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BARTOS LAY FLAT ON the wet pavement outside the Adairs’ Mayfair townhouse trying to ignore the pattering rain. It had been drizzling all day. After travelling for miles, he was soaked and famished.
Since their master left them to guard the two witches, Dewer’s mother, the dark fae queen, had been giving the two hellhounds nasty looks, as if she sensed they preferred her son’s rule to hers. Every time the elder Witch-Who-Teases fed them, as soon as she looked away, the queen would vindictively whisk away their food. Bartos suspected that she was trying to break their loyalty to Dewer.
Returning to her service was the last thing Bartos wanted. He was actually at a loose end. He no longer felt a compulsion to serve Dewer or the queen. He only obeyed his old master because the Witch-Who-Heals seemed to want him to do so. Bartos had been pondering for days what he had done to displease her enough to make her give him away.
Farfur, on the other hand, was firmly bonded to Dewer. He now sat as still as a statue beside Bartos as he once again tried to contact their master. Then his friend’s eyes snapped open, red pupils glowing with grave concern. “He is not there!”
Tethered to a railing nearby, Ifan, who used to be a hare before Dewer needed a horse, stomped a front hoof. “Are you sure?” he asked, proving he was still, indeed, hare-brained.
This scene was like a reoccurring nightmare. Farfur always came awake with the same bad news, and idiot Ifan would respond with a variation of the same inane question.
Bartos sat up and waited for the inevitable argument to surge between these two combatants.
“Of course, I am sure,” Farfur said. “I would know my master anywhere!”
“Apparently not,” Ifan said. “Else you would not have lost track of him.”
“Let the lad be, Ifan.” Bartos gave Farfur a sympathetic glance. His young friend had not slept in days. “He is unhappy enough as it is.”
“We all want to find our master,” Ifan said, in a conciliatory tone and then ruined it with, “only Farfur kept saying he was especially close to Dewer.” Ifan gave a snort and flicked his tail, showing his lingering jealousy at Farfur’s special bond with their master.
“I am close to him,” Farfur said. “Dewer talks to me all the time.”
Ifan opened his mouth and Bartos growled.
The horse sidled sideways as far as his reins would allow and shut his mouth, for all of one minute. “Where could he be? I thought he wanted to come to London.”
“Probably distracted by the mistress,” Bartos said. He missed her, too. She always fed him on schedule and petted him as she fell asleep each night. He might get laughed at in the underworld – that a hellhound could crave such pampering – but Bartos didn’t care. He was older than any other of his kind and he was ready to retire from life’s trials.
“Something must be wrong,” Farfur said, just as a hackney rolled up in front of the townhouse. The carriage door opened and a wizened old man jumped down from the top and then pulled out the steps.
Bartos’s nose signaled the identity of the passenger before the human’s polished hessians ever touched the first step. Bartos was instantly down the street and around the corner, with Farfur hot on his heels. Hidden behind the wall of a building, they silently peered around the corner toward the Adair townhouse.
“What is he doing here?” Farfur whispered, as the church guard who had once almost killed Bartos descended to the pavement. His holy broadsword was strapped to his back and his green cloak of office fluttered in the breeze as he walked over to pet the tethered horse.
Ifan gave a neigh of pleasure and then turned to shout toward the two hellhounds, “Oy! Why are you two hiding?”
“Shut up!” Bartos growled low in his throat.
“You should have let me eat that foolish hare for breakfast,” Farfur said.
“I wish I had.” At this moment, incurring his master’s displeasure for attacking his horse was preferable to that guard finishing what he began at Dewer’s black tower. Even if he only wounded Bartos again instead of killing him, the Witch-Who-Heals was unlikely to waste any more of her life tending Bartos. He knew from experience that the torture of a holy wound was worse than death.
The guard’s wizardly manservant ran up the steps and knocked on the Adairs’ front door.
Once the two humans were admitted inside the townhouse, Bartos and Farfur slunk back to Ifan’s side. While Farfur stood watch for the return of the church guard, Bartos quickly tugged at the horse’s reins until it came loose and then he led Ifan away.
“Where are we going?” Ifan asked in an excited tone, his hooves striking the pavement in a musical trot.
“As far from that church guard as we can get,” Bartos mumbled past the reins. His back trembled as if that sword had just sliced into him. He wasn’t sure why he was saving the horse, too, but ever since they arrived in London, he’d begun to care about the welfare of the stupid hare-turned-horse.
