Her demand to speak to Dawnthorne was met sooner than she’d expected. Considering her status as a so-called guest, and their last encounter, she’d expected him to make her cool her heels. Tension gripped her while she waited, an ache in her jaw. She knew Amnan was alive because their bond, thin as it was, was growing and the flashes of anger and pain she’d sensed the previous night were gone, replaced by a calm hum. Almost as if he was waiting, just like her.

One moment she was standing in her room alone, staring out of the window, and the next her instincts roared to life and she turned. Dawnthorne stood near the door, eyes bright and hard as polished river stones. His hair flowed around his shoulders, the occasional strand moving in a nonexistent breeze. The kind of breeze caused by suppressing temper induced magic.

“You wished to speak to me,” he said, “and as you are a guest here, I have chosen to honor your request instead of killing you.”

His threat didn’t faze her. If he’d wanted her dead, there had been plenty of opportunities. “Where is Amnan?”

“The dragon is alive, and unmolested.”

She tensed, an automatic reaction she stifled. “What does unmolested mean?” She wanted to be very clear.

His hard eyes narrowed fractionally. “Your strength is impressive for a mere spawn, and I cannot fault you for attempting to defeat me. Once. If you try it again, I will give you the same lesson I have had, at one point, to give each of my scions.”

“And what lesson is that, Dawnthorne?”

He ignored the question. “You are here because it is the law, not because I desire your presence. I am obedient to my Lord, the way you must be obedient to me—who is now your Lord. We will test your strength to determine your status within my household, and to make your presence known amongst us. Whether you become meat or earn respect is entirely up to you.”

“Where is Amnan?”

He turned towards the door. ”If you behave civilly, I may return your dragon to you. For a moment or two. Serephone, if you try to leave, you will be stopped. And your punishment will be unpleasant. Until you prove you are untrustworthy, you are not a prisoner in this room. But do not try my hospitality.”

“Is it really hospitality if I’m supposed to live here forever?”

He paused before closing the door behind him, nodded to acknowledge her point, expression sardonic, and left.

* * *

Her sister came to see her not long after. Serephone figured Anissa had been monitoring to make sure she didn’t try to escape, or kill anyone again.

“The Lord spoke with you?” Her sister asked after entering. “How did it go?”

Serephone shrugged, outlined the conversation.

Anissa let out a breath. “Well. You must have amused him more than you angered him. I was certain he would punish you.”

“Maybe he will, and is biding his time. Wants something from me.” Serephone was certain of it, the more she thought. The fae was being too careful, too polite. But she wouldn’t say anything more to Anissa. Sister or no, the woman wasn’t loyal to her. Serephone had to remember that. It was hard. Her natural suspicion of strangers was countered by her natural trust of her family—and family was all in her elder sister’s face.

Except she didn’t trust her father one iota. That was easy enough. At least he kept his distance, and didn’t seem inclined to press anything. “It’s been two days,” she said. “I need to know where Amnan is.” The edgy need to see him was increasing. They hadn’t returned her clothing to her, and thus her little darlings, nestled in the tiny pockets sewn into the sleeves and hems, so she couldn’t even send them to hunt.

“Be patient,” Anissa said. “Obedience is rewarded. Defiance is punished.”

“I’m a little tired of that word.”

“We live by that word, here. You have to understand—the fae have power, and with the influx of human blood centuries ago, our Lines increased. The Lords must rule with an iron fist, or we will become a danger not just to ourselves, but to others. The conflicts in our homeland began because there were too many of power, bored and ambitious, with no one they feared to keep them in control. And look what happened. Now we’re trapped here.”

Serephone looked at Anissa. “It’s not the fault of the fae the dimensions ripped and the gates closed.”

“It’s not?” Anissa rose. “Search for your Amnan. The Lord will not stop you. Just be prepared for opposition.”

Serephone stared at her, cool. “He won’t punish me?”

“Opposition will be punishment enough.” Anissa’s smile was brittle, and beautiful. “I doubt your dragon has been left unguarded—and those guards will have their orders. They may not kill you, though.”

That was enough of an encouragement to send Serephone on a hunt.

* * *

“Where you going, Auntie Sere?”

Serephone halted, startled by the name. Only her sisters and mother called her Sere. To hear it here, and on the lips of a girl, who was her niece.…

“I’m hunting a dragon,” she said.

She’d begun her search outside the building, searching for hidden or discreet entrances. They hadn’t brought him through the front door—a tall, delicate vase and a painting on the wall still hung, untouched. The floors unscratched by claws or a scuffle. Surely there would have been some signs. And besides, bringing a prisoner in through the front door was uncouth. She just couldn’t imagine Dawnthorne according an intruder that kind of respect. They would have taken him through a different entrance, most likely as close to where he was now being held as possible.

The little girl skipped closer, two braids over her shoulders, a sly smile on her face. “I know all the secret spots. I’m the youngest here. No one can catch me if I don’t want to be caught.”

This girl would be a terror when she was older.

“I’m on a scavenger hunt for doors,” Sere said, casual. “I wanted to count all the doors to the house, even the ones that are secret.”

Iona watched her, eyes knowing. “You want to find the dragon man.”

Serephone smiled, widening her eyes. “I love to play hide and seek. Where do you think he’s hiding?”

“I could find out. Thorny would be maaaad.”

