Burning Up

cooperative. She felt confident that given enough time, she’d spot an opportunity to rescue her sister and escape.
    But to buy that time, she was going to have to seduce Raniero. So she’d give the vampire her body—but never her trust.
     
    D awn was breaking when Amaris returned to the cramped chamber she’d been given in one of the castle’s towers.
    Moving quickly, she swung the door closed and hurried across the room to fling open the wooden shutters. The edge of the sun was just peeking over the horizon, painting streamers of rose and violet across the sky. Beneath them, the Korban Mountains lay in thick black shadow.
    There wasn’t much time.
    Amaris took a deep breath and drew a long, thin dagger from the sheath that hung from her embroidered belt. Concentrating fiercely, she angled the knife point up, so that the rays of the sun poured over it. Gathering her will, she began to chant as the rising sun warmed her face. Magic swirled around her, flowing into the dagger, making the thin blade blaze.
     
    R aniero woke half naked in a bed far more comfortable than the ground he so often slept on as the king’s investigator. Blinking, disoriented, he tried to roll off the bed, only to discover two things: he was weak as a babe, and his wrists were chained to the posts of the bed.
    Rage lengthening his teeth into fangs, he jerked his head around to stare at his wrists. The manacles that encircled them were covered with magical runes he read with a wizard’s ease.
    A draining spell. ’Twould sap his strength and magic, keeping him from breaking the chains.
    Peering down the length of his body, he saw he wore naught but his breeches. His ankles, too, were chained.
    With a growl, he dropped his head back on the feather pillow.
    Who the six hells gave a prisoner a feather pillow?
    The thought made him scan his cell in narrow-eyed suspicion.
    It looked more guest’s chamber than prison. The room was clean, with fresh rushes on the floor, and a fire burned in the fireplace, reducing the autumn chill. Two chairs sat before the fire, and there was a small bedside table on which an unlit candle stood beside a golden goblet. No window, but vampire that he was, he was rather glad of that. At least his captors couldn’t cook him with the sunrise while he was helplessly chained to the bed.
    What the six hells happened?
    The last he remembered, he’d been about to take that vampire’s head in an effort to keep the bastard from attacking the Blood Rose who had appeared in the middle of the fight.
    The Blood Rose.
    Raniero ground his teeth in rage as the truth burst upon him. She’d been working with the vampire. They’d gulled him with their playacting, and he’d swallowed the bait whole.
    Fool, fool, fool! And by now his men were likely all dead, bodies devoured by the thrice-damned Varil.
    He closed his eyes, sickened. Poor Gvido had so feared those monsters after seeing the aftermath of one of their raids. Raniero had often been woken by the boy’s nightmare cries. How he must have suffered, dying at their hands.
    And Olrick. He’d planned to retire and spend his last years surrounded by grandchildren while playing slap and tickle with his wife. Raniero would have to tell Gavina he’d gotten her man killed.
    And then there were the others: Kellar, Favdo, Jacil, Magar, Brothan, Lor, and Shaco. Good men, brave men, all loyal king’s warriors. He would have to tell their wives, children, and parents. And the king, who would be deeply grieved.
    At least his majesty would see the families were paid a death pension. They would not be left impoverished.
    Just grieving.
    Raniero’s eyes narrowed. His captors would rue this day. Which raised the question: why had they left him alive to seek vengeance?
    He considered his prison again. It appeared someone was entertaining fantasies that he could be bought.
    The idea was infuriating. But galling as it was, perhaps he should pretend to play along, that he might gain an opportunity to escape.
    And make the bastards pay.
     
    A maris paused outside Raniero’s cell, ignoring the hot gazes of the four guards. She had dressed as carefully as ever she’d been taught in the Garden. Her gown was white silk, belted with a girdle embroidered with tiny roses, and she’d perfumed her skin with ambergris. A hint of kohl darkened her lids, and she’d rubbed a lemon on her lips to redden them. Her hair had been brushed into a gleaming fall of curls that tumbled to her hips. She