“We are going to find Dewer,” Farfur said, suddenly looking as chipper as Ifan. “The master just spoke to me. He wants all three of us to come to him. We must hurry, and Ifan, you will stop talking!”
* * *
DEWER’S MOVEMENTS BECAME lethargic as if he were traversing through deep water. As he maneuvered forward, memories assaulted him, from his imprisonment at Adramelech’s hands and then farther back to his childhood in his mother’s underworld kingdom. The water god seemed to be rifling through Dewer’s past in search of something. His pulse shot up, fear crowding close that the water god might stumble across Dewer’s secret longing.
He arrived at his memories of his home in Black Mountain, but this dark tower was from the past, when his father lived there. He fumed at his laborious pace in entering the library. Inside, the water god lounged on Dewer’s father’s chair, a goblet of wine held in one tentacle while several other limbs were flung carelessly over the chair arms.
“Get out!” Dewer said.
“This is what you are after,” the water god mused. “You intend to find your father’s killer and make him pay. A noble, if foolish, goal.”
Dewer shot a bolt of energy straight at the intruder. The chair erupted in flames. When the inferno died down, the chair was charred and a hole in its center showed straight through to the wall of books behind it.
“Temper, temper,” the water god said from high up behind him.
He swung around in frustratingly slow motion, fuming at having missed his target.
The water god was sitting on a high bookshelf, blue tentacles spread out.
Dewer itched to send a second bolt upward. He clenched his fist instead, conserving his strength. “What do you want?”
“Every boy needs a father figure in his life,” the water god said, one of his tentacles thoughtfully tapping the top of the shelf.
“If you are applying for the role, it is already taken.”
The water god chuckled. “By your mother? Or Adramelech? He craves that role, if only to impress the queen.”
“My father may not be here in person, but I remember him quite clearly. I need no substitute.”
“Your father died when you were five, Dewer. No matter how much you cling to his fading memory, he cannot advise you on how to dress to impress the ladies, when to open your heart to a lover or why sometimes it is important to accept defeat.”
Dewer flicked his hand in dismissal, thinking about his recent pain. “I have learned all of those lessons by myself. You are one to talk. Rumor has it that you indentured your son to a druid for centuries. You were not exactly present for him, were you?”
“His punishment taught him how to become self-sufficient,” the water god snapped, showing the first sign of a flare up. “If I die soon, that lesson will prove to be vital for the lad. That brings me to why I am here. You will soon be called upon to face your greatest challenge and I have been requested to offer my services. If not as a father substitute, then perhaps you will accept me as a mentor? Warlocks value that sort of relationship, do they not?”
“I am no ordinary warlock,” Dewer said, though the suggestion of a mentor brought bittersweet pain. The Warlock Council had refused to farm Dewer out to an experienced warlock who could have taught him the intricacies of Wyhcan magic. Once Dewer was old enough to mentor a warlock boy, they refused even that tiny concession. As a result, he sometimes felt as if he were crippled as far as his magical studies were concerned.
“What do you propose?” he asked with caution.
“Allow me to stay within you and I shall teach you everything I know about Earth magic. I shall show you how it works. Where it flows strongest. How to draw on it so it does not balk at your alien Wyhcan touch.”
Dewer’s excitement surged with each successive offer, until his ears buzzed so loud, he could barely think straight. Be calm. No one gave away such power. “What do you want in return? It must be more than to simply use me as a vessel.”
“Clever lad,” the water god said. “The Callington witches have obviously underestimated you.”
Dewer held his silence, his thoughts now churning in a logical fashion instead of in an excited frenzy. “You believe I will not survive whatever journey Miss Adair wishes us to take. As such, you will not need to keep your part of this bargain.” His eyes narrowed, noting the water god’s tentacles were not so much blue, like his daughter’s, as blue-gray and lackluster. He might have recovered from his recent illness, thanks to Miss Adair, but not fully. He was growing weaker, not stronger. “You believe neither of us will survive! What could she possibly be planning that would take both of us out?”
The water god gave a profound sigh. “She plans to travel to the underworld to rescue a warlock boy.”
“Who?” Dewer asked, stunned. Witches were not known to show warlocks kindness. Then again, Miss Adair was no ordinary witch. Perhaps this boy was ill. Unlike others of her coven, if the boy needed her assistance, she would blindly jump at the chance to help him, even he was a warlock.
