Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Six Years Ago

 

In a small town on the outskirts of the North York moors, stories had become almost a form of currency. Townsfolk shared tales over drinks after long, hard days of working their farmland—some of them were of legends well-known across the country, while others were local folktales.

Because the moorland was known to be crawling with Unseelie faeries, the nearby villages already shared a sense of kinship and solidarity; they had to be a tight-knit community—no one else in England wanted anything to do with their little cursed towns where people vanished and animals were mysteriously slaughtered. Iron Wardens dreaded being stationed there.

The bond between the villagers was strengthened still by stories of woe, stories of triumph, and stories of hilarious mishap.

There were some tales, however, that the more elderly folk dared not speak of, like of the beast that had roamed the moorland for centuries. They scoffed at the youths who dared to test the limits of the rules born of both superstition and experience.

There were some who, oftentimes on a dare or in a drunken stupor, shouted a name to the wily winds: the name of that beast that prowled the moors. Legend had it that even uttering the name or merely seeing it written on paper brought misfortune. When the wind would inevitably howl back the way it did on the moors, the legend gained traction.

Misfortune, the villagers believed, was also brought by outsiders. Outsiders were not to be trusted or welcomed—for they could be faery folk in disguise.

Despite this belief, somehow no one questioned Vera’s occasional presence in the town—the young traveling fiddler with the fair hair and no trace of English in her foreign, vaguely Slavic accent and the strange, melodic gibberish she sang. No one could quite remember when the young woman had first waltzed into their quiet town—even the elderly knew her to have always been around playing in the pub or on the street for coin. Most accepted with a dazed look in their eye that she had simply always been visiting, which was, of course, impossible.

But Vera was the exception to the town’s rule on strangers. Whenever any other outsider appeared, they were met with shifty eyes and silent, turned backs. It was safer that way.

So on one particular evening when an unfamiliar woman darted into the town’s only pub, which was abuzz with live music and boisterous chatter, the wind and lashing rain flinging open the door with a loud slam, everyone gawked and ceased their conversations.

Even Vera stopped plucking out a tune with pale, nimble fingers, ceased her rhythmic jiving, and trailed off in her singing. She stared, also, but not out of fear or suspicion. She stared like a doll—glassy eyes peering under lashes, a knowing, secretive smile painted on pink lips.

The outsider woman had an appearance that some in the village considered unusual—long, dark hair down to her waist, covered by a bright red head scarf, a modest sweater, twin braids plastered wetly to her face on either side, olive-brown skin, and most notably, long colorful skirts that fell just above her ankles.

Once the door was closed to the pelting rain and whistling wind, the air grew stagnant and still.

“She’s one of those Traveller types!” one of the servers had whispered to the barkeep.

“My goodness!” The woman grunted as she slammed the door closed by throwing her petite body against it. “That wind is strong!”

Oblivious to the stunned silence, the woman had continued loudly, “What kind of man forces a woman to get out of his truck and walk the rest of the way to town in the middle of a downpour? ‘But the moors are cursed!’ Pah! And I still paid him the full amount for the journey anyway. Foolish, foolish.”

She rested her hands on her hips, looking around the room, taking in all the gaping expressions. “Is there anyone that might tell me about the Moorland Beast? I was told this is the town to ask, yes?”

Someone coughed.

Another swore under his breath.

It was at that moment when she received no spoken response that she must have realized what kind of town she had stumbled into and how odd she must have appeared. The woman had sighed wearily and retreated to a corner table by the blazing hearth.

“What’d you think her story is?” one of the older patrons asked the barmaid, dabbing at his sweating glass of ale with a napkin first and his face second. “D’you think she’s one of his?”

The barmaid had frowned, chewing on one of her chipped black painted nails. She’d heard the rumors that the beast of the moorlands sucked out and devoured the souls of the lost that wandered the moors at night and used them as servants to spread his terror, but she figured, like most young people her age, that was just talk to keep teenagers inside and sober at a decent hour.

“I s’pose she wouldn’t be askin’ around for him if she were one of his messengers,” the man answered his own question, his tense posture relaxing somewhat as he assured himself. “She’s still got to be bad luck though, I reckon.”

“Never seen her around before, that’s for sure.” The barmaid then nodded in the direction of the musician, who was smiling fondly at the woman like one would an old friend, and said, “But Vera seems to know her, so she must be all right. Maybe she’s a traveling performer too.”

