But fitted pants would have to wait.

Viscon informed Frederick the next eve that Arabella had left to attend to matters at the border. Gheorge and the rest of her court had gone with her, and though he liked Gheorge, it still irked him to know that her former lover-lovers-would be surrounding her for however long these "matters" took.

So he occupied his mind, spending his time learning from Viscon in any and every matter he could think of. Combat, language, ancient history. And when Viscon was busy, he discovered that Errand made an enthusiastic training partner.

Frederick threw objects at the wall until Errand deigned to engage him, and it used its diabolical powers to fight against him. It hurled books, ornaments, tables, sculptures, and candlesticks, allowing him to practice-striking, dodging, weaving, blocking-discovering that Staff could form excellent shields. Unlike Gheorge and Viscon, Errand had an undetectable presence, successfully landing a majority of its hits, resorting to illusions if it needed to best him.

Errand taught Frederick in its own brutal way, but he sensed that it was quite sorry for it all, especially for illusions that made his heart bleat with panic. When their sessions concluded, Errand would knock Frederick into an armchair and wrap him blankets, rewarding him with liquor that he didn't touch. He needed every sense on alert at all times to detect any threats or intruders. But his only visitor was dread and non-stop worry. There were only so many things he could do before his mind wandered back to Arabella.

For something was wrong.

He hadn't seen Arabella in days, and he visited the stable and sewing room constantly in hopes of finding her there. But she never appeared, the castle well and truly void of her presence when he cast his senses to find her. And when he used the Binding Stone to contact Thescan his father no longer answered his calls.

His mind ran rampant with possibilities.

Was Thescan in danger?

Was she in danger?

Could she already be dead?

Then in the dead of night, something disturbed his rest. It made no sound to rouse him. It never touched him or shook him from his sleep. But what he felt was undeniable, veining through his thoughts like lightning with no thunder.

The same tumultuous energy of war.

Wrong. Wrong. Something was wrong.

Viscon appeared in his room, his shoulders wound tighter than usual. "Good evening, Frederick. Do you require more books?" He cast his eyes about the floor. Shattered spines and torn pages filled the space, damage from Frederick's training with Errand. "Perhaps you've read all of these already."

"What's happening, Viscon?"

He shook his head and proceeded to bring his room to order. "Nothing is happening, Your Highness."

"Something feels different. Different in a serious way." Anxiety beat through his body. "What's happen-" His lungs squeezed tight.

Viscon halted. "Frederick?"

His hand shot to his chest, and he gripped the bed poster to stop from sliding. "V-Viscon?"

Viscon appeared by his side in an instant. "Sit down."

Frederick cried out and sank to his knees, his heart ramming inside him. Ringing ascended in his head, drowning Viscon's words.

Something is wrong

Something is wrong

Something is wrong.

Invisible claws gripped his neck, hysteria exploding in his mind. He couldn't get out-he couldn't get out. A second set of claws tore through his stomach, and it dawned on him-"A-Ara. Your middle."

He could almost hear her screaming in his ears, smell her blood, feel where she was hurt, taste her desperation. Someone had her within their grasp, attempting to tear her in two. The edges of his vision blackened, and he could almost see her opponent, bright blue eyes blinding like a tempest ...

But they would not win. They never did. Five millenniums of fighting would not end tonight.

Fight it.

Fight it.

Fight it.

The claws eased out of his body, the pain leaving with it. Frosty calm cleansed his thoughts, clarity edging his mind. Viscon's frantic words became clearer, and Frederick dared to open his eyes. At some point, he'd curled onto the floor, the cold pulsing through the carpets.

Viscon watched him with large, worried eyes. "Master?"

Frederick pressed his palms to the floor, groaning as pushed himself upright. "What happened to me?"

Viscon's hand soothed his back. "I don't know. Your heart sped so fast I thought you were in the middle of a heart attack."

Frederick rubbed his chest. "Heart attack."

