. "I should change out of these clothes. I imagine it's one of the few outfits Ashk actually likes."

  "Keep it," Padrick said quietly. "The skirt is designed for riding. Besides, your own clothes are already packed in the saddlebags. You'll need them when you reach Willowsbrook." He made an effort to smile. "If Ashk misses having that outfit, she can order another one—which will please the village seamstress and her lady's maid."

  She rested one hand on the dark horse's neck. "I don't need escorts."

  "You'll have them anyway."

  She didn't bother to sigh. Padrick had given in when she'd insisted she didn't have the appetite for a meal, but he wasn't going to yield about the escorts.

  "It wasn't enough," she said abruptly.

  "What wasn't enough, Morag?"

  She turned away from him and placed her hands on the saddle as if to mount. But she stayed there, staring at leather instead of the man.

  "They tortured. They maimed. The witches and other women they'd taken had suffered. But the Black Coat and the others . . . They didn't even hear Death's whisper before they died. Was that justice, Padrick? Did that balance the scales for all the harm they've done?"

  "Would knowing they suffered balance the scales?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  Padrick placed his hand over hers. "If you wanted them to suffer, then you succeeded, Morag. Until they pass through the Shadowed Veil, they will know something men like that would consider worse than death."

  Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head to look at him. "What could be worse than death?"

  "Defeat."

  Chapter 42

  waning moon

  Adolfo slowly crumpled the letter, working it until it was a ball enclosed in his fist.

  The Arktos barons had failed him. Failed him. Instead of continuing the fight until there wasn't a man standing, instead of destroying as many of the enemy in Sylvalan as they could, instead of fighting on to keep Sylvalan's forces divided, they had surrendered. Put down their weapons and crawled to the witches with their tail
s between their legs. And they were given their lives while his Inquisitors, his men, were taken away and hunted down like animals, slaughtered by the Fae.

  He wouldn't even know that much if the messenger he'd sent north hadn't been delayed by a few critical hours because his horse had thrown a shoe. The man had arrived in time to learn of the surrender and the Inquisitors' deaths, had thought quickly enough to lie by claiming to have been sent by the southern barons to request news about the fighting in the north.

  So he had the report that had been written for the enemy, had the enemy's taunts and boasts burning behind his eyes, had confirmation, based on the questions his messenger had been asked, that the midland barons and some of the Clans among the Fae were gathered around Willowsbrook, waiting for him.

  They could wait. And they could die. He wasn't going to Willowsbrook with sniveling barons from Sylvalan or craven barons from Arktos. Wolfram was behind him, and Wolfram would not fail him. They would annihilate the army Liam had gathered. They would break the Mother's Hills and crush them into dust— and everything that lived in that foul place. They would extinguish magic once and for all.

  But before he brought his whole army up, he would take a small company of men and ride up to the very edge of Willowsbrook, and he would give that witch-lover Liam, and all the fools who followed him, a gift that would break their hearts.

  Chapter 43

  waning moon

  What's wrong with him? Ashk wondered as Liam offered her a sickly smile and gestured for her to take the chair in front of his desk. He took his seat and placed his clasped, white-knuckled hands on the desk.

  "I'm sorry to trouble you with this, but I have to ask. I have to be certain. And since this concerns the Fae . . ." He pressed his lips together.

  Ashk suppressed the urge to rub her forehead to ease the headache building there. "Liam, if you're trying to tell me some of the Fae have taken . . . liberties . . . with some of the girls who live around here—"

  "No," Liam said quickly. "No, it's nothing like that." He offered another sickly smile. "Truth be told, I think the girls are a little disappointed that there haven't been any offers to take moonlit walks. Of course, the girls don't realize that the thought of having to deal with you, Selena, or Breanna afterward has pretty much stifled the urge for romance—among the human army as well as the Fae."

  "I understand why they'd be nervous about me or Selena, but why Breanna?"

  Liam winced. "Stories travel. You know how it is. And the Fae . . . Well, from what Varden and Falco told me, they all figure that any witch who would threaten to shoot the Lightbringer when he appeared interested in a girl wouldn't hesitate to shoot any of them."

  Ashk shook her head and smiled. "I'm sorry I missed seeing that." Then she sighed. "Whatever the problem is, Liam, just tell me."

  "There are Fae who are predators in their other form," Liam said carefully.

  "Yes, there are."

  "And those predators might do some hunting while they're here."

  "They might."

  "They might hunt people."

  Ashk tensed. Her voice chilled. "Say what you have to say, Baron."

  Liam took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. "Two young children are missing from outlying farms. At first, their families thought they'd wandered off, saw something intriguing among the trees and followed it. They reported it to the guards who make a daily round to all the farms and estates, and there was a search. But when the children weren't found . . . ."

  "People started wondering if the Fae might have indulged in a quick hunt—or had taken the children for some other reason," Ashk finished for him.

  "Yes."

  "Well," Ashk said after a long silence, "I understand why they would ask the question."

  Liam looked slightly alarmed. "You do?"

  Ashk gave in and nibbed her forehead. "I'm a mother, Liam. I have two children. If one of them was missing, I'd wonder about the Fae, too, but for a different reason. Or, perhaps, for the same reason." When she saw no comprehension in his eyes, she sighed. "If one of the Fae in the form of a predator killed those children, it is only the bodies that are gone. The loved one will go to the Summerland and return to the world one day. There's a comfort in that. But if it was a different kind of predator that took those children . . ."