The atmosphere did not shift back to full spirits until Vera began to play once more. Putting her bow to the strings, she struck up a jaunty tune that soon, as if by some spell, drew everyone’s attention away from the mysterious woman in the corner and back to out-clapping, out-stamping, and out-shouting the roaring storm outside.

 

Kallista held her trembling hands together on the wooden table in front of her. She trembled mostly from the chilly walk and the day’s tiring journey—she was not yet nervous, only determined. Clasped tightly in her hands was a scrap of damp paper she’d produced from her purse moments before. Scrawled on the paper was her only bargaining chip and the only weapon she had: a story to tell and a name to speak.

Glancing around the tiny, crowded room, she scanned for someone who might tell her what she needed to know. The pub was warm from the fire and cozy, smelling of ale and frying oil, and alive with music. Everyone showed their backs to her, focused on the fiddler and their drinks and meals. Kallista had heard the villagers were unwelcoming to outsiders, but she had not expected them to pretend she was not sitting among them.

Despite herself, she found her foot tapping lightly to the music. She glared at it under the table. This was not the time, place, or proper situation to enjoy herself.

“Wonderful set as always, Vera!” A man’s voice, slightly slurred, rose up from her left.

Kallista jolted, looked up. The pub was almost empty at this point, people trickling out. The barkeep was wiping down tables with a dirty rag. The fiddler had stopped playing and was gathering the coins from her instrument case on the floor across from her.

How long had she been sitting there?

She shivered, cupping her hands around her mug of tea. It was cold now and provided no warmth.

“Have a good night, gents.” The same man tipped the brim of his cap to the rest of the patrons before stumbling to the door and out into the cold night.

“So they can speak after all…,” Kallista mused sourly, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her folded hands.

There was a musical giggle beside her. The fiddler, Vera, waltzed up to her table, her long dress swishing as she moved with the grace of a dancer. She wore an old-fashioned navy dress that buttoned with lace just under her chin and tapered at her waist. Her hair, a light golden brown, was pinned up in a neat braid around her head, with small wisps hanging down by her high, pale cheeks. There was a wild flower tucked behind her ear.

“They speak only when they want to,” Vera said, leaning toward her and grinning slyly. “Like teeny children.”

Kallista flushed. She hadn’t known she’d been overheard. Recovering quickly, she said, “Yes, well, it’s likely they are not used to visitors here.” She sighed, waving to dismiss the topic, and said, “You are very gifted with that fiddle of yours.”

Vera was silent for a moment. Kallista wondered if she’d heard—perhaps all the fiddling in loud pubs had lessened her hearing.

“Why are you here?” Vera asked suddenly. She did not seem hostile or overly interested, merely curious. “You must have a good reason to come to a town like this.”

The question was a simple one, but the answers were many and complicated and tinged with pain.

What am I doing here? I should be at home… I should be with my boys, with my husband…

She was supposed to have been back by now. They would start to worry, start to wonder. Would her boys think she’d abandoned them? Would Alan send his troops after her to bring her home? He had not taken her seriously when she had confessed to him what the goblin woman had told him about James being marked by dark magic. He had warned her not to do anything rash.

When she’d left, he had barely said goodbye, not knowing it might be the last time they would meet, and she had wanted to scream at him, maybe to even slap him—anything to get some kind of reaction from him, some sign that he still cared for her. Whether or not he would even miss her, she did not know anymore. She knew nothing and was certain of nothing.

She twisted her wedding band around her finger before clenching her hand into a fist.

No. I have to be here. I have to know why this creature wants my son, what hold it has on him. I have to do this.

Kallista took a steadying breath. “I am here to—”

“Children don’t talk to strangers either,” Vera went on as if she had not asked a question, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Nor do they fancy scary tales of the Moorland Beast. So I suppose these villagers really are like children in many ways. Only, most children don’t drink in pubs—at least not good children.”

Kallista was no longer chilled. The fire was back in her veins now, her determination bolstered. “Do you know much about the Moorland Beast?” she asked, breathless.

Vera nodded enthusiastically. “I know all the local tales and legends! I don’t live here, but I have heard a bit of that particular tale.” She pulled out a chair and sat down across from her eagerly. “That’s why I come here—to hear stories!”

Kallista’s heart began to race. Maybe her journey away from home over the past week would be worth the trouble after all. “I need to hear everything you know about the Moorland Beast. Please. I can buy you a drink, if you’d like, for your trouble—”

That musical laugh bubbled up again. “No, I do not accept drinks. Only stories.” Her blue eyes glinted with excitement in the firelight. “If I am to tell you a tale, you must tell me one in return. It is only fair!”