Serephone stifled a sigh. Thorny would, indeed, be mad. And she couldn’t subject a child to possible danger if, as Iona’s mother said, there was a special surprise awaiting Serephone’s attempt to rescue the ‘dragon man.’

“I don’t want Thorny mad at you,” she said. “Can you draw me a map in the dirt?”

Iona frowned. “I want to come, too.”

“Your mother would kill me.”

“That’s right. She would. Okay.”

Iona ran along the path until she found a garden bed she liked, then crouched down, sticking her fingertip in the moist earth. Serephone glanced around, kneeling next to the girl as she began gathering bits of stone and leaves, using her finger to create a crude map. She’d gathered the stone and leaves without touching them. Serephone stared.

“All the stones are doors. The leaves are where Thorny has babysitters.” Iona scowled.

“Babysitters?”

“Men with sticks that keep girls out of places they don’t belong.”

It sounded like Iona was mimicking someone—Serephone wondered if it was Thorny.

“Guards, you mean. Good. That’s good information, Iona. You’re good at this game.”

Her conscience pricked her, just a bit, but she had a sneaky feeling the girl knew exactly what she was doing. Serephone remembered being that age. She remembered Cinvarra being that age. And Cinvarra had been far from stupid, or naive. Their mother hadn’t wanted them raised innocent, just protected.

“When you find the dragon man will he let me pet him?” Iona asked, standing and wiping her hands on her dress.

“I don’t think that’s likely. But we’ll think of some kind of reward. Dragons hoard treasure, don’t they?”

Iona nodded, satisfied. “I like treasure. The more sparkly, the better.”

* * *

Serephone sent Iona on her way and spent another two minutes studying the map, committing the markers to memory, trying to visualize the translation between a child’s interpretation of distance and landmarks and reality. From the map she estimated there were several entrances; the front door, a kitchen side door for staff and deliveries, another side entrance that led to private gardens and a fourth entrance Iona had dubbed the hidden entrance. She’d drawn a square a distance from the main house.

Serephone followed the mental map, strolling, pausing now and then to examine some piece of intricate architecture or a bit of the landscaping, playing her part as the curious house guest giving herself a tour. She circled the house—a mansion, really, and as she looked up, counting windows, she estimated at least eight bedrooms. And those were just the rooms with windows facing the outside.

Circling farther and farther outside the perimeter of the main house, it became obvious once she’d turned a corner and began strolling down a walking path perpendicular to the main driveway leading from the front gate, that Iona’s square represented a small stone house sitting quaintly in the middle of the formal gardens. The kind of thing a guest might mistake for a storage shed for gardening tools.

A fountain nearby gave Serephone an excuse to sit, trailing her fingers in the water as she looked around, enthusiastic interest on her face. She had to take care not to overdo it, though. She wasn’t enthusiastic about anything by nature, and certainly in this circumstance looking too pleased by her present circumstances would raise suspicions. She didn’t think for one moment that she wasn’t being watched, even if haphazardly. Dawnthorne would assume, either from his own arrogance or mistaken conclusion of her loyalty towards Amnan that she would not try to escape. Or maybe the strength of his wards around the home assured him she could not escape, so watching her was unnecessary. After all, what harm could a mostly human spawn do?

She’d be happy to show him, but that would be for another time. The matter of getting to the bottom of his role in sending traffickers to her home town was still in the back of her mind. Not the most pressing issue, but it still needed resolution. And she needed Amnan for that resolution because Serephone knew she could not kill Dawnthorne on her own. Even if the fight was just between him and her, without his people throwing their weight behind their Lord. The grim thoughts smoothed some of the fake pleasantness from her expression, which was just as well since grim thoughts were about what any person would expect from her at this point.

She rose, drying her fingers on her thigh and strolled towards the stone shed, acting as if she were simply curious about the structure. Trying the door, she found it to be locked. Of course. But that wouldn’t stop her for long. Her spiders might be locked away from her, but she had other small skills.

Touching the handle on the door, pleased to find the metal was made from silver or at least a mixture of silver but no iron, she sent a jolt of her magic to nudge the lock. She smiled when it clicked, not quite ignoring the niggling doubt that this had been far too easy. Perhaps. But what was she going to do about that? She couldn’t turn back, not if this led her to Amnan.

The door opened, revealing a small, dark room with shelves on either side that were indeed stocked with gardening supplies…and a set of stairs in the middle of the room leading down under the ground. She closed the door behind her, raising a hand in front of her face. The darkness was absolute, but her magic lent a subtle glow that was enough for her sharper-than-human eyes to see by.

Descending the staircase, her other hand felt along the rough stone wall. It was barely wide enough for two people to descend shoulder to shoulder. If they had brought Amnan this way, it hadn’t been while he was in dragon form. But she’d heard the dragon roar before she’d lost consciousness. She counted the number of steps before her feet hit packed earth. Glancing over her shoulder, she estimated she was at least two stories underground. Had this basement already been present when he’d built his home, or had he constructed it himself? She’d heard of the basement remnants of old buildings being converted into bomb shelters and hidden with new construction.

The hallway was no more lit than the stairs down, but the rough stone walls smoothed into a texture she recognized as poured concrete. Which answered her question. Concrete wasn’t used in construction anymore. Dawnthorne had built his estate on top of old pre-War buildings.

A supposition that proved true when the end of the hallway stopped at a steel door. She placed her hand on the knob, and turned.