"My men will place your bonded under arrest until the courts or the king decide their fate."

Everyone protested but faltered at General Bayron's menacing snarl.

"This is not a discussion! It is within my rights to kill them or give them to my men for sport or both." The ominous tone of his voice gave credence to his threat. "Their unjustified presence in a military camp remands them into my custody and places them under my jurisdiction. If anyone interferes with my decision, I will treat them as spies or enemy combatants. Do I make myself understood?"

His words challenge us to test his patience, Lord Darren thought.

"More is in play here than our insubordination and the fae attack," his vampire said. It had been quiet for days and was so weak he could barely hear it.

"The only thing of which I am not certain is Lord Byron's allegiance," he admitted. "Does he obey his king or those who seek to gain power?"

He watched as Devon's panic revealed itself to Arlene, and the elf instinctively grabbed her companion's arm.

She caught the werewolf just before she transformed and stopped it, he realized.

"A heartbeat later, and the elf would not have been able to restrain the beast before it lunged toward the exit," the vampire agreed with him.

"She saved Devon from certain death, but the werewolf is in no mood to show her gratitude," he said. "And it was not my intention to gamble with their lives."

The vampire went quiet again.

Arlene's touch robbed Devon of her ability to move, speak, or change, but she could not curb her mental resistance. Drained to the edge of shaky lightheadedness by the powerful magic it took to contain the wolf, she dared not let go.

Her intense concentration on the prevented her own panic from engulfing her, and she glanced at Lord Darren to gauge his reaction.

The terrible, helpless fury in his expression sizzles with the presence of his vampire, only giving me more reason to hold on to Devon with everything I have left. If I lose control of her, he will defend the wolf against his own people, and I shall fight to save both of them, Arlene admitted.

The vampires might hesitate to harm Lord Darren, but the wolf's mindless fury will force their hand, she realized. They will spare neither Devon nor me, and even Lord Darren cannot fight all these men. Fear gave her strength. With us dead, General Bayron would arrest Lord Darren and hold him to face the king's justice as a traitor who turned on his father's soldiers.

Their eyes met and Arlene used Devon's link to him to send a single thought: "No."

The unexpected intrusion broke through his intense fury, allowing him to curb his instinct to protect them.

We need him, and if General Bayron locks him up or confines him to his quarters, he will be of no help to us, Arlene reasoned. He knows that.

Two guards escorted her and Devon outside, and General Bayron did not even allow Lord Darren to speak to them before having them removed.

The soldiers led them between rows of tents to an area where four men guarded a group of circled wagons. A crude fire pit marked the center, and the physical state of the four prisoners, secured with silver chains staked to the ground, said all that there was to say.

The men continued past the wretched captives toward three burly-looking female vampires who busily mended the cavalry horses' leather armor.

"Prisoners to be secured, orders of General Bayron," the lead soldier informed.

The women did not take kindly to having their work interrupted.

"Get moving," the nearest woman said, roughly directing Arlene and Devon to a small stand of rocks that offered some privacy—paying no heed to their weakened state or wounds.

"We shall strip you of your weapons, armor, and clothes. Make one wrong move and we will dump your bodies in the woods for the wolves to eat. Will that be cannibalism, I wonder?" the vampire mocked.

It took considerably more out of Arlene to keep directing the pup's body without physical contact with her.

If she gets loose now, there will be no saving either of us and what Lord Darren might do in the wake of our death, she thought with trepidation, I dare not even imagine.

"Come on. We don't have all day," another female instructed harshly when the pup did not cooperate.

The pup paid her no heed, and the woman slapped Devon, nearly ripping her free of the elf's hold, and for just a moment, the wolf almost let it.

"Come on, you dog. Behave! You'll have a collar around your neck soon enough. Don't make me fetch it now," the angered vampire threatened when she noticed the blue glow of the pup's eyes.

What if that blue glow isn't Maximus' bloodline showing but some vestige of her vampire? The thought had never occurred to Arlene. At least they didn't turn yellow. Devon has regained some control, but it is part of her nature to resist.

The word "collar" subdued the wolf, somewhat.

"Not going to give us any trouble, elf?" the first vampire taunted. "Thought you elves were legendary fighters," she mocked.

"Well, we clearly got a tame one," the third scoffed.

Arlene secretly imagined killing all three arrogant vampires with her bare hands, stealing their clothes, and escaping from this camp with the pup.

Except that even if we elude all three hundred vampires by some miracle of fate, we will not get far, not with both the vampires and fae hunting us. And then there is our bond with Lord Darren. She sighed. What would be the point of escaping, only to die as the bond severs?

"Got nothing to say, elf?" the second woman asked.

Her hand connected with Arlene's cheek, and it burned the elf that the woman did it just because she could. She licked the blood from the corner of her mouth while staring at the vampire with cold eyes before letting a smirk tug at her lips, allowing the arrogant woman to catch a glimpse of the woman Verne's soldiers and hunters had feared—Lee of Ablon.

It unsettled the guard, but Devon's low growl distracted all three.

"Another sound out of you, dog, and you'll be sorry," the first vampire threatened.

The way the werewolf stared at her promised vengeance.

The women scrubbed Devon and Arlene before dressing them in thin shifts that barely qualified as castoff rags. They escorted them back to the wagons with some difficulty as their impending lot dawned stark and clear in the wolf's mind.

