Jaenelle Angelline had taught him that defensive spell, and he’d used it over the years when a visiting guest or servant at the Hall tried to cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
As the Warlord’s legs buckled, Holt used Craft to float him on air. Then he turned to the girl. One of Lady Zoela’s friends. “Come with me. I’ll get you to a safe place, and the housekeeper will look after you.”
He headed for the nearest servants’ staircase, summoning two footmen who would take over and escort the girl the rest of the way while he took the Warlord to the austere accommodations that were deep beneath the Hall.
It was winter and the corridors in the Hall tended to be chilly, despite the warming spells Prince Sadi replenished regularly. Since the girl was wearing long sleeves, he couldn’t tell if she carried any bruises from the Warlord’s rough handling. Helene would find out and make a careful record of every one.
The number and placement of the bruises would matter to Prince Sadi when it came time for this bastard’s execution.
It was like having excessively large mousers roaming the corridors as they hunted for vermin, Beale thought as the Sceltie trotted toward him, her teeth in the sleeve of the male’s coat as the dog used Craft to float the body.
Wouldn’t have been possible for something the Sceltie’s size to lug the deadweight of an adolescent male without knowing that bit of Craft. And that male was definitely dead. Judging by the way the head bounced and flopped, it had taken one swat from an angry cat to snap the neck.
Kaelas, the shadow cat in question, also moved toward him, with one of Lady Zoela’s friends clinging to him, a bruise already forming on her face from cheek to jaw. In fact, the girl was holding on so tight, if this had been the real cat, she would have been choking him.
“Can you help me?” she asked, her voice breathy.
He recognized the significance of that breathy voice. He wasn’t a coward, but he wanted to get her into someone else’s hands before the hysterical weeping began. “Yes,” he said. “We have a safe place for all of you.”
“Can he stay with me?” Her hands, buried in all that white fur, must have tightened a little more since the cat actually grunted in response.
“Of course,” Beale said. Then to the Sceltie, *Take the carrion downstairs. Holt will show you where we are keeping them for the High Lord.*
The Sceltie stopped, thought for a moment, then used Craft to pass through an interior wall, taking the body with her.
Except for one foot and a shoe.
Well, the dog was young, and passing through a solid wall was a practiced skill.
Setting aside his task of locking down various wings of the Hall, Beale escorted girl and cat to the guest rooms where Helene and the maids were waiting.
Zoey dropped her fork, startling the other girls at the table.
The senior footmen inside the dining room snapped to attention.
“What’s wrong?” Titian asked.
“I don’t feel good. I think there’s something in the food.”
“But it’s one of your favorite dishes. Maybe Mrs. Beale uses different spices?”
Zoey shook her head. Beads of sweat sprang up on her forehead. “Something bad in the food. Take that dish so no one discards it. Black Widows should test . . .”
Titian stared at her friend. Black Widows should test it? That meant . . .
Mother Night. Poisoned?
Zoey swallowed hard. She looked scared. “Titian, I’m sick.”
Titian put a shield around Zoey’s plate and vanished it. Then she rushed to the buffet table, put shields around the serving dishes that held every food Zoey had taken, and vanished those too.
“Lady Titian?” one of the footmen said.
The other girls were huddled around Zoey, who was panting and saying, “I can’t, I won’t, I need . . .” She started to cry.
Titian put her arms around Zoey and hauled her friend away from the table. “Zoey’s sick,” she told the footmen. “We need Beale. And we need a Healer. And maybe a Black Widow.”
“This way,” one footman said, escorting them out of the dining room.
The other senior footman turned toward the front of the Hall, then hesitated and said, “No way out.”
“What does that mean?” Titian asked, alarmed. “Zoey needs help right now.”
“We’ll find Beale,” the footman assured her. “He’ll find a way to get a message to someone in Halaway.”
The other footman eyed the two younger footmen, who looked nervous and guilty. “And I’ll find out how this happened.”
“Bedroom . . . too far,” Zoey whimpered. “Don’t want . . . bed. No bed.”
What had been put in the food to make her sweat like that—and make Zoey’s psychic scent have the tang it held when they were kissing but was twisted up somehow?
“Come on,” Titian said. “The sitting room is closer.”
*Daemonar? Where are you? We need help!*
“I don’t need protecting, Dharo Boy,” Mrs. Beale said as she put an extra shield around the larder and pantry. Her Yellow Jewel wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, but it would tell her there was an intruder trying to mess with her supplies.
“I know that,” he replied, keeping up with her. “But even a strong witch should have someone watching her back when there are enemies in the house.”
Huh. Couldn’t argue the point, but whoever would have thought that a descendant of Lord Dillon would be the one standing with her to defend guests in this house?
Sounds of a struggle. In her kitchen!
She strode into the big room and saw a boy pinned to her worktable. He struggled against the phantom restraints as the girl grabbed his hair and tried to pour something into his mouth.
“You’ll like it,” the girl said, smiling viciously.
“No! I don’t want . . .” He choked as some of the liquid went down his throat.
Nothing but fear in the boy’s psychic scent, and something ugly in the girl’s.
Mrs. Beale was a big woman, and it took only moments for her to cover the distance between the store rooms and the table.
The Dharo Boy made some sound of angry protest and leaped toward the table.
The girl looked up, her face twisted with malicious glee.
Mrs. Beale called in her meat cleaver.
Whack! Thwack!
She had the girl off the boy and shielded before the body voided one drop onto her clean kitchen floor.
The boy scrambled away from the body with its almost severed neck and spine. The Dharo Boy grabbed him and got him to the sink before he began to vomit.
The Dharo Boy looked at her, his face drained of all color. But he nodded, and that nod told her he was worthy of her time to train him—and worthy of serving in this house.
Maybe it was time for her to learn his name.
As Jaenelle Saetien left the sitting room, she saw Titian and the other girls clustered around Zoey.
She ran to meet them. “What happened?”
“Zoey’s sick,” Titian said fiercely. “Someone put something in the food to make Zoey sick.”
Someone meaning Delora or one of her friends.