Page 19 of Slayer

Chapter ten

The Study

My eyes snap open. I’m alert in an instant. Someone moves beneath me, their steps crunching through the fallen leaves. Fall is upon us—my favorite season. It also means my birthday is coming, not that I’ve ever cared for it. Nyra and later, Maddoc, always found a way to make it matter.

My fingers curl around the dagger Maddoc forged for me, pressing it against my chest. A hollow ache settles deep inside me at the thought of my birthday, knowing that he may not be there for the next one.

I remain perfectly still, my cloak concealing me from the world as the weight of that possibility threatens to crush me.

When the footsteps finally fade, I slip from the shadows. I’m well-rested, focused, and almost eager. I’ve always wondered what the royals are like up close—their manners, their tells, the cracks beneath all that polish.

I move carefully through the outer gardens, avoiding fallen leaves and loose gravel that could betray me and alert the guards posted along the walls. The castle looms ahead, all pale stone and quiet arrogance. Servants pass through a side entrance near the kitchens, coming and going without ceremony. I wait for the right moment, then blend in, slipping through the door before it closes.

Inside, the air changes. The hallways are hollow and winding. I move through them with precision and instinct.

Maddoc once told me the king meets with his two sons in the upper part of the castle in his study once or twice a week, depending on whatever political rot is spreading through the palace at the time. One of them is the heir. If tonight follows that pattern, they’ll all be there.

I follow the guards, unnoticed, through the winding corridors, trusting they’ll lead me closer to the king. They disappear beyond a set of ornate doors. Guards stand watch at every corner, their shadows stretching long across the stone. I slip past them, one breath at a time, counting heartbeats, timing my movements. It would be easier for me to shift into my alley cat form, but I have to save all my strength for what’s to come. I climb the stairway, emerging at a grand doorway that stretches from floor to ceiling, ornate, heavy, and absolutely unforgiving. The king’s study, if I had to guess.

I grimace. “Ugh. This won’t do,” I murmur under my breath. That door would scream the moment I touched it. Too loud. I need another way in.

The castle is far larger than it appears from the outside. Even after climbing countless staircases, I feel as though I’ve barely cracked the surface of what this place contains. Moonlight spills through the dark hall in thin silver bands. My nerves are humming.

Soon, I spot a narrow window tucked into the far-right corner of the corridor.

I move toward it, easing the latch open until it gives with the faintest click. The drop below yawns wide, far enough to snap a spine clean in two—but I’ve dealt with much worse. I slip through the opening without hesitation.

The castle’s stone is slick and cold beneath my palms, but my hands know what to do. I cling to the wall like its prey I intend to bleed dry, moving up it with the patience of a cat and the precision of a raven. Each ledge, each shallow crevice, becomes a promise—something solid enough to trust for half a heartbeat.

The wind claws at me, trying to pry me loose. I grip harder.

When the king’s study finally comes into view, I draw my dagger. The blade kisses the screws, slowly loosening them one by one. Metal sighs softly beneath my touch. I ease the window free and slip inside, propping the glass up beneath the sill.

The room swallows me whole. This is it. The seat of a monster. I expected hollow stone. Bloodstained floors. Trophies of witches and pirates he’s butchered in the name of order. Evidence of tyranny laid bare.

Instead, the walls are lined with family portraits, frames upon frames of them, carefully spaced, meticulously preserved. Each face is painted with reverence, all soft smiles, eyes bright with promise. Above the fireplace hangs the largest piece of all: princes and a princess frozen forever in their youth.

Their eyes are still unbroken. The sight chills me more than any bloodstain ever could.

At the center of it all is his queen. She dominates the walls with a beauty meant to disarm—wild dark curls tumbling over her shoulders, eyes as blue as deep water, and a smile crafted to make you believe she could never harm a soul. But to follow a man this vile? To stand beside him through every drop of blood spilled? She must have known every move, every name on his kill list. Names of people who had the one treasure he could never possess: magic. A thought passes through me: What if she’s just as bad as him?

All these portraits should humanize him, but instead he only feels more dangerous. A man who can love so fiercely and still burn the world for power is never to be underestimated.

I glide to the opposite side of the table and drop myself into the massive velvet chair. Red, of course. Men in power always seem to choose red velvet, as if the color could crown them with authority they haven’t earned. I roll my eyes.

Pulling my hood up, I sink into the shadows it casts, letting the darkness fold around me. My fingers wander to a leather-bound book, worn and weighty.

I open it. Neat, angular handwriting marches down the page, precise, dissecting, merciless. The same hand that wrote Maddoc Brine. My jaw clenches, anger rippling through me.

Nyx.

The heading is underlined in a calculating stroke, the ink still faintly glossy. The notes are extensive: strengths, weaknesses, tactics. How to corner one. How to drain it. My finger stills. Extraction through sustained contact, turning to ash. The words bleed cold through my skin. Then another note, circled twice—Leader? He wasn’t just hunting them. He was thinking of taming them. Idiotic.

I turn the page. Sirens. These notes are longer, more obsessive. Margins littered with a hurried scrawl: Immune to most poisons, voice is a weapon, capture requires silence. Very hard to break. Hard to break? Does this man torture these creatures in his free time? I mean, I torture humans, but for a reason.

Next comes Witches. Then Tarlocks. Then Mermaids. Each entry drips with calculated cruelty, a methodical breakdown of how to crush and shackle what should never be contained. My stomach twists at the accuracy of his assessments. He’s studied these creatures because he’s caged them, prodded them, and broken them. All except the tarlock. A beast that size—half this castle—could never be taken alive. It would rip this place apart stone by stone.

I turn the page to find the word Shifter without anything beneath it. He knows nothing. Which means he must still be searching for one. Panic strikes at the thought of him figuring me out. Is this why he wanted me? A shifter to experiment on, to dissect? How would he even know what I am? I flip back to the notes on mermaids.