"I'm going to get you some water. Stay right there and don't move," he said, vanishing.

Adrenaline continued to thump his skull, refusing to slow. He opened and closed his fists, inhaling and exhaling for calm. Her fight was nearly over. He could feel it. If Arabella returned to him this eve, he decided to shower her with affection and comfort. He would dote on her like a damned fool. Kiss her until her lips bruised from his.

He would do anything. All she had to do was return.

If she didn't ...

If she didn't, Frederick would no longer know what to do. For anything.

Awareness prickled his skin. A new presence.

It gently coaxed him from where he sat. He forced himself to stagger upright from the floor, and he ambled onto the balcony to get a better view.

There she stood. Again. A speck on the castle grounds but he would recognize her anywhere now.

Come, Tessande silently called.

The tile beneath him quaked. The doors rattled. A low growl stirring. The beast within the castle walls prowling. Errand had awakened, and Frederick almost pitied Tessande, for the pebbles quaking across the earth meant Errand was in a foul mood.

Come, she insisted. We don't have much time.

A roar exploded from within Errand's belly, rubble and ash rising into the air. A threat. A promise. To make every intruder pay for their trespass.

You know nothing about the Widow Queen. Nothing. If you don't come now, you'll end up being the fifth husband she's killed.

"Frederick!" Viscon stood at the door, searching the threshold. "Come back!" He tensed to vanish, unable to do so. Something was holding him back. The same force that was drawing Frederick forward.

Come, Tessande said, aggression riddled in just one word, and his body stilled. Come to me. Now.

"Master Frederick, please!" Viscon shouted, his sharp nails clawing at an invisible barrier.

A being appeared before Tessande, followed by another, several more joining them as they blocked the castle entrance. Silhouettes of both men and monsters filled the grounds, the metal of their weapons glinting under the low light. Aggression swarmed the air.

It's already too late, Tessande said, but warn her. Warn her that he's back, and his magic is all over you like a brand.

Red flooded his senses all at once.

A man whose smile he could still see when he closed his eyes. He didn't know what it meant. He'd never know. But something about Tessande told him that she would have the answers. His magic is all over you like a brand. Yes, he knew that. He could feel that.

Frederick gripped the balcony railing. "Who is he?"

"Don't," Viscon begged. "Don't speak with her!"

"What is his name?" Frederick asked. "Just tell me who he is."

Another being appeared, standing behind Tessande, and she chose that moment to vanish.

Wrongness washed over the place-power unexplainable. Wrath. And slowly, each of the beings lowered. Kneeling.

For the Widow Queen had arrived.

She stormed straight for the entrance, her skirts billowing behind her, and gradually, each being disappeared before she reached them.

And he felt it. Knew where she would go. Anger and loathing drummed through the stone, confirming his suspicion.

Arabella had returned, and she was pissed.

He spun from the balcony, finding Viscon at his back. "I-I have to go," Viscon said before vanishing.

Frederick crossed the room, hurrying for the door. "Errand, take me to the throne room. Now."

The trust between Frederick and Errand grew stronger every day. He was becoming a master of this place. The same way his wife was. He could feel it. And he knew that Errand would oblige his request, and it opened the door and took him there.

Three men knelt before Arabella-the glinting red hair signaling that one of them was Gheorge, the only one of them panting on both knees. Viscon was already by her side, wrapping cloth around her middle.

"I'll kill that bitch on principle for casting an illusion on me. The gall. The disrespect-" Her eyes found Frederick, and she shook her head and continued. "The way you fought was not good enough. You were not good enough."

Gheorge winced, a wound in his arm gaping. "We're sorry, Your Majesty. We are so, so-"

"Do not grovel," she spat. "Get off my floor and find out how she did it. You leave at once and you do not rest until I know. You do not stop-not even to attend to your injuries."

He vanished

She turned her attention upon the two remaining vampyres, yanking the material from Viscon's hands. "And you two. Gods, you two."

One raised his head. "There were hundreds of them and three of us."