“Who do you think would warrant such a drastic journey into the underworld?” the water god asked.
Dewer considered the question, rifling through all he had heard lately about warlocks. Sadly, his knowledge was limited. Then a sickly feeling invaded, making him feel as blue-deviled as the water god appeared.
“Jonas is dead.” Even as Dewer said the words, he realized they were a lie. Another of his mother’s lies.
Jonas Pendraven was alive!
“You must leave now,” Dewer said to the water god. His quiet tone belied his rising excitement and too-long fettered joy.
“You are not going after the warlock boy on your own,” the water god said, guessing Dewer’s intention.
That was the trouble with having someone squat in one’s head. No privacy.
“I have been informed that it is fated for you and Miss Adair to journey together,” the water god said.
He had said something similar earlier. Who gave orders to a deity? “Informed by whom?”
The water god hesitated a moment and then tentatively pointed a tentacle up.
That was a shock, but Dewer quickly shrugged off the unsettling distraction. Every second he stayed here and argued was a moment wasted. “This is no longer your concern. Or the Creator’s. It is Wyhcan business.”
If his mother were here, Dewer would have hugged her, and no doubt earned a sharp reprimand. She did not tolerate physical shows of affection. Yet, if Jonas was alive, that meant she had not killed his best friend. Merryn’s parents had died, yes, but that was in a fair battle. Killing the boy would have been killing an innocent. She had likely tortured Jonas; certainly, she had made Dewer go through the agony of loss and guilt for years, and ruined any chance of he and Merryn ever having a relationship. Still, she had not killed Jonas. Everything else was a forgivable offense.
“Miss Adair must accompany you,” the water god insisted. “As must I, to watch over her until she discovers why your world is polluting mine.”
“She would never survive in the underworld,” he replied in a flat implacable tone. “Any more than you would.”
“Which is why both of us need your support.” The water god sailed down to hover before Dewer, tentacles undulating as if he were swimming in a deep lake.
“That is why neither of you is coming with me.” Dewer crossed his arms. He could not afford to waste his energy guarding anyone else while fighting through his mother’s forces to reach Jonas, not even a powerful witch with a too-tender heart, or a water god out of his element.
“Only Miss Adair can identify the source of the poison flowing into my waters from the underworld and stop it. We are coming with you. Be assured of that.”
“Even if it means both of your deaths?” The fools. Dewer barely managed to survive in the underworld while growing up. His shoulders twitched as if recalling those hornet stings.
The water god crossed his tentacles. Limbs crisscrossed as if they were in a weaving contest. Show off. Running out of patience, and time, Dewer nodded. “Very well. Miss Adair may approach the boundary, do what she needs to expunge the poison from your waters back into the underworld, and then seal the gate behind me. You will not travel inside me any longer. If you need a transport vessel to the gate, since you have already altered my staff, you may stay there. While within Kemp, you will be safe from the scorch of the underworld.”
“Travel inside that tiny twig?” the water god asked in an affronted tone and expanded to twice his size.
“Or do not come at all.” Dewer’s mind already swirled toward his next steps. His mother would have hidden Jonas deep in the underworld. Who had she set to watch over him? Could Dewer take down her guard? Or guards? There was a chance he and Jonas might not make it out of the underworld alive, so before he left, Dewer intended to ensure Miss Adair was crystal clear about how he felt about her. There would be kissing involved, and not just on the back of her delicate hand.
“You will regret this decision,” the water god said, but he faded from view. His parting words echoed inside the library. “It does not bode well to obstruct the Creator’s plans.”
Feeling the familiar emptiness inside him, Dewer nodded with satisfaction, and opening his gaze, found himself back on the dorey. Before him, his staff floated horizontally. While he felt liberated and no longer waterlogged, Kemp was vibrating like a fish caught on a hook. Dewer’s sympathy grew for his power staff. He sent a silent apology for inflicting the water god on it.
Kemp’s shivers finally died, and it settled down at the bottom of the dorey, resigned.
“What happened?” the water goddess asked from his right.
“Your father happened. He is in there now,” Dewer said, pointing to his staff. Then he turned the other way to skewer Miss Adair with a stern uncompromising glance. “I will rescue Jonas.”
She returned his pointed look with a frown. “No, Mr. Dewer. We will rescue him.”
“You will not survive in the underworld for ...”
“Only I know where he is being held,” she countered.