Kallista let out a nervous chuckle, taken aback. “I-I am not very good at stories.”

“Oh, I am certain that you are. All mothers are.”

Kallista’s eyes stung at the mention of her children as a sudden torrent of yearning shot through her. Her homesickness overpowered her suspicion for a moment. “How do you know that I am a mother?”

Vera was smiling. Her smile no longer seemed friendly and coy. Shadows danced across her knowing face.

“You have that look about you. I was watching you while I performed. Your eyes kept darting around like you were watching for your children, as if they were bound to get into mischief, to see if they were all right.”

Kallista once more felt the scrap of paper in her hands, felt the wedding band on her finger, and clenched her fist around them both.

It occurred to her that this girl knew too much about her. “What… what kind of story would you like to hear?”

Her boys loved stories. Needed them. Sometimes when she was afraid she had run out of stories to tell, she would spend her lunch break at work jotting down ideas or remembering long-forgotten tales from her youth—just to see their eyes light up, to hear their laughter, to watch as they grew into themselves and their personalities and favored certain stories above others.

“Tell me about your boys. You have two of them.”

“My—” Kallista glanced around almost frantically. The barkeep was oblivious to them and their conversation. They were the last people in the pub.

Suddenly she was colder than she’d been before.

“Oh, do not worry about eavesdroppers,” Vera assured her. “She will not even notice us sitting here. I have made certain of that.”

Kallista felt fear wrap around her like a cruel hand.

Magic. She’s using magic.

Vera tilted her head again, strands of hair falling into her face. She stretched across the table, clasped Kallista’s clenched fist, and whispered, “Tell me about the Master’s boy. The little one. Your second born, James.”

Kallista’s chest tightened around a breath, refusing to release it.

Not the Master’s boy…

My son.

The tears that had threatened to brim over in Kallista’s eyes ceased as she blinked them away. Her sorrow hardened to resolve. “You work for him. You’re one of his thralls,” she growled. “You will let my son go—”

“No, no.” Vera tutted. “Story first.”

The young woman lounged back in her seat, pulling her hands away like a receding tide. She waited there with all the patience of a statue, of something that had more time than most to exist.

Kallista dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand, steeling herself. “Fine then,” she said. “I will tell you a story. James’s favorite, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves…”

So she told the tale as she always did when she read from One Thousand and One Nights. Most of the tales were not for little ears, and so she often edited, skipped, or embellished most of the stories, but James had always liked tales of tricksters and treasures, and so she told the same story again and again.

Vera seemed just as interested in the tale as her boys were, having never heard it before. Once she was finished, the young woman clapped her hands together and sighed as if having just consumed a satisfying meal or quenched some great thirst.

“That woman in that tale was very clever,” Vera commented, smiling. “I would like to hear more stories like that one.”

“I’ve done what you asked.” Kallista scooted back her chair, stood, and slammed her hands on the table in front of her. “Now you will keep your promise.”

Vera’s smile remained locked in place on her lips, though it had left her eyes. She stood also and then extended one petite, callused hand toward her. “It is not a story to tell, but one to witness,” Vera said. “It is an ongoing tale, one still being written. One that will never end.”

Staring at the girl’s hand, Kallista realized her own fingers were trembling.

They locked eyes across the table. “I can take you to him, the Moorland Beast,” Vera admitted. “But only”—she held up the index finger of her other hand, a kind of warning—“if you have something with which to bargain.”

Kallista reached out and took Vera’s hand in her own. The girl’s skin was surprisingly warm, not at all as cold or inhuman as she had expected. “Take me to him,” she demanded.

Then Vera, gliding through the room like a specter, led Kallista out of the pub and into the lashing rain, down the old gravel road in the town and out onto the moors beyond.

 

As she followed Vera across the hilly, heather-covered ground, over rocks and through snares of thistles and slick moss, her mind conjured all manner of terrifying shapes in the darkness around her. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight of some of the boulders in the distance, thinking them to be monstrous creatures or the waiting beast. Every lash of rain felt like a creature’s cold hand, while every howl of wind sounded like a creature’s snarl.

What kind of place could house such a fearsome beast that villagers were too afraid to even mention? A cave? A hollow sinkhole in the earth? A crude lean-to made of ancient stone?

What would such a creature want of a child but to devour it?

What would such a creature want of her, ask of her?

“We’re here!” Vera’s shout over the wind startled Kallista from her thoughts.

