The Vampire & Her Witch

Three cells down, a door stood ajar. Inside, the cell had been recently cleaned, and a few pieces of furniture no prisoner would ever enjoy had been added.

A basin of clean water waited on a small table, along with small towels for washing and a block of perfumed soap that smelled of leather and cedar. Beside it lay a neatly folded change of clothes: a fresh tunic in deep blue wool with intricate gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs, fitted black breeches that would cling to his muscular thighs and calves, and soft linen undergarments. There were even fresh socks and a recently polished pair of boots sitting on the small rug that covered nearly a third of the stone floor in the otherwise bare cell.

A single torch burned in a wall sconce, casting warm light over what might have been mistaken for a gentleman’s dressing chamber if not for the iron ring set into the stone wall and the faint, persistent smell of unwashed bodies that no amount of scrubbing could ever fully erase from dungeon stone.

Owain closed the door behind him and let out a long, slow breath. His shoulders dropped slightly, some of the rigid control he’d maintained throughout the afternoon’s work finally releasing now that he was alone. His hands felt stiffer than they would have at the end of a battle with a sword in his hand, and his fingers flexed as he looked at the visible indentations where the brass rings had been.

”I’ll have to be careful when I get to Percivus,” he mused. After all, the jeweler had already visited to take his measurements to resize the Lothian signet ring that would soon adorn his right hand, along with the new ring for his left hand that would replace the one he’d worn in public ever since his disastrous wedding to Ashlynn Blackwell. It wouldn’t do if his hands were too swollen from beating the Inquisitor to don his new rings during the ceremony in a few days.

He stripped off his ruined tunic, pulling it over his head and letting it fall in a sodden heap on the floor. The undershirt beneath was only slightly better, spotted with blood that had soaked through the outer layer. That joined the tunic in the growing pile of soiled clothing.

The blood on his hands and forearms stood out in stark contrast against his skin, still fresh enough to be tacky to the touch. He dipped his hands into the basin and began to wash, watching the clear water turn pink, then red as he scrubbed away the evidence of his afternoon’s work.

The water was refreshingly cold against his skin, and he took his time with the washing, methodical and thorough. Blood cleaned from between his fingers, from under his nails, from the creases of his knuckles. He cupped water in his palms and splashed it over his face, scrubbing away the fine spray of droplets that had marked him during the more vigorous portions of the questioning. The water that dripped from his jaw was tinged pink.

By the time he finished bathing himself, the water in the basin was dark red, nearly opaque. He dried himself with a clean cloth and reached for the fresh clothes.

The light streaming in through the dungeon cell’s small window was starting to fade, but Owain dressed without haste. When he emerged from this place, he’d step back into the bustle of a Lothian Manor, caught up in the rituals of mourning his father and preparing for the coronation of his successor. It wouldn’t do for him to step into that world looking like he’d rushed to put on his finery before someone scolded him for being late to dinner.

He was the Marquis of Lothian March. Whenever he arrived, wherever he went in Lothian March, he was on time. Still, there were a few things that were worth a measure of haste, and after what he’d heard from the acolytes, he felt like his evening meal with Jocelynn tonight was even more important than he’d initially thought it would be.

Once he finished tying his sword-belt in place, all traces of the blood-spattered torturer were gone. In his place stood a young lord of impeccable breeding and taste, the kind of man who’d been raised from birth to rule. His chestnut hair, now drying from the water he’d splashed on his face, fell in artful disarray that suggested careful casualness. His features, sharp and aristocratic, were composed in an expression of calm, confident authority. The tunic’s deep blue brought out his eyes, and the golden embroidery caught the torchlight in a way that seemed to make him glow with an inner nobility.

He looked exactly like he intended to, presenting a polished, practiced image to the world around him, like a hero from a tale. The Demon Slayer. The young Marquis who would lead Lothian March into a new era of prosperity and strength. A man worthy of legends.

He didn’t look at all like someone who had just spent hours systematically torturing two helpless men until they hung at the door of death. Owain flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the swelling. The cold water in the basin had helped, and now that the blood had been scrubbed away, the marks on his knuckles that had been left by the beating he delivered were all but invisible. He could work with this. He’d just need to be mindful when he gripped his fork and knife at dinner.

Stepping outside of the cold, stone dungeon cell, Owain glanced briefly in the direction of the cell that held Percivus. He had to strain his ears to hear the faint scrape of iron against iron when the captive Inquisitor adjusted his position, no doubt straining against the shackles that had been fitted to an Iron bar to prevent him from clasping his hands in prayer. Otherwise, the gag seemed to be doing its work, keeping the man quiet and preventing any prayers from spilling from his lips.

For a moment, Owain considered paying the Inquisitor a brief visit, long enough to let him know how much he’d learned in the past few hours and how eager Percivus’s disciples had been to sell out their mentor’s secrets if the beating would only stop...

But Owain had more important things to tend to, and whatever threats or taunts he made would do little to terrify the Inquisitor more than hours of listening to his disciple’s screams already had. Instead, he stepped briefly into the cell that was still occupied by the pair of acolytes, ignoring the blinded men as he retrieved a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from the table.

He had just enough time to stop by the kitchens before Jocelynn joined him for an evening meal. Time enough to have the cooks prepare a special meal for the Inquisitor once Owain delivered the special ingredient.

”You don’t have many hours left, Percivus,” Owain said under his breath as he strode out of the dungeons. ”But before you die, I’ll make sure you learn the price of touching another man’s woman so that you remember it in your next life, and every life that comes after that...”