"Is that a joke, Dumitri, because I'm not laughing."

He lowered his head, his heavy shoulders sagging.

"You mean to tell me," Arabella said, pacing before them slowly, "that humans were too much for you? Is that what you're daring to utter in my presence."

"Their weapons have changed in the hundreds of years we've seen them," the other said-Vignolo. "We weren't expecting to-"

"What? Fail like that." She snarled. "I can't go out there. I'm trapped in this fucking nightmare. I fought Tessande tonight with no-" She gripped the bridge of her nose. "Still that bitch dares to show her face here."

"They weren't just human," Dumitri said forcefully, though his focus remained on the stone beneath him.

Arabella stopped pacing, her skirts swaying past her ankle. "What?"

"They weren't just human," Vignolo repeated. "They were ... more."

Frederick stepped forward, realization striking like a physical blow. "This is about Hendlemark?"

The two men looked back at him. "What about Hendlemark?" Vignolo demanded.

"Silence," Arabella commanded. "He doesn't need to know."

"Hendlemark's soldiers-they didn't feel human at the last stand," Frederick continued, a tremor in both his hands starting. "Something happened to their soldiers, and I thought ..." Frederick swallowed. "The Chalice gives every ruler a power, yes? King Undrel-the Gentle King-was given the power to see into the future, but every power the Chalice gives comes with consequences."

"Yes," Dumitri murmured, his unnerving eyes fixed on him. "But Rycard didn't get a power."

Frederick shook his head. "They say the Chalice gave the King Rycard of Hendlemark no power. But they were wrong. The Chalice gave him the power to resurrect the dead."

"Resurrect the dead?" Vignolo said incredulously.

"He can resurrect people but they come back stronger, crazed. Abnormal. They come back with half their sanity, and if they're resurrected more than once they become worse every time."

Vignolo glared at Arabella. "You did not think to tell us this before we fought them?"

Her lips parted. "Frederick, how do you know this?"

Frederick went to speak but the words caught in his throat.

No one in the Star was ever supposed to know. Not even him. He loathed thinking about it, much less talking about it. And he wouldn't be telling Arabella this in a room where two king cobras readied to strike.

But even with that power ... Rycard would never be able to resurrect on such a large scale. The Gentle King saw the future but not without consequence. He had to discern a path from the many threads of the possible future. The King of Boralin could control the weather but not without consequence. He could make it rain in his country, but it would cost another part of the Star to suffer from drought for thrice the time it took to power the rain.

To bring back hundreds of dead soldiers would take an enormity of power that no ruler in history had possessed. Power that not even the Chalice would grant. And even if it did, it would drive the King of Hendlemark as mad as the Gentle King-worse.

And that was the real consequence of the Chalice. It wasn't designed by the gods to inflict ill on masses of people on its own-it could do that by affecting one person to do it for them.

But this-this wasn't possible. And if it was then the cost to repay that surge of power to the Chalice ...

His mind went back to the last stand. The Hendlemark soldiers had destroyed Thescan in that fight. They fought with brute force, power, evil. And when Frederick confronted Rycard the man was terrified, but not insane.

He wouldn't be able to affect hundreds of them at once, Frederick reasoned. He would never be able to.

"Find out more about this Chalice-given power," Arabella drawled, her eyes never leaving Frederick. "I want you back here by the break of dawn." And with that, Dumitri and Vignolo left. "Frederick."

He gripped his head, his thoughts too scattered to settle on just one. "What happened with Hendlemark?"

"They tried to breach Thescan's borders. They failed."

Panic whipped his body. "My father-is he-"

"Not a single Thescanian was hurt. Your father left unscathed."

He almost wobbled with relief. Arabella was holding up her end of their bargain, helping Thescan defend against the enemy. And his father ... his father was all right ...

Her steps made soft taps on the floor as she approached. "What are you not telling me about King Rycard?"

No. He wouldn't share this. Not unless he had to. It was too much for him to stand. "You withhold your truths. I choose to withhold this."