She squinted in the low light, shielding her eyes from the whipping rain with her hand, and scoured the landscape. Appearing seemingly out of the darkness, silhouetted against black, rocky hills was an enormous stone building—an old but standing 1600s manor house, the many windows of the three stories lit with flickering candles. It was grand with tall spires and ornate windows, the kind of home that would only be available to someone of great wealth in the past.

That was not there a moment ago!

Kallista gaped. “The beast lives here? In this house?”

“Estate,” Vera corrected her rather tersely. “It is called an estate. And where would you expect him to live, on the dirty ground like some animal?”

“But—isn’t he an animal?”

“The Master takes many forms. The Moorland Beast is one of those forms, but he is not bound to it. He is bound to nothing.”

Kallista could make out the outline of an ornate gate in the distance. The manor was surrounded by a low stone wall that was eroded in some places. There were hedges and trees that circled around the property, which seemed to go on for a mile or two.

The rain had started to ease.

Vera stopped in front of the gate and then went to work unlocking it with an old-fashioned key. Tall spires towered above them, reminding Kallista of some of the iron fences in Neo-London.

She reached out and touched the bars with the tips of her fingers. The metal was cold. She knew what to check for, what iron felt like, as she had learned from her husband to be observant of those types of things; it wasn’t iron.

The gate opened soundlessly, and Vera swept inside, leaving it wide for Kallista to follow her through. She did so, her shoes sinking into the mud with each step.

A wide, wet gravel path lay before her, and she noticed for the first time just how unkempt the yard was and how far away and tall the manor seemed now that it was ahead of her.

There was overgrown vegetation on either side; some of the plants and briar patches and thorny bushes were so rampant and oversized they blocked parts of the path and even seemed to grow through some of the stone there. The trees she’d seen in the distance, she noticed, were all dead or rotting.

Stone statues, crumbling and weathered, stood like sentinels in the yard. And some of them—

They’re moving!

But they weren’t statues, Kallista realized with a jolt, feeling foolish. They were people. Soaked, pale, and emaciated, the people toiled in the rain, some hacking away at the thorny plants with dull trowels or pulling with bare, bloodied hands. Some lifted fallen stone and eroding walls on their backs or dragged it with rope.

Some of them were young. Some were elderly. Some were women. They were of all shapes and colors. There was nothing that seemed to set them apart from other humans, save for their poor condition.

One man lay still on the ground in the distance, only his arm visible under thick threads of vines that had seemed to grow around his forgotten body.

None of them looked up from their work as Kallista stumbled by.

It was a pitiful sight that stirred a struggle within her. Her first instinct was to go to them, but she stopped herself, remembering why she was there and the life she could not risk.

“Who… who are they?” Kallista asked, struggling to catch up with Vera, who seemed to navigate her way through the maze of a path with unnatural ease.

“Thralls. Some of them belong to the Master while others are here awaiting a purpose.”

“Purpose?”

Vera turned her face slightly to Kallista, and she could see the corner of the girl’s mouth twitch at a small smile. “Some will serve other humans while others serve random Fae. And the unlucky ones… they will be sent to the Winter Court.”

The path finally ended at the front of a great wood door. Light seeped out from underneath it, and music, faint and scant, could be heard inside. Vera took the same key from her pocket—only it was different now, with ornate spirals of curling metal. The key fit into the lock on the door, and she opened it.

Before Vera stepped inside, she turned to Kallista and ordered, “Follow me closely. You’re bound to get lost otherwise.”

Beyond the narrow entryway, Kallista saw a hallway that led to rooms beyond and could just make out the wooden stairs that led up to a second floor in the candlelight. The house did not seem large enough for anyone to get lost inside; Kallista wanted to point that out but bit her tongue.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, Kallista said, “All right. Take me to him.”

Her footfalls were determined even if her shoes were a bit squeaky from the rain against the creaking wood floors.

As Kallista followed Vera inside and down the hallway, she noticed even in the dim light that the décor was as old-fashioned as the structure outside, although Kallista could not place a single distinct era or culture. Unlike the outside of the house, the inside seemed to be in perfect condition, save for the occasional layer of dust.

Vera halted once they reached a parlor room.

When Kallista looked back to see where she’d come from, silently mapping out the path to the exit, she noticed with a jolt that the hallway was no longer there. It had moved.

There was a wide stone fireplace burning brightly, illuminating a figure crouched by the arm of a great chair in the center of the room. Kallista sucked in a breath, her eyes fixed on the shape.