Devon would have balked if she could, Arlene realized. The mere thought of the silver-plated cuffs clamped around her wrists and ankles terrifies her. If not for the influence I exert over her, she would have gladly allowed her werewolf to fight its way free of this camp . . . even if it causes our deaths.

Despite Arlene's mental hold, Devon fought the women's attempts to bring her to her knees to attach the shackles, earning her a blow across the head with a short wooden club.

The dazed wolf dropped to all fours, breathing hard and barely holding on to consciousness.

Anger seared through Arlene, but still, she did not allow herself to lose control. It did not stop the pup from glaring at her for allowing their captors to knock her onto her knees and tie her down.

She blames me for not resisting them, and if I were alone, I might have. But I am not. Lord Darren and Devon mean more to me than my own life. Arlene did not struggle either when they placed the silver collar around her neck.

Devon's mind overpowered the rush of anger, allowing her to realize, The intensity of my terror is not all mine.

The usually staunch, self-assured, fearless elf's waxy pallor and the distinct violet tinge to her eyes as the chains closed about her wrists—while her tiny incisors peeked between her parted lips—revealed a deep-seated fear.

Arlene's hold over me drained her last reserves, causing her to suffer excruciating pain as the magic eats away at her soul.

Devon stopped fighting, and the elf immediately wilted. A thin trickle of blood escaped her right nostril, and sweat ran down her cheeks.

Her ragged breathing and shaky hands were a shameful accusation against Devon's selfishness.

The elf's face became less pinched.

The physical toll of our endless game of cat and mouse with the fae, Arlene's intense emotional response to being chained, and this last feat of sheer willpower defeated her, Devon realized.

Arlene's soul-deep panic found its echo in her.

The elf has suffered the familiar weight of chains in her past, and it compelled her to save a dying lycan when she has every right to hate us all, Devon thought, distracted from her own discomfort. I need no unfair elven or vampire insight into her hidden past to assume the elf endured more than just the horrible death of her family.

Arlene rarely spoke of her past, and she learned most of what she knew from Lord Darren's comments. She forgot about the rumors at court, which she overheard over the years, revealing that King Verne imprisoned his niece because she had "lost her senses." Those same rumors also purported that she died there.

Even these distracting thoughts did not possess the power to quell her increasing dread. The silver silenced her wolf, locking the remnants of it inside a dark room outside of her reach. Its absence resonated painfully through her consciousness, too familiar and traumatizing.

When I willfully silence the creature, it remains a tangible presence, but the silver robs me of that awareness. Should The Circle of Justice not have taught me that life without its existence would be unbearable? she wondered.

I never hated Danya for the unconscionable things she did to save us, she realized. I held her responsible for abandoning me during my darkest hours, letting me suffer Marcus' vengeance alone and then allowing death to stake its incremental claim on me. But I was never alone. What Lord Darren said is true; she suffered with me because we are connected. Understanding tore Devon's heart, wringing blue-tinged tears from her eyes. I want to beg her for forgiveness, and even though she experiences my regret in her painful prison inside my mind, it doesn't soothe my guilt.

The burn of silver against her skin, even in this moment of clarity, brought the past flooding back, but her altered perspective wrought it into a new shape.

Without Danya, her body lacked its natural defense against the raw pain of nerves being seared by the toxin entering her bloodstream. It left her unable to tolerate the pain despite her best efforts, permitting the past and present to intermingle in a fevered haze in her mind.

Devon mindlessly fought the restraints, wanting out with every fiber of her being. Sweat beaded her skin, her stitches tore, and her wounds bled. She shivered, muttering incoherently to the dead as her efforts cut the manacles into her skin, worsening her condition.

Devon was back at The Circle of Justice, being stalked by Marcus, the crowd calling for her death, and her father turning his back on her.

Arlene helplessly watched the lycanthrope struggle for hours until fatigue defeated Devon's spirit, and she abruptly ceased her pointless battle. Bloodied and having trouble breathing, the wolf stared fixedly off to one side, eyes half-open and empty as if her soul had fled.

Sheer willpower and the elf's logic kept her from fighting her constraints. Arlene's elven nature decried futility and self-inflicted pain as foolish, yet a more primal urge challenged her reason.

With the lycan incapable of muting her emotions, I refuse to inflict the burden of my torture on our master as well, she thought, fighting her weakness. I don't endure half the undiluted torment Devon does, but Lord Darren's connection to the wolf translates every nuance to him. I cannot add to it.

The past loomed close, but she could not allow it to overtake her.

Silver suppresses and drains my elven magic without burning the flesh or causing the body to ache down to the bone; it only affects the soul, she thought. The werewolf undergoes all three.

Near midnight, a cloaked figure crawled through under a wagon and appeared by their side. With her senses dulled by the silver, Arlene stiffened instinctively at the unexpected presence. Without magic, she could barely make out the shadowy shape and had no notion if it was a friend or foe.

Vulnerable as we are, we have no defense against an attack, she realized. General Bayron reduced us to easy targets for anyone who wishes Lord Darren harm.

"Shhh, it's only me," Meghan murmured, surveying the area while keeping her voice low to not awaken the other prisoners.

The wretches are so far gone that it is a wasted effort, Arlene reasoned. But it does feel as if the darkness is watching us again. Is there someone out there, or is it the witch? We are exposed out here. No magic guards this camp.