Page 136 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

He scowled. “Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” I cried. “Even if I could, I’m not nearly strong enough to face the witch that this text describes, Mordric. The solstice is only a few weeks away!”

“I agree. That’s why I ordered my architect to create this place. To keep you safe until you’re ready to face them.”

“You mean the cage that you’ve trapped me in?” I demanded, my voice echoing around the chamber. “How am I supposed to train in here exactly? The walls are made of fucking iron!”

Mordric straightened, his eyes flashing. “It’s the best I could do given the circumstances. I thought I could trust Enhart to keep you safe, but it was under his watch that you were taken. This is the best way for me to protect you.”

Anger burned through me like a wildfire. It was possession that I’d sensed from him in the brief moments his wards had slipped. His overwhelming need for control. I’d been drowning in it from the moment I’d stepped foot in the castle. “Don’t you dare pretend like you did this only to protect me,” I shouted. “You did this to control me.”

“You are not thinking straight,” he growled, his voice rising in parallel with mine. “When you calm down, you will be grateful for everything I’ve done for you.”

“Calm down?” I seethed. “No amount of time in this prison will make me calm down. You cannot keep me here!”

The doors were thrown open with an earsplitting crack. A blur streaked across my field and Mordric was thrown to the floor, the impact cleaving the black marble. His silver diadem clattered across the chamber.

Enhart stood before me, his clothes streaked with blood. My magic came crashing through the broken doors after him with so much force that I doubled over. I gasped for air, the surge of power overwhelming my senses. It raced through my veins, skittering over my skin like embers tossed from a campfire by the breeze.

“Fuck,” was all I could manage before the prince launched himself at his brother again.

I watched, sucking air into my lungs, as they grappled. The two vampires crashed headlong into the mahogany table in the center of the space, which splintered and collapsed beneath them. Plates and cutlery flew across the room in their wake.

They were a terrifying match. Mordric had size on his side, taller and broader than his brother, but Enhart was fast. He darted around the King like a wildcat, narrowly avoiding his fists. Each of them intended to maim the other, or worse, and the room was torn apart as they went for each other’s throats.

“Restrain yourself,” hissed Mordric, as he swung out at Enhart, striking him in the chest. “You have no idea what’s going on here.”

I clapped a hand to my mouth to suppress a scream. Enhart staggered, but remained standing. The blow would have killed a mortal man, but he stepped forward, undeterred, to drive his fist into Mordric’s jaw. “Make me.”

With a growl, Mordric flung Enhart into the wall like he was nothing. The prince cursed, blood trickling from the side of his face that had collided with the stone.

“As always, little brother,” said Mordric, “you attack first and ask questions second.”

Bearing down on his brother, the King fisted Enhart’s inky black hair, as if to lift his head from his shoulders.

“Stop!” I screamed.

A stream of cobalt-blue flames exploded from my palm, sending the vampires flying to opposite ends of the room. The familiar power pulsed through me, boiling my blood. The Ealdorfyre howled like a maelstrom that had been set loose, trapping them where they landed. It whipped around the chamber, painting the walls in its image.

The otherworldly whispers I had come to recognize rang in my ears as the flame circled the two vampires, snapping wildly. The ground beneath us quaked as I reeled it back in, my breathing steadying. This time, it obeyed without protest, slipping back to where it came from with a final hiss.

Enhart sat up from his position on the floor. He stretched as if ridding himself of a bothersome crick in his neck. Across the room, Mordric groaned, pushing himself to his knees. Blood seeped from a gash above his brow, staining the side of his face crimson. His hair was mussed, and his sleeves torn.

I glanced back and forth between them, my pulse pounding in my ears. My anger at Mordric had not faded, and at the sound of Enhart’s voice, the small, angry part of me won out.

“I’m impressed, witch,” said the prince.

I hurried forward, dropping onto my knees before him. I scanned him from head to toe. “Are you hurt?” I asked.

“I’ll heal,” he replied, unperturbed.

As if on cue, his wounds knitted themselves back together before my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

“I heard raised voices. I don’t know what you were complaining about though, this place is nice.”

I scowled. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

He shrugged, gripping my arm so that I could pull him to his feet. Across the room, Mordric struggled to stand. Enhart started toward him, but I held him back, my fingers wound into the fabric of his sleeve. When I looked at the King, I could think only of the lies and manipulation that had led us to this moment.