“Brother?” Vera called, startling Kallista and the figure both.

Brother? She can’t mean—

Her brother must be a thrall as well. That must be it…

The figure leaped up with a gasp, immediately shrinking back as it laid eyes on them. Kallista could see then that the figure was a woman, probably middle-aged, though she shook like a frightened child.

Vera stepped forward. “Where is your Master?” she asked.

The figure did not speak but looked past her to Kallista.

“Answer me.”

The woman just shook her head at first, still staring at her. Then she spoke, finding her words at last, and asked hesitantly: “Have you come to take me home? Have I been good?”

Kallista’s throat tightened. Before she could reply, Vera sighed loudly.

“Oh dear.” Vera glanced back at Kallista, laughing like the haunting sight was a funny one. “This one’s gone loopy again. The daft woman doesn’t remember that her parents left her here nearly thirty years ago.”

“Her parents?” Disgust filled her gut like acid. “How could a parent do such a thing—?”

Vera did not laugh again, but she looked as if she was holding one back as if in on some secret joke. “Don’t you know how thralls work? Not just anyone can make a person a thrall.”

Before Kallista could press further, a loud, piercing cry stopped her. The woman had begun to scream like a child would, sharply and without regard to appearance. She screamed to leave, to go back home.

“Dear gods, what in the hell is that obnoxious noise, and why hasn’t anyone silenced it yet?” a silvery male voice asked. The voice floated through the room inexplicably. Something about the tone, both oddly soothing and commanding, was unsettling.

A man tromped lazily into the room, slightly imbalanced, his long brown hair partially covering his face. He wore old-fashioned breeches and only one stocking, no shoes, and his poet shirt was undone and hanging off one pale, slender shoulder.

He was young—much younger than Kallista had imagined the voice’s owner to look. He looked no older than twenty, yet his voice carried the confidence of an older man.

“Honestly,” he drawled, shaking his head at the woman, “you embarrass yourself. I’ve told you before, darling, if you cannot behave in front of my guests, then you’ll have to go outside! She isn’t here for you. If anything, she’s probably here for wine and the pleasure of my company.”

The woman continued on like she had not heard a word.

The man strode over to the wailing woman, cupped her face, and said softly and with assurance, “Thrall, you have no desire to go home. Your family left you here, and you’re glad of it. You’re much better off here.”

The woman no longer shouted, but her tears had not stopped silently rolling down her chin. “I-I’m better off here.”

“That’s correct.” He smiled, revealing an unpleasantly wide mouth. “You’re so brilliant, aren’t you? You can’t imagine why you would ever want to leave this place.”

Her stomach in knots, Kallista watched as the woman eased into a docile state and went back to the broom she’d abandoned on the floor and began to sweep.

“Brother, dear, have you been napping again?” Vera asked. “I told you we would have an important guest. She wants to bargain with you.”

“Well, you know how wild my romping on the moors can get. What is the time anyway?”

“It is now the next evening, brother.”

“Is it, truly?”

This is the Moorland Beast?

This is the Master?

She had thought it would matter to her if the creature were more human or beastly. But it changed nothing. He still owned her son, and he was still a monster even if he didn’t look it.

The man looked at her for the first time, seemingly having forgotten she was there. When he pushed his hair back, his features were unremarkable, save for his unnaturally colored eyes that glinted like gold coins, which stared at her intently. “How terribly impolite of me—” He went to bow and perhaps introduce himself, but Kallista interrupted.

She closed some of the distance in a few quick strides. Then she held out her open palm, revealing a scrap of paper curled there. Her hand did not shake nor did her voice when she demanded, “You will release whatever hold you have on my son and take me instead.”

The Master raised his eyebrows and turned to Vera. “Sister, is this woman who I think she is?”

“She is, indeed, James’s mother.”

His smile faded, replaced with an ugly frown as he looked her over. He turned to Vera. “Did you hear that, Sister? She wants to take our little brother away from us before he’s even ours.”

“He is not yours.” Kallista empathized each word as if she were talking to a child. “He does not belong to you. He cannot belong to you. That is what I am saying!”

Vera went over and plopped down in the chair, crossing her arms. “What are you going on about?” she asked. “Of course he belongs to the Master. We’ve been waiting such a long time for him!”

“No, I would like to hear what she has to say, sister.” The Master waved his hand dismissively.

“But, Brother—”

The Master turned to look at Vera fully, wagging his finger at her. She shushed instantly. Then he said with a sickly sweetness, “Why don’t you go and feed our pet? He must be simply starved.”

