The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(75)
“Imprisoned?” Gretel sounded skeptical. “They’re practically invincible. You’d need powerful magic to do that.”
The queen cut her eyes once to Blue and then looked away. “We had . . . help.”
“And you’re sure this blood wraith is still in its prison?” Hansel asked.
When Blue, Kellan, and the queen remained silent, he shook his head. “That’s the first place I’d check. If children are going missing, and your wraith is still locked away, then we’re back to having another witch aiming to turn wraith. And if that’s the case, Gretel and I can help when we return.”
“Either way, we can help you kill the wraith you have,” Gretel said, a dark violence lurking in her voice.
“How do you kill a blood wraith?” Blue asked.
Hansel winked, though it looked more like habit than glee this time. “I don’t know. It’s hard to kill something that gets stronger every time it feeds on an innocent’s blood, but we’d figure it out, wouldn’t we, Gret?”
“We do love a challenge,” Gretel said quietly.
The queen nodded briskly. “We’ll do as you say. I’ll find someone to check on the wraith, and we’ll continue to look for places a witch might practice in secret. Thank you for your expert advice.”
As the crewmen began carefully bringing wagonloads of beast cages down the gangplank, Hansel and Gretel turned to oversee them, and Blue waved a little good-bye to Kellan and Nessa, who were already being drawn into conversation again with the royals from Súndraille.
Children going missing. A witch practicing in secret. A wraith no one had seen in years.
A chill went down her spine as she made her way back into the city and toward her home, all thoughts of watching the monsters in Hansel and Gretel’s cages forgotten.
How had her mother locked the wraith away in the first place? Blue had a feeling it was knowledge she might soon desperately need.
THIRTY-ONE
THE CASTLE WALLS were closing in on Kellan. He’d spent the morning checking with the royal magistrate about the state of the investigation into the murders as well as the investigation into the witch, triple-checking Nessa and his mother’s security protocols, and dealing with a steady stream of visitors from the various head families before heading to the docks to greet the new ruler of Súndraille, who couldn’t be much older than Kellan himself.
Most of his early afternoon had been spent lunching with the Glavans, fielding requests for investigation updates from various members of the head families, and answering correspondence from trade and political ambassadors across the ten kingdoms.
Everywhere he turned, there was another question to answer, another problem to solve, and another demand on his already limited time. And through it all, the knowledge that he had less than a week before he needed to choose a girl to marry, keep the other families from turning against each other or the crown, and help Blue with both her guardianship situation and her worries over children going missing throughout the city spun through him, a tightly wound coil that made it difficult to breathe.
When his tailor arrived to measure Kellan for a new dancing coat and trousers, followed immediately by his secretary with a long list of documents to approve, choices to make, and invitations to reply to, the coil exploded into a desperate need to get out of the castle so he could have a moment to think.
And to wrestle with the grief that kept sneaking up on him when he wasn’t looking.
His father should’ve been here. Attending the ball. Holding the throne as the true Renard until he was old enough to feel that passing the crown to his son was the right move to make. Helping Kellan decide which girl to marry and maybe understanding the hollow space within him at the knowledge that the girl Kellan thought he might like to marry was off-limits.
Kellan held himself still for the tailor and rattled off a quick list of instructions for his secretary—yes, he approved next week’s meeting schedule, no, he was unavailable for brunches this week and wouldn’t be until after the funerals, yes, leave the documents on his desk for him to sign later. When the tailor left and his secretary looked ready to bring forth another list of demands, Kellan pleaded a headache and asked for two hours to lie down.
Two hours before he had to shoulder the mantle of crown prince again, pretend he had all the answers, and somehow figure out how to walk the thin line between suspecting every head family of murder and convincing them he held them all in the highest esteem.
The instant his secretary left his suite and informed the guards posted in the hall that the prince was unwell and would be lying down for two hours, Kellan locked the door and hurried out the window. In the time it took him to climb down to the castle grounds and slink away, the restlessness had become a churning storm of panic, edged with despair.
What if he couldn’t protect the rest of the girls? What if he couldn’t protect his family or Blue? He was surrounded by help—his mother, his guards, the royal magistrate, and his allies within the head families—but he’d never felt so alone.
He wished his father was here.
The thought sent a shaft of pain straight into the numb corner of Kellan’s heart where his grief for his father lived.
He just needed to feel alive for a little while. Truly alive. Needed to stare death in the face, dare it to take him once more, and survive. It was the only way he’d learned how to find an ounce of peace.