  "Nighthunters," Liam said, turning pale.

  Ashk nodded. "If I were the mother of either of those children, I'd rather wonder about the Fae than consider the other possibility. There is no hope in the other possibility. When the nighthunters feast, there is no spirit left to gather, no one to take to the Shadowed Veil."

  "Mother's mercy," Liam whispered. "I know that. I've talked to Fae who have encountered nighthunters. Breanna and I were attacked by them. But I hadn't thought of it that way."

  Ashk pushed herself out of the chair. "We found the nest of nighthunters we scented, and the creatures have been killed and burned. I'd just gotten back when I got your message. I can't say with certainty, but hopefully that was all of them that remained around Willowsbrook. If any more appear. . . Well, there are plenty of Fae around here now who can detect the scent. We'll hope we can detect them before they do any harm. As for the children, I'll send some of the winged Fae out to search. A hawk can see a great deal more than any of us can see on foot."

  Liam stood. "Thank you, Hunter."

  She shook her head. "Thank me when we've found the children. You didn't say how old they were."

  "Young. Two or three years."

  Children, Ashk thought as she went upstairs to wash up and indulge in an hour's rest. Toddlers, really. Old enough to scamper off in pursuit of a butterfly in a meadow or a fawn glimpsed in the woods. Caitlin had done it to her once. Had wandered off during a moment when her attention had been required elsewhere. She and the Clan had searched for a frantic day before she'd found her girl in a fox's den, sound asleep with the kits snuggled around her, all of them being guarded by a very confused vixen.

  She could wish for something that simple. Hope for something so screamingly normal. But she knew in her gut it wasn't simple or normal. So she was left with the question of what had happened to two small children—just as she was left with the question of what had happened to Jean.

  Chapter 44

  waning moon

  Hearing the guard captain call a halt, Adolfo pushed aside the cloth covering the carriage window and waited. No further orders were given. He'd heard no urgency to indicate a company from the enemy's army was approaching. So he waited until the guard captain rode back to the carriage and bent low in the saddle to look at the Master Inquisitor.

  "What is the delay?" Adolfo asked.

  "One of the Sylvalan brats who were sent out with carts has returned. Says he's found what you're looking for," the guard captain replied.

  The Wolfram captain knew better than to let anything in his voice imply criticism of a decision made by the Master Inquisitor, but Adolfo knew the man hadn't been pleased to have a choice assignment given to unknown, untried, unwanted bastards who came from the enemy's land. After all, what man wouldn't want to be the one to supply the tools the Witch's Hammer needed to hamstring the enemy?

  Adolfo leaned forward, but the guard captain dismounted quickly enough to open the door for him.

  A good man, Adolfo thought approvingly. He had the proper balance of subservience and authority, and his ambitions didn't outstrip his common sense. "Where is the Sylvalan boy?"

  "Just up ahead. He was stopped by our outriders. I can have him brought to you, Master Adolfo. There's no need for you to walk."

  Adolfo raised his right hand in a gesture that was dismissive but not slighting. "I welcome the opportunity to stretch my legs," he said mildly as he walked toward the head of the column of men. The column split, men stepping to the sides of the road to leave the center clear for him and the guard captain, who handed his horse's reins to one of the men.

  The boy stood to one side of the road, flanked by two guards. Two other
s flanked the cart, while the fifth held the horse.

  Catching sight of him, the boy brightened and took a daring step away from the guards. "I succeeded, Master Adolfo. I found what you were looking for."

  Adolfo moved a few steps closer, then stopped to give the boy that mild stare that had shattered the nerves of Wolfram barons when the Master Inquisitor showed up at their estates unexpectedly.

  "I am the only one who decides if you succeed, boy," Adolfo said softly.

  The boy paled and looked at the ground. "Yes, Master. I— My apologies for speaking out of turn."

  Adolfo smiled. "We'll see if your success is reason enough for a loss of manners." He walked over to the cart and frowned. Then a scent wafted up from the cart, and his heart began to race. He pointed to the smaller sacks. "Show me."

  The guards flanking the cart moved to one side, reached in, and untied the tops of the sacks.

  Perfect, Adolfo thought. Of the eight carts he'd sent out, only three others had returned with anything he could use. When added to these . . . Five tools weren't as many as he'd hoped for, but they would be enough to distract the enemy leaders. Now all he needed . . .

  Tipping his head to indicate the large sack, he looked at the guard captain. "Show me." Sweat beaded on his forehead. His heart hammered in his chest as the captain opened the sack and pulled it down enough to show him what was inside.

  The girl's terrified eyes stared at him as she made distressed sounds, muffled by the gag. She stank of fear and sweat. She also stank of magic.

  Adolfo turned away from the cart. He studied the boy, now watching him anxiously. "You were right, boy. You did succeed. Well done."

  The boy sagged in relief, then recovered swiftly enough to ask, "Then I'll become an apprentice? I'll become an Inquisitor?"

  That combination of brashness and hopeful fear. Ubel had been like that when he'd found him years ago. Yes, perhaps he would keep his promise to this boy and mold him into a useful tool. Take him back to Wolfram to shape him and train him, then send him back here to be a hammer against his own people.