He gritted his teeth as all thoughts of kissing her were replaced by a frustrating urge to shake the stubborn witch. “You could share that information.”
“Or I could seek him out on my own.”
“You are being deliberately reckless.”
“And you do not trust me to fend for myself,” she countered, throwing his earlier accusation back at him.
“Name one creature you have killed since we met.”
“Destruction is not the only method of defense.”
“It is in the underworld!”
They both paused to take a breath and the water goddess chuckled, earning a glare from both her companions.
“I see nothing amusing about this situation,” he said, thinking the daughter was much like her father.
“You two sound like a couple of grumpy old married humans,” the water goddess said, her smile as bright as the day.
That blistering insult sank into Dewer like lead. He prided himself on being as far from human as anyone could possibly get.
Just then Kemp rose into the air and floated to hover over Miss Adair, and then sank to rest on her lap.
Dewer gritted his teeth at that lecherous gesture depicting where the water god’s support resided.
“Then we are agreed.” Miss Adair lifted Kemp and leaned forward to offer the staff back to Dewer. “The three of us are going to rescue Jonas.”
Before long, Llyn dropped Grace and Dewer off as close to the Tower of London as she could bring them without drawing notice. She then bid them and her father, now ensconced inside Dewer’s staff, a fond farewell.
The plan was for Dewer to enter the Tower first and secure the location where the gate resided before Grace’s arrival. Meanwhile, she would check on Hollis, and his sick friend, Hudson.
Dewer pointed to the tree line. Grace at first saw nothing out of the ordinary there. Then she noticed a furtive movement in the shadows. “What is it?” she asked. “Farfur?”
“He’s not here yet. This looks to be a wolf,” Dewer said. “The Warlock Council chief’s familiar, Cedric.”
“Wolf? I thought those beasts had been hunted out of existence in Britain?” Grace said, surprised.
“Privilege of rank,” Dewer said. “He saved a pack. They live exclusively on his grounds in Wales. I will see what the Council wants and return.”
* * *
IN HIS ABSENCE, GRACE retrieved her message stone and sat cross-legged by the shore. Then she channeled a summons to her mother.
Baroness Mandell appeared before her, partially blocking Grace’s view of the Thames. After they completed the ritual greetings, Grace informed her of her current location and that she was here to assist the water god with an urgent matter. Then she glanced behind her mother.
“Is Burns still with you?” Grace whispered.
“She’s in the other room with your father. She seems fascinated by his worry about his sick fish.”
That sounded suspicious. She had expected Burns to leave London the moment her role as escort ended. Grace was quick with her report so her mother could check on her father. “Do not expect me home for a few days, Mama. Please tell Papa that if I succeed in resolving the water god’s problem, that might also alleviate the sickness affecting his trout. If not stopped, this infection may slowly spread across all the rivers and lakes in Britain.”
Her mother’s gaze flicked to either side of Grace. As if disappointed at not seeing anyone else, she said that she would inform her husband and Merryn about this development and ended the link.
Grace frowned. Merryn? Why inform her cousin? Dewer had finished his conversation with the wolf and was strolling back toward them. She was about to return the stone to her reticule, when it flared around her fingers and Merryn’s face appeared before her.
“Morning,” Grace said, noting Dewer’s casual stance straighten. Her pulse sped up, as did her tension, tightening her gut. Did he still carry a flame for the Coven Protectress?
“I am dealing with a situation within the White Tower,” her cousin said. “This is not a good time for a visit.”
Merryn was inside the tower? What rotten luck. This must be why her mother had contacted her powerful niece about Grace’s presence nearby. Now her unease doubled. How were they going to get past her clever cousin to reach the gate to the underworld?
“I’m here to help with the invasion,” Grace said. After a moment’s hesitation, she also added that Dewer would be accompanying her.
Merryn instantly unleashed an earful of recrimination and scolding. So much so, Grace cut off the communication while it was still in full progress and pocketed the stone.
“All is well with your family then?” Dewer asked with what could only be described as a smirk.
Grace stood to face him, unhappy with their planned next steps. Most especially about Dewer meeting Merryn. What if he succumbed to her cousin’s allure again? Or was he still under it? “Perhaps I should accompany you inside now.”
“Shortly after we enter the White Tower, we will leave for my world.” He stepped close enough to gently trace the line of her lower lip with his thumb. “Will the sick eel survive until our return?”
“You do not care about Hudson,” she said, her breath catching at his sensual touch.
