Page 73 of The Blood Queen

Samson is proof that there can be more to a Red Cap than bloodlust. And that these Red Caps are fools not to realize that.

Samson steps forward, creeping closer to the white tents now.

Soldiers sit strategically near a fire that casts more light than I’d like. It’s clear these are personal guards to keep people away from the golden tent. The first line of defense for the High Blade.

Samson stops dead, reaches behind him, and grabs my hand, squeezing hard. His reaction triggers my fight or flight, and my magic burns in me, spells to ride the wind and escape and spells to blast the camp warring with my mind if our cover is blown.

But no alarm sounds.

I follow Samson’s wide-eyed gaze to one of the men around the fire.

William Cecil, first Baron Burghley.

Samson’s father.

The man sits on a rock, balancing a sword on his lap and running a whetstone over the edge to sharpen it. Despite the fact that he’s now missing one arm, he has no trouble at all gliding the stone over the blade. Fortunately for us, his focus is so complete that he hasn’t felt our eyes on him.

“Samson?” I whisper, barely a breath.

He shakes his head, red hair vivid despite the night.

“Why couldn’t he have bled out?” he mutters. “Died? Why does he have to be here?”

Samson’s free hand bunches into a fist. He lets out a shaking breath.

He has only ever wanted his father gone; I have only ever wanted the opposite, if I’m honest.

Neither of us were given the father we needed.

Instead, we became who we needed.

With the white tents around the base so close together and so many Red Caps mingling near them, all attentive, all on guard, it will no longer serve us to creep along.

But we have to get past Samson’s father.

Samson strides forward, shoulders thrown back, confident of every step.

I mimic him. Sometimes the best way to blend into the crowd is to make yourself visible, make others believe you have nothing to hide at all.

I grip my dagger tightly beneath my cloak, ready at any moment to be spotted, to have to defend myself.

And I try not to think about the needle hidden in my bodice.

I will not be captured, I think, willing myself to believe my own thoughts. I will not be tortured.

Weaving in and around Red Caps and soldiers, we draw closer to Cecil than I would like. His aura is black with depression, streaked through by vivid red, full of hate.

Some men drown their sorrows with violence. It’s clear that Cecil is a powder keg, waiting to explode.

He stops sharpening his sword abruptly, straightening his posture and staring into the fire in front of him. Samson and I are mere meters away from him, and we both go utterly still. Cecil tips his face to the starry sky, and black washes away most of the red, grief drowning him.

I would feel sorry, but I know for what he grieves. Not his injured arm. He mourns the loss of the chance to kill us both himself.

Cecil turns his attention back to his sword, and Samson and I continue walking behind him, entering the inner circle of tents.

There are fewer people here but more fire. I keep a tight grip on my dagger as we approach the large golden tent in the middle. A nearby patrolling soldier is casually walking in the opposite direction, away from the tent and toward the side of the enormous standing stone it’s placed under.

The guard turns and eyes us. Perhaps not so casual a stroll. I turn my attention away, trying to act relaxed, like I belong here.