She stopped before him and folded her arms. "But is this something I need to know-something that might get me or my men killed?"

He swallowed the beat of panic that pulsed in his throat. "All you need to know is that he has that power, but he hasn't been known to use it in years. They say he can't. That's everything I know about the extent of it. You don't need more than that. Unless you want to tell me-"

"Your Majesty?" Viscon emerged by the throne. Frederick had forgotten he was there.

Arabella stared into Frederick's eyes as she said, "I'm going to give it to them just because I had a bad bloody day."

"And ... and your wounds, Your Majesty?"

Frederick's gaze drifted down her torso, finding that the material around her waist had slipped, revealing the edge of a nasty gash. There was so much blood that he'd initially mistaken it for the fabric of her dress. "What happened?"

"Thank you, Viscon," she hissed. "That will be all. Go and prepare, and I will be with you soon." He nodded at Frederick before he vanished, as if begging him to help her.

"What the Hell happened to you," Frederick asked again. "It's Tessande, isn't it. About what she wants from your jail."

"She set up two diversions at once to lure me away from you," she said through gritted teeth. "She wants to use you against me. Badly. And yet when I returned, you were speaking to her from the fucking balcony."

She pushed her fists into his chest, causing him to stagger back. "What was your game? Did you want her to take you? Do you think she can save you from this place or did you just wish to test the gods." A beast shadowed her face. "What is it you want from her? The way the both of you looked at each other-"

"What is it she wants from you?" he said, rooting himself firmly to the floor. He would not back down from this. From her. "Maybe if you gave her what she wanted-"

Her arm shot to grip his arm, and the throne room faded into a blur of black and metal as they vanished.

#

Frederick recognized the staircase that lowered to the dungeon. The torches lit with verdant-colored light to guide their way, shining off Arabella's hair. She'd left the bandaging behind, her midsection no more than tears and ribbons of flesh, and the bottom of her dress blended seamlessly into the darkness.

He felt as though he was making his way through the throat of a dragon. His hands began to sweat. Temples throbbing. His lungs constricted to the point of pain, the same feeling of suffocation from the first time returning in force. He needed to be anywhere but this place, think of anything but those men down there, causing him to choke until-

Something took his hand and tightened. Arabella. "Frederick."

He loosed his breath slowly so she might not hear it.

"You have a choice, you know," she said. "You can choose to see what happens here, or you can choose never to ask me about this place again. But you don't have to see this if you don't want to."

"Show it to me," he commanded, but even though he needed to see it with his own eyes, it didn't ease his dread in the slightest.

She tugged him forward, his feet moving on their own accord. He chose to focus on the thud of his boots, the feel of his hand in hers, the cold of Carnelia that seemed to worsen in this place. The dungeon went farther down than the last time-he imagined.

Relief sliced through his chest as Viscon came into view, oxygen returning in droves at the sight of a familiar face. They reached the bottom step, and down here he could hear-

"Ignore the screams," she said simply. "They always know when I'm about."

His esophagus thinned, and he tugged his collar. "How long will we be here?" he asked, harsher than intended.

She assessed him with an expression that revealed nothing, her eyes roving from the top of his head to his chest. Could she see the fear smashing against his bones, urging him to abandon this and return up the way he came?

Her eyes narrowed, and he prepared for her mockery, her insults, but instead, she said, "I promise nothing will happen to you. So long as I'm alive, I swear to you, nothing will ever, ever happen to you. No one would dare. Did I not prove that the last time you came here? Did I not prove that again tonight?"

Air deserted him, his head light. For she was right. Arabella continued to shield and protect him. No threat would make it past her to get to him. None of these prisoners could reach him.

And he wanted to know what happened once and for all, didn't he?

Slowly, he relaxed, focusing on her eyes for absolute clarity. He believed her. He did. And he would get out of this place. She wouldn't leave him in it.

He nodded once. "All right."

