He drew in closer and lowered his voice to ask in all seriousness, "You're mad, aren't you?"

"As—a—hatter," she whispered back conspiratorially.

He felt a hint of sympathy for the creature. "How long have you been in here?"

"For four long…interminable…days."

He glowered at her.

"Which is why I want you to take me with you. I don't eat much."

The dungeon erupted with laughter again.

"Don't hold your breath."

"Certainly not like you, Forbearer."

"How do you know what I am?"

"I know everything."

Then, if true, she had a wealth they didn't.

"Leave her," Murdoch called at the gateway of the dungeon. His brows were drawn, no doubt puzzled by his brother's interest. Wroth had never pursued women. As a human, they'd either come to him or he'd gone without. He'd had no time in wartime. As a vampire he had no such need. Not until he could find his Bride.

He shook his head at the insane, fey creature, then forced himself to walk on, though he thought he heard her whisper, "Call for me, General," making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He followed his brother to Kristoff's new antechamber and found their king gazing out into the clear night from a generous window—that would be shuttered in the few hours till dawn. When he turned to them, his gaunt face looked weary.

Wroth suspected it had been difficult killing other natural born vampires, his own kindred, no matter how crazed they'd become, and no matter that they followed his uncle Demestriu, who'd stolen his crown centuries ago. Wroth had no such compunctions. He was weary but only from injury and his sword arm being overworked as he hacked through them.

"Were any of the records salvageable?" Wroth asked with little hope. If the vampires of this castle had spent as much energy fighting as burning, they might have kept Oblak. To his disgust, they'd fled. He didn't understand it. When defending your home, you defend to the death.