Vera’s eyes lit up. “I’d almost forgotten in all this excitement! Oh, I hope he isn’t cross!”

The girl quickly scurried off out of the room. She came back a few moments later with a silver tray burdened with a strange-looking fruit that seemed almost like a pomegranate. It did not occur to her what the fruit could be until she smelled it, and the scent of it almost gagged her.

She hated that pervasive, honeyed rot smell; it reminded her of the poor patients she’d treated at the hospital sometimes that, when under the influence of the fruit, would either just lie there like broken dolls, dead to the world and passive, or fight her madly and refuse help.

It was an evil thing, the fruit. Kallista wondered what kind of creature consumed it. She fought back a shudder as the thought chilled her.

Then, as Vera climbed up the staircase at the other side of the room, the Master’s eyes glittered darkly as they found Kallista’s again.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you have come to some kind of arrangement with your husband regarding the contract he made with me for your boy?”

Kallista had doubled over without realizing it. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle like she was suturing a wound. Every part of her ached with the effort of holding herself together.

When she let out a labored breath, she heard the Master snicker.

She searched for disbelief inside her—when she found it, she held on to it tightly. There was still doubt there. She could not bring herself to believe that Alan would do such a thing, even considering how cold and detached he had been recently.

“Oh, it appears she was not aware. I do love it when they know nothing!”

She slowly straightened up again, rigid as a knife. “What did you do to him?” she snapped. “Did you trick him? Did you use your magic?”

“Such loyalty. That’s truly all one can hope for in life, is it not? Someone who looks for the best in them? I suppose even that wasn’t enough for him.” The Master walked over to the hearth and stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. “Honestly, he came willingly to me, seeking to make a fair trade.”

“A trade for what?”

“It is not obvious, darling?” He twisted around, his gaze a mockery of pity. “To destroy the Summer Court, of course. In return for your second-born child, I would give him what he needed to wage his war. It’s thrilling stuff, honestly! Sacrifice, betrayal, deception!”

That, she could believe. Her doubt was slipping, but she held fast.

The paper crinkled in her clenched fist, reminding her of her mission. She held out her hand once more to the Master. “As I have said, you do not own him. I was told that you needed a full name to possess him fully, and not even my husband knows James’s full name.”

The Master squinted at her hand. “I know Jal just as well as I know James, darling,” he said smugly.

Kallista did not falter as she said, “I learned as a child from stories my mother told me about the Fates that plot the destiny of a woman’s child. In those tales, a mother can prevent a cruel fate by confusing the creatures. Traditionally, a child has many names. One is his Christian name, given to him at baptism. Another is his Romani name, given to him by his mother when his personality begins to show. And the last name is only known by her to protect him from monsters like you.”

Anger breathed behind the Master’s gold eyes. “You tricked me?”

“It isn’t a trick,” Kallista corrected. “It’s tradition.”

She wondered if this was the first time he’d been outsmarted. He had the look of a man who was not used to being told he couldn’t do something or told he had failed. That kind of man could be dangerous.

“Perhaps my husband knew this. Perhaps he did not.” Kallista squared her shoulders. “Either way, you do not own my son.”

The Master’s lazy smile was back in place. He took a step toward her, saying breathily, “I could take him anyway. Easily.”

“But you won’t.”

The Master evaded the issue. “It is not as if I would send our little boy off to the Winter Court to suffer and die horribly—at least not as long as he behaves himself. I have plans for our boy, you see. I would make certain he was content here.”

“Content, you say?” Kallista asked flatly, pointing sharply to the thrall woman sweeping in the corner of the room. “A mind enthralled to be content, you mean. That is not contentment. That is slavery.”

“That is perhaps a touch harsh.” The Master tut-tutted at her. “A great many foolish and simple people live their lives in blissful, content prisons without even realizing it. Honestly, this life would at least be a little exciting.”

Kallista fought the urge to slap him across the face.

“I offer myself to you in his place with this.” She took the paper in her hand unfolded it slowly and then showed it to the Master. Her full name, all her names, were scrawled on the parchment for him to read.

“Do we have a deal?” Kallista asked firmly.

“The terms are as follows: you will be my thrall in your son’s place according to the agreement I struck with Alan Callaghan.”

Kallista rolled the phrase around. If there was anything in the terms meant to fool her, she could not see it. “Agreed.”

The Master chuckled, then reached for her hand, grabbing the paper and squeezing her hand in a shake at once. “Then we have an accord.”