Viscon stood by the entrance, holding a velvet pillow with various items. "Your Highness," he said, bowing, "I have your usual assortment ready."

Arabella stopped before him, mischief dancing in her eyes as she donned the leather gloves. "Yes, well, I think it's about time my husband learns what I do to earn coin. But I won't be here long. I only have time for one."

"Very good. Will you be taking your favorite with you?"

Her hand hovered over a whip that looked as though it were fashioned from metal rather than leather. "No. I want something I can feel in my bones." She grinned at Frederick. "Something truly terrifying. I have a point to make."

Frederick searched her face but didn't dare change his expression. This was some sort of test to her. Or maybe a game. Either way, she would be observing his reactions to this so-called terror.

She picked up a metal rod, and one push extended it into something truly lethal.

"Excellent choice," Viscon commented. He gave her a bow and then addressed Frederick. "And you, Master? Will you be requiring an instrument?"

Knives both dull and sharp glinted in the dull light, rods, whips, and maces of different sizes all begging to be stroked. "No, thank you."

"Carry on," Arabella said airily, and Viscon dissolved into shadow.

Frederick followed after her assured steps, neither of them exchanging a word. The feeling of this place ... as though it could listen. It could think. It could take his every nightmare and make it real. Red flashed in his mind and he quickly dismissed it. There was a task to undertake. An act to witness. A test to pass. A question to finally have answered.

Before them, a wall of men hung from the ceiling. Naked. Some seething. Some unconscious. A dozen of them lined up like meat in an abattoir. All of them pierced by the same swirling pole. Blood and rot hovered in the air, disgust pooling in Frederick's gut.

He was known to be ruthless when it came to punishing enemies. But this-this was inhumane. Too much for any dignified being to carry out on another. "What is the meaning of this?"

"This, Frederick, is Hell, and kingdoms pay me handsomely to keep it."

"P-Please," one of them whispered, attempting to raise his head. "Have mercy on us."

She waved the instrument like a wand. "In every city and town, there is a piece of filth so abhorrent and unredeemable that the death sentence wouldn't be satisfying enough to give them." She sauntered across the room and reached the man who begged, and she dragged the tip of her instrument across him hard. "Rapists, mass murderers, child killers, and abusers ... if they're hated enough, and they truly deserve it, they end up here in my Hell."

He absorbed every scarred torso, every missing limb, every bloody mouth. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that empires and kingdoms pay me grand amounts of gold to keep these beings alive for the cruelest punishments imaginable for unspeakable crimes. The money I make, I couldn't possibly count in a hundred mortal lifetimes."

His eyes darted over every body, his mind slow to comprehend. "How long do these people get tortured?"

She shrugged. "For as long as I'm paid to keep them. I have some who have been in this dungeon for close to a thousand years."

Frederick shivered. "And they haven't died?"

She faced him. "We make some immortal so they can continue to receive punishment daily. The minute our employers stop paying-we kill them."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, every word he could think of becoming inadequate.

Arabella smirked. "Sickens you, does it?"

"How do you know they truly deserve it and aren't wrongly accused." It happened plenty in Thescan-thanks to a king who couldn't make up his mind. The fate of so many was often decided by the King's Council, bastards too lazy to give their people any real consideration or a fair trial with too many of their personal vendettas and agendas to lord over others. So many innocents had perished under the Gentle King and his council.

Frederick had learned that one mistake was one mistake too many, and when someone was executed for a crime they didn't commit, there was no way of getting them back or righting the wrong.

How could Arabella ever be sure that these people deserved it?

She took the chin of the nearest prisoner, and he groaned as she rotated his head round and round. "I have ways of getting into their minds to see the truth for myself. You wouldn't believe what these people have done and haven't been caught for. Some people are so sick, one can only imagine. But rest assured. Every person here is guilty as filth."

"And they really deserve this?" Tell me something that makes me sure that you know they deserve this.

She raised her brow. "Trust me. I know."

