Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, Book 2)

Iris woke to a clap of thunder.

She opened her eyes to the darkness, uncertain where she was. Her heart was pounding as she sat forward, lightning illuminating her surroundings with an impatient flash.

You’re in Bitteryne, she told herself. Everything is fine. It was just the storm that woke you.

She waited for the next clap of thunder, but it never came. The lightning was bright but silent, and Iris could hear the clink, clink, clink below the foundation followed by a startling boom in the house, just down the hallway. It sounded like the back door had blown open.

Iris threw off the blankets, rising in a breathless rush.

Remain on guard, Roman had told her.

She grappled in the dark, remembering the electricity was out. Slowly, she opened her door and peered into the hallway. It was pitch black, but she could hear someone walking through the house. The floor creaked beneath their steps.

“Mr. Fielding?” Iris said, her voice thin.

“Iris.”

She turned, sensing Attie’s presence to her right.

“Did you hear that noise?” Attie whispered.

“Yes. I think someone’s in the house.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder and listened. A clatter, like a bowl had overturned. A deep-pitched curse. A chair scratching along the floor.

Attie began to stride down the hall, fearless. Iris hurried after her.

“Attie? Attie, wait.”

All Iris could think was that something had come from the ground. A hole had opened in the garden. One of Dacre’s creatures had slithered through it and was now in the house, hungry for blood.

The girls reached the dining room. The hearth still glowed with dying embers, but the rest of the room was stained in darkness. Iris saw a tall shadow walk in front of the mullioned windows.

“Who are you?” Attie said sharply. “What do you want?”

The shadow ceased moving, but Iris could feel someone gazing in their direction. The hair rose on her arms as her heart quickened. She curled her fingers into a fist, preparing for a fight.

A deep, mirthful voice broke the silence. “Attie? It’s only me.”

Attie drew a sharp breath. “Bexley?”

“Yes, who else?”

“Who the bloody else? We thought you were a burglar!”

“I did tell you I’d return tonight.”

“Yes, and in case you lost track of time, it’s three in the morning. When midnight struck, we realized you were running late.”

“Wait up on me, did you?” Tobias said.

“We were working,” Attie amended, but she had stepped deeper into the room, heading in the direction of his voice.

Tobias was silent, but his breaths were heavy. Iris began to edge along the wall toward the hearth mantel, where she knew Lonnie kept a matchbook and candle tapers.

“Are you hurt?” Attie asked.

“No. And don’t … don’t touch me. At least not yet.”

Iris lit a candlestick. The firelight cast a ring into the darkness, and she could at last see Tobias clearly.

His clothes were plastered to him, drenched from the rain, and his arms and face were splattered with mud. He looked exhausted, but his eyes gleamed, feverishly, as if he had just won a race.

He glanced at Iris, reading her expression.

“Do I look that bad, Miss Winnow?”

“You look like you just drove all night through a storm,” Iris replied, awestruck.

“I told you not much comes between me and assignments,” he said, his attention returning to Attie. “Not even impassable roads.”

Attie crossed her arms, jaw set. “What if you had wrecked your car?”

“Always a possibility.” He set his valise down on the floor. “But I didn’t. Not this time, at least. And I have letters for you both.”

Iris stepped closer, watching as Tobias carefully removed his drenched gloves and opened the valise, handing them each a letter. Hers was from Forest; she recognized her brother’s handwriting and it warmed her from within to see it.

“Your brother actually helped service the roadster this time,” Tobias said. “At my mechanic’s shop.”

Iris glanced up, surprised. “Oh? I’m glad to hear it.”

“He did a good job,” Tobias said. “And I promised him tickets to the next race. He mentioned he would like to take you, when the war is over.”

Iris smiled, but she felt a sudden twinge of homesickness. She glanced down at the letter in her hand, thankful for the faint light as she blinked back her tears.

“Do you need a cup of tea? A sandwich?” Attie asked Tobias. “The electricity is out, but I can set a kettle over the hearth.”

Tobias sighed. “Thank you, but no. I’ve been up for a while. I’d only fall asleep before you could get the water to boil.”

“Then let me at least fetch you a towel.”

“That would be quite helpful.”

Iris lit a second candlestick to take back with her to her room. She bid the two of them goodnight but paused in the hallway to glance over her shoulder. Attie was wiping the mud from Tobias’s face; he was smiling and she was scowling as they spoke in hushed tones. But their voices still carried, enough for Iris to catch the words.

“I told you not to worry about me,” he said.

“I wasn’t worried.”

“And it’s nine, by the way.”

“Nine what? Nine lives?”

“I’ve won nine races. If that will help ease your mind next time.”

Iris didn’t wait to hear Attie’s reply. She pressed a smile to her lips as she slipped into her room.

Roman stole down the stairs quietly. The cottage felt empty, full of nothing more than long, dusty shadows. No one was in the foyer, guarding the front door, and no one was in the parlor. Not even Dacre. A fire had burned down in the hearth, but golden light continued to flicker along the walls.

Roman approached the war table.

He stared down at the map of Cambria, studying the places he knew—Oath, Avalon Bluff, Merrow, the chain of railroad tracks that his father controlled—and the multitude of places and landmarks that were still unfamiliar. The divine graves were marked in red ink, Alva’s in particular drawing his gaze south and Mir’s to the north until his attention snagged on Hawk Shire.

