Wolf’s Redemption (The Wolves of Langeais #3)

Chapter Thirty-Five

The grate clanged open and Rebekah picked herself off the cold, damp step. Perhaps they were bringing her more food. Another lump of stale bread and more water of questionable cleanliness? But she’d eat the bread and drink the water. She had no idea how long she’d be here, and she wasn’t in a rush to die of dehydration or starvation. One thing at a time.

Flickering candlelight preceded boots down the stairs. Then one, no, two guards stepped into the room. She eyed them warily, her hands clenched into fists, ready for anything. There’d not been a repeat of her first visit to the dungeon. No smarmy guard looking to rape her. Yet. Bek searched their expressions, looking for a hint of their intent. They stared at her dispassionately. She’d rejoice at a breath of compassion, but she’d settle for this. It beat the alternative.

One guard said a few words and held something up. Not food. Shackles. Metal manacles linked with a thick chain. They approached, and Bek held her hands out. There was no point in fighting them. They were taking her out of here— a plus —and she wasn’t about to give them a reason to get handsy.

The cuffs enclosed her wrists, frigid metal against her cold skin, and the guard locked them into place. Taking an arm each, they led her up the stairs. She squinted against the bright light of the room. Had Ulrik come for her? Is that why they were taking her from the dungeon?

A thread of hope tugged at her heart. How long had she waited for Spider, expecting the lawyer the Devil’s had in their pocket to be engaged for her defense? He’d never shown. But if Ulrik had come…

How long have I been here? Half a day? A day?

She wanted to rejoice, but the cold cynicism of past experience weighed her down like a pair of cement shoes. Don’t get your hopes up, Bek. More likely, the count tired of waiting.

The guards propelled her past the game of dice on the table and out into the corridor. A set of stairs, more stairs and endless corridors. She tried to get her bearings, should an opportunity to escape present itself, but the guards kept her moving and it all looked the same. Down a long corridor, they stopped at a small door. She could hear voices. Lots of them. At a knock from a guard, the door swung open and they dragged her through.

The noise, the smell of sweating bodies, the sheer size of the room hit her and Bek stumbled, the guards’ grip on her arms the only thing preventing her from falling. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and gagged. The air in the dungeon had been stale and dank. Here, beneath a sickly sweet herbal smell, was the odor of rotting garbage and raw sewerage. The council bin at the back of The Spicy Dragon hadn’t smelled this bad. Her eyes watering, she lifted her head.

The immense room was filled with people milling about in groups and hugging the walls. There had to be over a hundred people in the room. Lording it over all of them, on a raised platform, sat the count. The dragon on his shirt spewed fire at her, and his dark eyes promised nothing good. Her stomach clenched, and she swallowed the nausea that rose in her throat.

Lined up in front of him, their faces stern and unforgiving, were four men. Four knights. None of them were Ulrik. One man she recognized, with his white-blond hair and eyes as blue as his coat. Aimon. A flash of concern flickered across his face. What did it mean that he was here? That all four men were here? Lined up in front of the count like naughty schoolchildren in front of a headmaster. Were they all shifters like Aimon?

She sized up the man next to Aimon. Large and muscled, there was a hint of gray at his temples and in his beard. His coat, a dirty orange-red, covered his armor. His crest, some sort of weird bird—part dragon, part rooster—in deep red. Like Aimon he wore chain mail, but neither he nor Aimon had a sword belted at his waist.

She skipped to the next man. Fuck, he’s huge. He wore a coat of green with a brown bear as his crest— fitting —and his face he’d twisted into a scowl. Not at her, but at the count. A possible friend? Someone who would come to her aid?

Her attention lit on the third man. Twins? Just as big and wild, though not quite so fierce, he wore the same colored coat, with the same crest. Neither had a sword either.

Wait. Twins. Hadn’t Erin said two of Gaharet’s men were twins?

‘ Gaharet, Ulrik, Aimon, who you’ve met. Twins Edmond and Aubert. Godfrey and, the oldest, Lance. ’ That’s what Erin had said. Her gaze settled on the one familiar man in the blue coat with the white dove crest. Aimon. The twins. Then the other guy, the one with the touch of gray at his temples. Lance, the oldest? These had to be Gaharet’s men. Had they come for her?

“Bring her to me,” commanded the count, beckoning her forward.

Unlike the other men, the count was wearing a sword. As were the guards who surrounded him. And her. They dragged her forward, depositing her next to the count. He grasped her arm and spoke to the crowd, his deep voice ringing out. A proclamation? Some sort of decree?

Silence fell. A hundred eager eyes stared at her, and a ripple of excitement ran through their ranks. Aimon blanched. The scowly twin’s expression darkened. The count stared up at her with a sardonic tilt to his lips. Bek trembled. What the hell had he said? Lord Almighty, was she to be the guest of honor at a public hanging?

Fuck. Why the hell didn’t I pay more attention in French?