Shoot-away was more like it.

But good ol’ Dave didn’t have to worry about his black market business’s balance sheet anymore, so Sahvage was considering the debt discharged.

As he came back out, he stared at Dave—and took a minute to think about the nature of dead bodies. The next thing he knew, memories he had been trying to mentally outrun overtook him on a tackle that landed him smack back into the past.

• • •

Within the confined space of his coffin, Sahvage gathered his wits, marshaled his strength. There was the temptation to thrash and batter, yet he could sense naught of where he was. He smelled no dirt, and he took that to mean he had not been buried. Beyond that? He was sure of nothing.

No sounds gave him cues. No particular smells, either.

Other than the fresh cut of the wood planks that surrounded him.

There was no calming himself to dematerialize. No sufficient measure of self-control to be mustered as his heart thundered for all that had to be occurring for Rahvyn. Thus he fashioned his palms upon the lid’s underside, and with ever-increasing force, pushed, pushed, pushed—

The nails sang and squeaked, but yielded before the pressure, the lid lifting a crack, air entering, even as no light did. One deep breath suggested a location that made little sense, though as he could have been under six feet of earth, he would take the scents of flour and oats o’er raw dirt. And just as the lid popped free of its many moorings, he grabbed its edge so as to not make a clatter—

With a hiss, he bit his tongue to quell calling out as his hand was scored by the teeth of the nails. The smell of fresh blood sprang into his nose as his flesh wept, and he prayed that this food-storage area was free of drafts that would carry his scent unto the noses of others.

As he lifted his torso from its recline, he was of care with the lid, setting it aside silently—

Something fell from his chest. Beads? It sounded like marbles.

Feeling about, he encountered a wad that was damp and disturbing. His blood? Someone else’s?

He couldnae worry about that right the now.

Across whatever space he was in, there was a door . . . he could see the glowing outline created by its loose fit, and though the illumination did not carry far, it was a sufficient grounding whilst he stood up slowly.

Now Sahvage breathed more deeply, more evenly, and his sense of smell confirmed certain gastronomic basics: Again, the flour. Spices of some kind. Further grains.

A dry storage room. And there was such evident abundance that it could only be within Zxysis’s castle.

An unlikely venue for any coffin, but that gentlemale would need Sahvage’s to be kept hidden. As a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, his remains would be considered sacred by his brothers, something to be reclaimed and promptly ahvenged. But herein, secreted amongst stores for the use of the aristocrat’s servants, of whom all were dependent upon the lord for his beneficence? The doggen would say not a thing and would ask no questions. Nor would anyone searching for aught of a coffin description think to look here.

As he went to step out of the casket, he discovered two further details: He had nothing on his feet, and a loose robing upon his body. A quick inspection of his form yielded no remarkable points of pain, the arrows having been removed at some point, whate’er damage done by them already healed. Pausing for a moment, he lifted his head and offered a quick prayer of gratitude unto the purebred Chosen from whom he had fed a mere three nights before.

Without her strength? He would surely have expired.

Turning unto the door frame, he resolved to find his cousin. And worried about how long he had been sleeping. Through the day? Through a day and a night?

There were crates and burlap bags in his way unto the exit, and he listed and lurched around them, attempting to keep both his balance and his silence in the darkness, in the unknown course of obstacles. When he came upon the hearty oak planks in their vertical alignment, he pressed an ear unto them and ceased his own breathing.

Naught upon the other side, that he could hear or scent.

As he cast a hand to the jamb, in search of latching, he prayed there was one on the interior—

When he found the metal pin and rod, he lifted the bolt with care and cracked the portal. Pale stone walls suggesting a hall, alit by torches. No sounds. No scents. Or at least none of either that alarmed his instincts.

Leaning out, he regarded the hallway in both directions. Then he glanced at the robing that covered him. Black feathers, matted with some kind of dampness, fell to his feet in a clump, along with some pebbles of some sort, and he had a whiff of something he could not place. Touching the front of the robing, he then brought forth his fingers. They were stained with something red. His blood. But what else—

As a whiff of astringent tingled his sinuses, he realized what had been done.

Zxysis and his guards had marked his body with magic, to keep that which was not a warlock—and was not in fact deceased—dead. No doubt so that they could prepare a hidden grave for him.

Their misguided determination of his status, on both of those levels, would have been laughable had they not had Rahvyn in their clutches.

Stepping out, Sahvage retrieved a torch from its iron seat upon the stone and went unto the right, following a faint trail of fresh air. As he padded along in his bare feet, he attempted to remember the castle’s layout. He had been within Zxysis’s seat of power for festivals from time to time, back before Rahvyn’s special nature had begun to assert itself. But he had never been down herein. What did it matter, however. He would find a weapon, even if he had to makeshift one, and he would locate his dearest cousin.

And then he would force her to leave this hamlet with him, even if he had to tie her to the saddle of his warhorse.

After that? When he was assured of her safety?

He would return and slaughter them all.

As his destiny became not only clear but inevitable, he was not unaware that it would split him from the Black Dagger Brotherhood. But he could not involve them. This was his right, and his duty unto his cousin. He would accept no aid, and when the Council balked at his actions? They would go to his brothers and seek retribution of their own.

And ’round and ’round it would go. Yet he would not be dissuaded nor would he seek any permission for his actions. So from now on, he was rogue.

Mayhap it would be best if all believed he was deceased.

It was as this thought occurred . . . that he slowed to a halt. Looking back at where he had come from, he found that he had gone some distance without encountering any member of the vast household. Moreover, the resonant silence all around sank properly into his consciousness. He cursed. Indeed, it must be the day, in which case a rescue of his cousin was going to be complicated by sunlight’s ever-present threat—

A portal opened and closed farther down the corridor, and the blast of fresh air must have been a doggen coming in or departing, for that subspecies of the race was not affected by the rays of the day. As footsteps approached him, he whispered unto a door and was relieved when he opened it and discovered another storage room. Ducking in, he waited, and as the servant passed, he stayed still and silent.

When things were clear, he leaned out once again and frowned.

That was not the scent of a doggen. That was a male vampire.

Thus it had to still be night?

Picking up his pace, he continued on, following the corridor to its terminus before ascending one set of steps and then another. And still the silence persisted, up above, all around. Where were the castle’s inhabitants?