He dared to lean closer, touching the map with his hand. To his shock, lines bloomed along the paper. Some were dark, others brilliant. They moved like lightning, like tree roots. Quite a few of them fed into the towns closest to Roman. Places in Central and Western Borough. Places the war had already devoured. But his attention was soon captivated by glimmers of pale blue light. A cluster of towns pulsed with it like small cerulean hearts, including Merrow and Hawk Shire, while others remained unlit.

The map beneath, he remembered, carefully removing his hand.

The routes vanished, as if they had never been. But Roman could still see them when he closed his eyes—tangles of light and darkness—and he carefully lifted the edge of Cambria’s map, beholding the illustration of the underworld, resting beneath. Nearly forgotten and easily overlooked by those who only saw the surface of things.

Roman studied what he could see, mesmerized by the twisting of passages. The cities and hubs of life they fed into. A world he had touched, but only briefly.

“I take it another dream has kept you up?”

Dacre’s voice broke the silence. Roman released the map, letting it flutter down to the table. His pulse spiked but he kept his face calm, collected, as he straightened, glancing toward the foyer.

Dacre stood beneath the lintel, watching him. He had arrived soundlessly, as if he had materialized from the darkness.

“On the contrary, sir,” Roman said, lacing his fingers behind his back. “I can’t sleep these days. I want to know what awaits us.”

“If it’s death you fear, I have already told you once.” Dacre stepped into the parlor. He seemed taller, broader, but maybe it was only the shadows, playing a trick on Roman’s senses. “Remain at my side, faithful to me, and you shall never die. You shall never feel pain.”

Roman held the god’s steady, blue-cut gaze. But he could feel a bead of sweat begin to trickle down his spine. “And will I be at your side in Hawk Shire?”

“Why are you so concerned about Hawk Shire, Roman?”

“It sounds like an important battle.”

“And do you see yourself as one of my soldiers, ready and willing to fight? To take back what was mine?”

Roman studied the map of Cambria again. “I’m not a soldier, sir. I’ve never been trained how to shoot a gun, or to handle a grenade, or to move like a shadow. At least, not that I remember. But what I do have are my words.” He paused, surprised by how his voice trembled. As if he were surrendering a piece of himself. “I don’t want to fight with half a heart, but all of it.”

Dacre was silent for a long, torturous moment. But then he took hold of Cambria’s map and let it fold over itself, revealing the world beneath.

“Tell me, Roman,” he said as the under routes illuminated again. “What do you see?”

“I see paths. Roads.”

“Is that all?”

Roman studied it closer. He was drawn to the dim, pulsing lights. He wondered if they marked enchanted thresholds. “I see cities. Towns. Doorways.”

“Yes,” Dacre said. “My domain. My ley lines. A realm of magic that most of your kind will never see or know or taste, even though our two worlds are connected.”

“Are you rebuilding it, sir?” Roman asked. “The roads below?”

Dacre was quiet. Roman wondered if he had been too blunt, and he swallowed.

“I’ve noticed that there are still portions of the map that are darkened, as if they are waiting for you to return,” he explained.

“A canny observation,” the god replied. “And yes. While I slept, my domain fell into disarray. Ruin. Many of the roads became full of debris, my doorways forgotten and cloaked in cobwebs. My people are now currently working to repair them.”

Roman stared at the map again, his gaze drawn to Hawk Shire. “Is that how my articles reach the Oath Gazette? By your underground roads?”

“Concerned about your articles reaching their destination?”

“I only thought—”

“Yes, Roman,” Dacre cut him off. “Val uses the underground to deliver your articles to the city.”

“Who is Val?”

“One of my favored advisors. Who else would I entrust such a task to?”

Roman wondered if that meant Val also possessed one of the five keys Dacre had mentioned. Keys forged over enchanted flames, capable of unlocking endless doorways. Roman’s eyes drifted to Oath on the map. There was still a portion of work to be done to clear the eastern passages, although there was one fragile, tiny thread that had lit its way to the vast city.

One pathway cleared. One doorway active in Oath. Val’s door.

The city’s markings on the map were too minuscule for him to note the exact location of the door, and he didn’t want to draw Dacre’s suspicions. Roman returned his attention to the god, who was carefully observing him.

“Will you use your roads to take back what is yours, lord?” he dared to ask next. “To end the war?”

“Does it not make sense to do so, if my realm gives me an advantage?” Dacre covered the under map once more, the illuminated routes and cities fading until they were only blurs when Roman blinked. “I can end this war swiftly, mercifully, once my realm has healed and remembered itself. When the cities below gleam with firelight and laughter, and the roads connect one place to another, and my doorways spill magic into the mundane. Once I have Hawk Shire, we will be one step closer to peace. To victory.”

“Will you find your sister’s grave, sir?” Roman asked. “To wake her so she may join your cause?”

Dacre’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you think that?”

“The map,” Roman replied, indicating it. “Alva’s grave is marked in the Southern Borough. Not far from here. I remember how you once spoke fondly of her, and I assumed…”

“What good would Alva’s powers be to me when all of us live daily in a nightmare?” Dacre’s voice held a cold edge, but it melted as he smiled. “But you are right about one thing, Roman. It is time to prove your heart steady. Tomorrow at dawn. Meet me here in the parlor. Bring your typewriter.”

Roman nodded, sensing the dismissal.

Whatever was coming at daybreak, he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for it. But he could feel his heart beating in his throat as he ascended the stairs. And he knew what he needed to do.