She left, and Frederick remained there, watching them with what he imagined was a completely dumb-struck expression. He would have resembled a right imbecile.

Could anyone commit a crime so heinous, so incredible, that they deserved this?

"Please," the man said again, lifting his head to reveal a squashed plum of an eye. "Spare us."

Barbaric.

"Frederick, come," she called, and he had no choice but to follow her.

Soon they entered a darkened hallway, her silhouette a menacing figure at his side. And the green flames did not burn there, as though the dungeon itself didn't want to shed light on what happened in that part. He knew that what he was about to see would be the cruelest punishment of all.

Or the worst prisoner.

Arabella stood in front of a wall, and a wave of her hands made it fade away brick by brick. A man, completely naked, rested on top of a gigantic wooden cog-a breaking wheel. Each of his limbs had been threaded through spokes and nailed place by that strange moon-bright metal. His back was completely bared to them, covered in barb-and-whip marks crisscrossing over one another, and his stomach rested on spikes made of more of that unusual metal.

"It's rather magnificent, isn't it?" Arabella commented. "But I can't take the credit for this. Viscon orchestrated this rather inspired device. It can go upright for a vertical position, too. You see those spokes?" She pointed at his limbs with her instrument. "Viscon had to break his bones to make them wrap around the wheel like that."

Indeed, his body appeared to have been broken-"Then the bone repairs over them?"

"Correct." Her eyes blazed with wicked delight. "He's been like this for days. Left just this way while we hunted at the border."

She lifted her skirts and made her way up the steps. "This man here is named Drognese Rathmore. Now, Rathmore is a particularly disgusting individual."

She stuck her booted heel into his back. It had to have hurt, but the sound that poured out of him sounded closer to pleasure than pain. "My queen," he whimpered. "You have returned to me."

"Do shut up," she said, twisting her foot over and over. "Rathmore here is responsible for a place called Hanging Lady Forest. Have you ever of it?"

When he was a boy, he used to sneak into the kitchens to look for extra sweets after supper. He'd stay there for hours into the evening, and the servants used to scare him with tales of Hanging Lady Forest. They would give him nightmares, and when he became older he used the same stories to scare Bront.

But to think that such a place might really exist ... "The Hanging Lady Forest?"

Rathmore stilled, the torn muscles of his back tightening. "You are injured, my love?"

"Yes, well, not as bad as you are. And stop calling me that."

Rathmore shook his head slowly. "Tell me who did it. Free me from this place. And I will have their head at your feet."

She ignored him and faced Frederick. "This creature had an insatiable appetite for savaging and killing women. Born into a wealthy family, he started killing in his adolescence out of boredom and killed long into adulthood. Countless men were falsely executed for his crimes, and Rathmore was able to continue for decades, never getting caught.

"In the height of his evil, he presented himself as a moral and educated man, becoming the most trusted adviser to a king of a past land. He was respected, admired, and trusted. No one ever knew who he really was. What he really was. But even though he became someone society looked up to, he was always pure and utter evil, so I will just skip to the story that caught him."

"But-" Rathmore tried to turn his neck to see behind his head-tried and failed. "Who have you brought to the Spider Web? Another husband for slaughter."

A swift kick into his ribs brought him to silence. "Rathmore always felt a misguided sense of entitlement. He wanted estates and gold and rewards-all of which his trusting king gave to him. But soon, the king announced that Rathmore was to be married to form an alliance with some wealthy influence or other. Rathmore protested-expecting to have the king's daughter instead so he could go on to be the next king-but the king refused, of course. And thank the gods she was spared."

She shook her head slowly. "Enraged at the marriage match the king had made for him, Rathmore killed the woman with insanity and brutality then fled. In his travels, he found a human village while their men were at war. He saw an isolated forest and viewed it as an opportunity for the most devious mass murder ever known.

"He slaughtered all the elderly males before he imprisoned all the women and their children in the town jail. He'd pick a woman at random and torture her for days before taking her out into the forest to die. He had the leisure to do such things in a town that was weeks away from anywhere else-and this did carry on for weeks."