“I care that you care.”
A screech drew their gazes upwards where a raven flew toward the surrounding tower walls and landed on a corner of the south tower just as guards with green cloaks marched by.
“Church guards,” Grace said, with concern. The Church of the Green Cross disliked Wyhcan kind. Their ancestors had hunted them centuries ago. Was this the “situation” Merryn mentioned? Or had she brought them? After all, she was married to one of the guards. “Will you be able to deal with the guards and Merryn?”
With a forefinger under her chin, he drew her attention back to him. “The Warlock Council is sending someone to act as my intermediary. I will be let in. They need me.”
On impulse she hugged him. “Be safe.”
He gently set her back and then ever so slowly, as if waiting for her to object to each inch he drew nearer, he bent until their lips touched. It was like coming home.
Every kiss she had shared before had merely been practice, to make this one perfect. His lips were warm and welcoming. She snuggled into Dewer’s hold, running her hands over his face, neck and shoulders, wanting to mold every bit of him into every crevice of her. Inhaling his essence as she imprinted him to her, at once claiming him, and offering herself up to his possession. Shock waves erupted and his kiss, which had begun in a teasing, flirty mood, now seared and ignited her senses, burning her from the inside out, as if he had already pulled her into his underworld, to be forever imprisoned.
Finally, he withdrew, leaving her breathless.
His eyes were molten black and a little glazed, as if he, too, could not believe the reaction they had on each other. He blinked, bringing himself back to the present. A tender smile spread across his lips as he traced her swollen lips. “If you want more of that, come find me when you have finished your healing.”
With that tempting promise, he stepped away, leaving her deprived and shivering alone on the shore. His staff, Kemp, swooped into his grip as he strode off back toward the tree line and the tower.
Grace was still catching her breath, her pulse hammering and her body frustrated as he left, not once looking backward.
A splash drew her reluctant steps toward the river. Hollis was impatient to lead her to his friend, Hudson. Still in a daze, hands cupping her flaming cheeks, Grace stepped into the Thames. Just before her head sank under the surface, she glanced over her shoulder one last time, but Dewer had vanished.
Her breathing bubble in place, Grace finally turned her attention fully to locating her next patient, but a smile played about her well-kissed lips. There was one thing she was absolutely certain about now. Dewer was no longer infatuated with Merryn.
Grace followed Hollis deeper into the river bottom, near the embankment on which the Tower of London rested. His friend lay curled around himself, looking pale. She was surprised he was still alive. A quick probe confirmed that he was swamped by the same black poison that had infected the water god. Hollis should have died long since. Something had kept him alive until she could arrive to tend to him.
The Creator must have a hand in this little miracle. Why? What was so important about this little eel? Creatures lived and died on a daily basis, from disease, predators, and sometimes just bad luck at being in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Relinquishing that impossible-to-discern train of thought, she delved deep inside the eel. As she had done with the water god, she pushed the dark matter out of the eel’s body; chasing it from every hiding place until the eel was completely free of the underworld infestation. As the last dot of darkness ran from her touch, Hollis wiggled awake and then slumped back down, exhausted.
“You need time to recover, my little friend,” she said, gently stroking his back.
Hudson wrapped himself around Grace’s arm, offering his profound thanks.
“You are very welcome,” Grace said before turning to address Hollis. “Stay with your friend. He should be well enough to travel in a few hours.”
Anxious to return to Dewer’s side, she kicked herself upward toward the surface when a chill drew her attention back down. Pausing, she glanced around, wondering about the change in temperature. There, a crack in the stone embankment was releasing an icy chill. From that slender, jagged hole, darkness seeped into the water, and as it exited, the deadly black thread split into millions of tiny pieces and dispersed into the water.
Grace called to Joy and her staff swooped into her grip. Her hat instantly dropped a shield around her. She pointed Joy at the hole, and commanded, “Seal!”
Her power flowed toward the crevice but the darkness struck back with a stabbing burn. Grace cringed from its terrible touch. More black glistening goo squeezed itself out of the crack, flowing faster now, pushing the crack open wider, as if in a frenzy to get out.
* * *
DEWER REACHED THE WESTERN edge of the Tower of London and Farfur raced up to greet him. Ifan trotted over in his wake, followed by the elderly Bartos at a more leisurely pace. Dewer hugged Farfur, shocked and pleased by the warm feeling of fellowship emanating from the hellhound. He had missed him.
