Victoria squeezed Vincent’s hand, then stood. “I’m coming with you.”

“He’ll expect that,” I said. “Which is why you’re staying with Vincent. I have a plan.” Moving to the center of the foyer, I dropped a rock, listening to how the sound bounced off the walls. Moving to the left, I dropped another rock. Then another. I knew acoustics. And I knew which way Angoulême had gone.

The lower levels were filled with the crypts of lesser Montignys: princes and princesses, lords and ladies of various ranks, but I paid them no mind as I ran, following the tracks in the dust as I was sure the Duke expected me to do. This was a trap.

And it was set for me.

But Angoulême wouldn’t kill me, because he needed me as a hostage to get past Tristan and the twins. Which was fine, because for my plan to work, I needed to get close.

Gripping my knife tight, I used my other hand to muffle my false sobs as I minced forward, carefully peering around each corner before I proceeded forward. It was much darker on this level, long expanses of blackness stretching between each of the clever little skylights. My heart thundered in my chest as I made my way further and further into the mountain. What if I’d been wrong about the direction he’d gone? What if he’d looped back to dispatch the twins while they were weak?

I stepped past a slab of rock blocking the entrance to a crypt, and magic lashed around my waist, jerking me toward the hard surface. I shrieked, certain I was about to be dashed to pieces, but then I passed through the illusion and was slammed against the floor between two altars, burning ropes pinning my wrists and ankles to the floor. The blow knocked the air from my lungs, but as I was gasping for breath, the first thing I noticed was the smell of unwashed body. Then Angoulême was in my face, his eyes wild and hair disheveled.

“Stupid, blubbering fool!” he hissed, his breath vile.

I turned my head, sobbing, “You killed my friends. You killed them.” The crypt was littered with clutter, rotting scraps of food in a corner and the stench of waste. He’d been living in here. Hiding in here.

Alone.

“They deserved it.” He plucked the knife from my clenched fist, tossing it out into the corridor. “Foolish half-blood-loving idiots. Just like you. You’ll deserve it when I finally slit your throat. Now where is it? Where is it?”

His hands roughly searched my body, tearing at my clothes and bruising my skin, leaving not a square inch unscathed. I cringed and wept. “Where is what?”

“The blood!” Drops of spittle sprayed across my face. “I know you have it, you filthy witch.”

“It broke,” I sniveled. “It spilled. Look at my hands.”

He launched himself back and away, watching me like I was some sort of venomous snake. Then he snatched up a wine skin and poured the contents over my palms, washing away all traces of Tristan’s magic. Only then did he relax, sitting on his haunches, silver eyes fixed on me. “Where is he?”