The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1199: Just Asking Questions

Owain strode through a heavy oak door that marked the boundary between the manor proper and the dungeons beneath, and the air grew even colder as he did. The stone walls here were older, rougher, and lacked any of the heavy tapestries that helped the halls above to retain their warmth. Torches burned in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the narrow corridor seem to writhe around him as the sound of his boots ringing on bare stone echoed down the hall.

Owain’s smile finally fell away completely. Down here, there were no servants to perform for, no nobles to charm, no witnesses to maintain his carefully constructed facade. Down here, there was only stone and shadow and the cold, and three prisoners who would answer for what they’d done to his woman.

The dungeons of Lothian Manor weren’t as extensive as the jail used by the sheriff and his constables in Lothian city, but they were sufficient for their purpose. A handful of cells, a guard room, and, most importantly, a space where a Lothian lord could conduct business away from the prying eyes and delicate sensibilities of the court above.

Owain flexed his hands as he walked, cracking his knuckles and savoring the familiar anticipation that came before violence. It had been too long since he’d been able to truly let loose, and his father’s final struggle had been disappointingly pathetic. Now, he finally had a target upon whom he could vent his pent-up fury.

Percivus had overstepped. The Inquisitor had tortured Jocelynn, his Jocelynn, the woman who would bear his sons and heir, and left her cousin to die in these very cells. Owain could have forgiven the death of the meddlesome Confessor if that had been all Percivus had done. The woman had the most annoying habit of inserting herself between him and Jocelynn whenever Owain’s actions threatened to cross the line of ’propriety.’

He could have forgiven Percivus for killing a Confessor and removing an obstacle to his pursuit of Jocelynn, but now, as if her ghost were somehow determined to continue her mission of frustration, Eleanor’s death became yet another barrier that Owain would have to overcome before he claimed his prize, and it was Percivus’s fault for letting Jocelynn’s cousin die down here.

And then the coward had fled.

The corridor opened into the guard room, where two men-at-arms straightened at his approach. Beyond them, Owain could see the row of cell doors, thick wood banded with iron. From behind one came a faint sound, the scrape of chain against stone and what might have been muffled curses or prayers.

"My Lord," the first guard said, bowing deeply to the man who had become the Marquis in all but name. "The, um, the prisoners are secured as you ordered. The acolytes in the first cell, the Inquisitor alone in the second," he said, struggling with the notion that they had taken members of the Inquisition captive.

Sir Gilander swore that this wouldn’t be a problem, that as long as they followed the orders of Marquis Owain, no harm would come to them for whatever happened here today. But the Inquisition had a reputation for rounding up anyone and everyone who could be involved in heresy, and one of the men most famous for leading those witch hunts and purging whole villages of heretics was in one of those dungeon cells right now.

"What about the tools?" Owain asked as a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Our guests are well-trained in this business. I wouldn’t want them to think that our hospitality was lacking," he said, smiling at his own joke as he watched the color drain from the guardsman’s face.

"Ev-everything is there, my Lord," the second guardsman stammered. "Exactly as you ordered, not one item missing."

"Good." Owain’s voice was soft, almost pleasant, as he looked toward the cells. "I’ll speak with the acolytes first. Unlock their door, but stay outside. I don’t expect trouble, but, you can never be too careful with fools who don’t understand their place and think they can rise above their station," he said, though it sounded like he was talking about more than just the men in the room.

The guard moved to obey, pulling a ring of keys from his belt. The sound of metal against metal echoed through the dungeon as he selected the right key and fitted it into the lock.

Owain stepped forward, his irritation with flower arrangements and seating charts falling away like a shed cloak. Down here, at least, he could deal with problems directly. Down here, there was no one who would stop him from taking what he wanted, how he wanted, not even the Holy Lord of Light that these spineless Inquisitors claimed to serve.

The lock clicked open, and the guard pulled the heavy door wide.

Inside, two young men in the unadorned crimson robes of acolytes of the Inquisition looked up with wide eyes and expressions of hope that quickly dissolved into dread when they realized that the Church had failed to come to their rescue. But then, why would it, when the Abbot in Maeril had fallen over himself to surrender them and Inquisitor Percivus once he learned that Bors had died and Owain was... displeased with what they’d done in Lothian city.

Now, the two men dangled from the shackles that bound their wrists. A chain running through an iron loop bolted to the ceiling pulled each man onto his tiptoes, stretching them out like sides of beef awaiting the butcher as the iron cuffs bit painfully into their wrists.

Niklas and Samlet. Percivus’s faithful hounds, who had assisted in every indignity inflicted upon Jocelynn and Eleanor. Just days ago, they’d stalked through the halls of Lothian Manor like crimson ghosts, bringing terror everywhere they went. They’d feasted like lords while giving Lady Jocelynn and Lady Eleanor less than kitchen scraps, and they’d watched even brave knights tremble when their master, Percivus, walked past.

Just a few days ago, they’d felt like they walked upon a holy path, paved with righteous fury, that would lead to their ascension to the exalted position of Inquisitor. Now, however, the tables had turned, and they found themselves in exactly the position they’d placed countless others in.

"I understand that it’s dangerous to let an Inquisitor speak," Owain said casually as he crossed the small cell to a rough wooden table covered with a variety of ’tools.’ "I’ve taken Inquisitors into battle against demons. I’ve seen them summon Holy Fire with just a few words. But you two aren’t Inquisitors. You’re just acolytes," he said as his eyes swept over the implements on the table.

"I also understand that Percivus never claimed that Lady Jocelynn or Confessor Eleanor committed any crime or spread any heresy," Owain said as he selected a set of thick brass rings, sliding them onto his fingers one at a time and admiring the way they gleamed in the flickering torchlight of the dungeon cell.

"The Abbot told Sir Gilander that the lot of you were ’just asking questions,"’ Owain said, flexing his fingers to adjust to the rings before picking up a short, curved blade that resembled a cook’s filleting knife.

"I have questions too," Owain said as he turned to face the acolytes. "Since I can’t risk letting Percivus speak freely, I’ll have to start with you two. You don’t mind, do you?" Owain asked with a malicious glint in his eyes as he raised the blade. "After all, I’m just asking questions..."