“Well met, Farfur.” Ever since Dewer evicted the water god from his mind and encased him in his staff, the hound had been mentally chattering about every turn of the road Farfur and his friends had travelled, and each new scent that enchanted him. Dewer now mentally ordered the effusive hound to be silent.
Farfur’s running commentary quieted, but he was unable to stop his tail thumping the ground in a fervent, happy, drumbeat.
“Follow me, all of you,” Dewer said, and continued along the south side of the tower until he reached the shoreline. There, he fashioned a barge wide enough to carry the four of them past Traitor’s Gate to the meeting spot the wolf had given him. A fitting entrance. Legend had it that all who entered that way never left the tower.
With the tide out, the stairs to the gate were half underwater. The gate stood wide open. His barge floated in without hindrance.
Merryn, or more appropriately, Lady Braden, was at the top landing with arms crossed, blond braid tousled by the wind, and her familiar frown marring her beautiful face.
He expected his heartache to bloom at seeing her again, so many months after he spotted her kissing the church guard, whom she eventually married. That ache would be followed by a gnawing need to exact revenge against the two. Instead, Dewer felt calm, quiet, and still. This unusual silence within his soul was akin to a sense of peace. Into that stillness, came a vision of Grace hugging him because she was worried that he might be hurt by this encounter. Warmth instantly spread like a warm toasty blanket on a chill day.
Suppressing a grin, he sprinted the stairs to reach the landing that was part of the wide corridor between the outer walls and the White Tower within. The hellhounds and Ifan followed behind him.
He was surprised his mother had not made an appearance yet. In the past, whenever he approached this witch or her brother, Dewer’s mother would be there to cause trouble. Then he understood her absence. She must be waiting for Merryn’s allure to break into her son’s current fascination with Grace. She would be waiting a long while.
“Good morning,” he said and bowed to Merryn.
“Why did you bring the horse?” She asked, pointing to Ifan, and then quickly added, “Why isn’t Grace with you?”
“Ifan is needed on this mission and your cousin is attending to a sick eel at the bottom of the river.”
She looked as if she wanted to argue both points, and then clamped her lips tight. “Typical.”
“Your cousin has a tender heart.”
“You will not toy with her heart or any other part of her.” As you did with me, the unspoken words echoed off the stone walls.
Her lingering anger and pain were a reflection of all the tragedies this place had witnessed over the centuries. Now he was inside the Tower of London, it reminded him oddly of the underworld. It had strength, offered refuge, and dished out indiscriminate cruelty.
“Entirely up to Miss Adair,” Dewer replied in a quiet reverent tone.
The narrowing of Merryn’s eyes suggested that was the right answer or perhaps she approved of his use of the lady’s formal name, signifying their relationship had yet to progress to the more intimate use of first names.
“The Warlock Council has sent word that you are to help us close the underworld gate. Is this true?”
“Would you believe me if I said, yes?”
“No.”
He had always enjoyed Merryn’s straightforward honesty, just like her brother. If he is still alive, I will bring him back to you, Merryn, that I promise. “Shall we go in?”
As she considered his suggestion, uniformed men lined up behind her. Not the warders in their distinctive black and red, but armed men in green cloaks.
His shoulders tensed at sight of the Guards of the Green Cross and he readied a defense spell in case any of them took it into their heads to attack. They were sensitive to a warlock’s presence ever since one cast a mind spell recently on some guards and their archbishop. The fact he wasn’t that warlock likely wouldn’t matter.
A boat bumped against the underwater steps. Without checking, he guessed the newcomer must be the envoy the Council promised to send to intervene on Dewer’s behalf to be here at the Tower of London to deal with the dark fae invasion. Relief coursed through him at the timely intervention.
Merryn’s mood, however, didn’t darken at the arrival of a warlock, it lightened. The gentleness overlaying her features gave Dewer an indication about the identity of the newcomer before he ever turned around. His already tense shoulders muscles tightened like a coiled snake rearing.
Facing the legendary church guard springing up the steps, Dewer bowed and said through clenched teeth, “Lord Braden.”
Could this day get any worse? He might be over his infatuation for this man’s wife, but he was far from being able to forgive Braden for so thoroughly stealing Merryn’s affections.
Farfur growled while Bartos backed away, likely remembering the injury Braden’s sword had once done to him. The two hounds mirrored Dewer’s feelings of fear and loathing about this troublesome church guard.