Hatred shadowed her face. "When he finished with every woman, he then turned his attention on the children that hadn't already starved to death. He promised their mothers were waiting for them in the forest and told them that they were free to leave. He released the children and let them run into the woods. And they found their mothers ... swaying on the branches, hung up by their innards. Some children fled and ran deeper into the forest, searching for help or a way out. Others ..." She closed her eyes. "The other children stayed by the bodies of their dead mothers until they died at their feet. None of them ever made it out alive."

"I love you," Rathmore rasped. "I dreamed of you all my life. I knew who you were back then and wanted to be worthy of your notice."

She clenched her jaw, caressing her weapon like a feather. "He filled a forest, where many trees had someone hanging-"

"I dreamed of you all my life. I waited for you and only you-"

"Just shut up," she snapped. "Just ... just shut the fuck up so I can think." Quiet stole the room, her expression grave. "They say the forest still weeps to this day."

Everything within Frederick turned to acid. Every syllable had been more nauseating than the last. Abhorrent. Repulsive.

Unforgivable.

Her first strike was so quick he only heard the crack of Rathmore's back on the second.

Three.

Four.

Five.

"I. Love. Killing. Him. Every. Day," she breathed, each word punctuated by a blow. Over and over she struck, pure repugnance on her face. Never had Frederick seen a man whipped like that, not even the criminals in foreign lands. No man would be able to sustain this. Live through this.

But this man was a vampyre. And the ferocity of each strike ...

Every scream seemed to shred Rathmore's insides on the way out.

"If you would like to have at him," she said through gritted teeth, never slowing her pace, "I'm all for it."

He shook his head, knowing she would not be able to see it. Even if he did alleviate the instrument from her hand, punishing a man like that would never be enough. This Rathmore wouldn't suffer near enough what he deserved. A million lifetimes of torture would never atone.

So was it ambitious-foolish-to try? Was punishing someone like this worth losing one's humanity over? Frederick wasn't sure as he watched Arabella.

Rathmore was kept alive-and being alive meant hope. Someone like Rathmore didn't deserve to hope. But how could he tell her this? He could barely overcome his shock to manage to blink for a moment let alone formulate any rational words.

It must have been over fifty blows but she didn't cease. She kept going and going. Even when the instrument bent to an unusable angle, still, she beat him with it. Frederick's chest heaved and his heart thumped with strain, yet he couldn't look away.

Finally, the weapon slipped from her grasp, and she stilled as Frederick settled his hand upon her shoulder. "I no longer have the appetite to watch this, Arabella. Come away."

Alarm shot through him as he met her eyes, finding her face wet with tears. "Yes, I suppose I have done enough for one day. I am so very tired, indeed ..."

Gurgling bubbled from below, and Rathmore flailed like a fish to speak over his shoulder. "When I get out of here ... I'll kill you first, Frederick. It will be slow ... and painful ..." She struck his face, and he roared, "Then we can be together!"

Arabella lowered, took Rathmore's neck, and snapped. Killing him.

The silence that followed stifled. It was then Frederick noticed that red marred his clothes and wet his boots though she was covered in the brunt of it, the rest of it oozing like a river down the platform. How could one man hold so much blood? "Is he dead?"

She slashed her wrist and held it over the prisoner. Droplets landed on Rathmore's tongue, and she nodded once and stood back. "He is dead, but he'll come back." She watched his body as though expecting it to rise. "When you're fed vampire blood at the point of death, you relive the hours leading up to your death over and over until you're strong enough to return undead. That usually takes a night."

Frederick stared at Rathmore's body. "So he will die over and over tonight-relive this beating-then return until you kill him the next time?"

"Exactly." She looked up at him, the brown of her eyes dark and hollow like cave depths. "And that is worse than any punishment I can bestow on him. That's why we keep him and others like him alive. Because one death isn't enough."

