Prince Dario Dragona slammed his fist against the bar and glared at the tavern’s homely Warlochian server. “If this tankard runs dry one more time,” he slurred his words, “if I have to ask you to refill this ale again, I will scorch you where you stand. Is that understood?”

Blasted demons of the Forgotten Realm, didn’t the fool know that Dario was an immortal dragon? Hell, he was the blooded son of the most powerful king to ever defend the Realm, Demitri Dragona—and his superior biology, his advanced metabolism would kick out the alcohol almost as rapidly as he could consume it unless he swallowed the vile-tasting brew like water: fast, furious, and as if he were hell-bent on slaking an unquenchable thirst.

Which he was.

“Forgive me, my prince,” the disheveled warlock simpered, his face growing five shades of pale.

Dario snarled just to make his point, then threw back a fresh mug of ale and reached for another. “Bring me some whiskey, too,” he commanded. He could trade between the two until he was so loaded he didn’t know which way was up.

This time yesterday, he was the son of the prince of Warlochia; he had three cousins in Umbras; and he was second in line, behind Dante Dragona, for the throne of Castle Dragon. Now, twenty-four hours later, he was a bastard, sixth child of that sadistic animal, Demitri, if he counted Matthias Gentry and the uncle who’d committed suicide; his mother was a slut; and even if Prince Dante continued to claim him, he was third in succession behind Dante and Aurelio. He smiled—he had done that math well. And then he studied a wart on the server’s nose.

“My father is my brother,” he garbled. “And you should get that thing removed.” He palmed a dagger attached to his belt, and withdrew it from its sheath, pitching the blade into the top of the wooden counter. “I’ll do it for five gourds of whiskey.”

The server blanched, and he began to tremble. “My lord, please—don’t go tellin’ me things like that.” He eyed the tavern door with a nervous glance. “You’re half gone, and your tongue is loose. Allow me to fetch a more respectable mage, someone who can escort you back to the castle.” He surveyed the empty tavern and shivered. “Should you be travelin’ without your garrison?”

Dario laughed, and the sound was lewd, loud, and derisive.

He spun around on the bar stool, bent forward to fix his gaze on an empty table, and sent a sweltering blaze of fire across the tavern, scorching the fixture to ash. “I think I’m safe enough,” he muttered. And then he spun back around to face the Warlochian. “But you’re right, my tongue is loose.” He leaned so far forward their noses nearly touched and snarled, “I may have to kill you.”

The server gasped and jumped back.

And then he wet his pants, filling the small dank room with an acrid odor.

Dario grimaced, offended by the stench.

He reached for his dagger and palmed the hilt.

And that’s when the server dipped beneath the bar, fetched a full gourd of whiskey, and speedily removed the topper. He leaned toward Prince Dario, his hands shaking so violently he appeared to be afflicted, and raised the gourd in the air. “Open wide, milord. Allow me to ease your suffering.”

Dario opened his mouth to curse him, to protest, or to welcome his intervention—he wasn’t sure which one—and the warlock began to pour the fermented beverage down his throat in earnest.

Dario swallowed just as swiftly.

And as the whiskey burned, it soothed.

As his awareness waned, his burdened lifted.

“More,” he snarled, the moment the gourd was empty, and the server immediately obliged him.

Prince Dario Dragona, son of everyone—son of no one—lost count around the eighth or ninth gourd, and then the Spirit Keepers blessed him with oblivion, and his head hit the counter.

* * *

It was almost midnight when Kristof Nocturne, member of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, stepped in front of his wispy, ever-more-skeletal companion, Eliaz Griswold, eager to open the tavern door, usher the shadow inside, and ply him with as much ale as the male could drink. After all, Eliaz had a purse filled with three decades’ worth of coppers, and he was looking to buy an accomplice. Kristof smiled—come hell or high water, he would have that bounty. He would be everything Eliaz Griswold desired.

The dim lantern light of the Wild Witches Tavern offered a welcoming allure, compared to the night, and without glancing to the left or right, Kristof led Eliaz to a familiar table toward the back of the pub. He was just about to plant his rear-end onto a hard, unforgiving bench when he noticed something awry: The table that normally sat next to his usual roost was missing, the tavern reeked of smoke, and there were smoldering ashes all over the floor.

What the hell was going on?

He turned to regard the server, Godfrey—the Warlochian usually worked the bar on Wednesdays—and that’s when he saw the thick, silken mop of golden, honey-hued hair strewn across the wooden block in waves. That’s when he saw the perfectly tailored trousers, the lavishly embellished tunic, and the deep sapphire cloak, emblazoned with the signet from Castle Warlochia: a bloodred seal, embossed in gold, with a sapphire-eyed dragon in the center of the stamp. He saw an exquisite bejeweled dagger rising out of the counter, and nearly a dozen empty gourds scattered about the dragon’s head.

If luck be a lady of the night, then Kristof Nocturne had just gotten shagged.

“Kristof? Kristof Nocturne?” The server, Godfrey, called, placing the back of his thumb against his forehead and making a tent with his hand in order to see across the tavern in the dim lantern light. “If that be you, Kristof, I could use your help. The prince here, he—”

“Silence!” Kristof bellowed, his long, woolen cloak billowing behind him as his feet rose off the floor. He raised his arm, extended his hand, and splayed all five fingers, wide. Then he slowly closed his fist, stealing Godfrey’s tongue, and freezing the male in place with sorcery.

They had no time for an interloper.

He grasped a startled Eliaz Griswold by the arm, surprising him even further, and lowered his voice to a silken purr. “How quickly can you ride that mare back to your cottage and return with that stoneware jug, the one containing the soul?”

Eliaz yanked his arm away and took a cautious step back. “We are only here to talk, my eager warlock. I have not yet decided my chosen path.”

Kristof grabbed him again, more forcefully this time, spinning him around to face the bar. “Do you know who that is! Do you know what you are seeing?”

Eliaz narrowed his gaze on the drunkard at the bar.

“That’s the sovereign prince of Castle Warlochia’s only son, Prince Dario Dragona, and the dragon is drunk as a skunk. He’s unconscious,” Kristof explained, lest Eliaz remain too daft to comprehend… He dug his nails into the shadowmancer’s skin, piercing him through his tunic. “An opportunity like this will never come again. Eliaz, we have found a host for Prince Damian’s soul: a body capable of seeking—and carrying out—your delicious revenge. But you must be decisive, and you must act quickly. You must get to your cottage and retrieve the jug!” He glanced around the tavern and laughed, glorying in the fact that the inn was empty. “We are alone, and judging by those gourds, the prince may be passed out for hours—but we cannot take that chance. Go, Eliaz! And bring back that purse full of coppers. We will perform the necromancy tonight.” He didn’t add that he would prepare the prince’s body—and kill the server, Godfrey—while Eliaz was gone.

They didn’t have time for details.

And they couldn’t afford any witnesses.

Eliaz’s silver-blue eyes finally alighted with understanding, and his thin, cruel mouth curved up in a smile. “Great Lord of Vengeance, if I didn’t know better, I would swear my father was guiding my path. This is too good to be true.”

At that, Kristof shoved Eliaz toward the door. “And it won’t be true if you dally any longer. Go, boy! And ride like the wind.”