She wiped her face with her knuckles, smearing blood along her cheek. "Just think of it. Dreaming of your torture several times over until you come back to life, screaming from the agony of it. Such a gift I bestow on these bastards."

"But why is this your burden, Ara? Why are you the one who metes out this punishment. If there is a Hell, then surely that's where all these people deserve to go."

"If there's a Hell," she repeated. "Do you believe there's a Hell, Frederick?"

He couldn't bring himself to answer.

"You know, I spent so many of the early centuries wondering if such a place truly existed," she said. "Civilizations have come and gone, and with them all sorts of gods and religions, but one thing remains the same, and it's this idea of Hell. This concept of Hell has remained the same since I was alive no matter what the belief or society. And the more and more I saw of the world, the more I realized I just couldn't afford to take that chance. Because what if there is no Hell? What if nothing happens to us when we die-when we truly die."

An eerie calm stole her features. "I'm the closest being to death on this earth and yet, I still have no answer for what happens next. And the longer I stayed trapped here, the more the sky reddened, and I realized this is Hell. It's right here. Right now. And I'm stuck in the center of it. No, I might never know if there's an After or Beyond, but I can guarantee that those who deserve to be punished will be punished right here and now. Because some people truly deserve to suffer for what they've done, and I can't take the chance that they won't suffer enough."

"It doesn't have to be you," he said hoarsely. "It takes a toll on you, and you don't even know it."

"I'm well aware of the toll it takes on me, Frederick. I'm not blind to it. Not even the humans can stomach what they pay us to do-but we still need them to pay us to do it. Every other country supports their economy through trade-spices, riches, resources, military. But us?"

She shook her head. "This land has nothing. Nothing. And my people need the same things your people do-food, shelter, water. The Carnelians are my responsibility, so what else can I do but trade for their wellbeing? Unfortunately the only thing I have to offer in the field of trade is pain and punishment. That's the only thing the humans wanted from me, and that's the only thing I can give them."

She paused. "Alas, I am rich beyond my wildest imaginings, and still, I have nothing to show for it. I could spend every piece of gold and get nowhere. I'll never make the world I want to make. Not even if I go on to live until the end of time."

Frederick cleared his throat, unable to stop himself from asking, "If you could leave it all-all of this and the Carnelians-would you do it?"

She blinked. "I can't afford to even entertain that thought. If I don't keep the Carnelians in line, who will?"

"I only meant-"

"Who would stop them, Frederick? I don't think you quite understand how much worse this world would be-how bad the Star would become-if I leave it all behind. The humans can't possibly remember but I will never forget what the world used to be like. If I don't appease the Carnelians, then gods help you all."

He drew back, the very air snatched out of his body.

If I don't appease the Carnelians, then gods help you all.

Her eyes no longer saw him as they traveled over his face, her mind elsewhere. "So this is what I do to earn coin, dear husband. Do you think me wicked, evil, depraved?"

Frederick ... didn't know. "It's not my place to comment."

"Well," she said, streaking her blood-soaked hand through her hair, dampening her temples, "you wanted to know my business, my business is Hell." Her leather-clad fingers strained for his but they didn't touch. "And if you think that bitch Tessande can have even one of my prisoners, you're wrong. The only way she'll get in here is when she becomes a part of my collection."

He shook his head, hating the volume of his voice as he said, "And what would she have done to deserve that?"

"She betrayed me, and that's enough. You can only imagine what I do to traitors, Frederick." Arabella's mouth spread into a terrifying grin, reminding him that she was the monster that all these monsters feared.

And her power thrummed through the room in an invisible tidal wave, disturbing pebbles and stone. The screams of prisoners echoed all around the dungeon.

He knew now that there was so much more to fear, and the knowledge of that tightened his guts into knots of terror. Tonight was a mere glimpse of what she was capable of. Who she really was.

Deliverance of pain and punishment.

Queen of Hell.

And Frederick would always be the traitor that stood in her midst.