Chapter 1

A Gift from the King

Fear is the lock that binds you, but it is also the key.

From his gold-trimmed throne, flanked by two guards and safely out of my range, the king peered at me, his Hand of Death and the only remaining Wyra in existence. “Rise, Garret,” he said. King Yanthos was one of the few people who addressed me by name. Most preferred to avoid me entirely, and I liked it that way.

Sunlight streamed through the room's large ornate windows, casting a long shadow next to me as I stood.

King Yanthos smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, his white beard lifting with the expression. “I have a gift for you,” he said, looking pleased with himself as he waved his hand, gesturing to a thin boy, urging him forward. The curly-haired boy, wearing slave’s rags, shuffled slowly toward the center of the room, then stopped a safe distance from me, with his eyes on the ground. “This is Zayne,” said King Yanthos in presentation before addressing the boy. “Zayne, say hello to your new master.”

Zayne turned to me, fear evident in his eyes, the smell of it radiating from him even more prominent. “Hell- hello, Master,” he said, trembling. His skin was dirty and his hair disheveled, but looking at him more closely, I guessed he was probably a young man, despite his diminutive stature.

I turned back to the king. “A slave, Your Majesty?”

“Why not? You have no one to take care of your home, and I thought he might be a nice reward.”

I’d eliminated an adversary who’d been a thorn in the king’s side for years. But being the king’s assassin, I brought death to many at his request, and he rarely granted me rewards for carrying out an extermination. Nor did I expect any. As it was, I lived in the largest residence on the grounds, second only to the palace, and grander than those of his council members and nobles alike. But despite the riches already bestowed upon me, it seemed King Yanthos wanted to show particular appreciation for this task.

I stared at the slave, at his frightened blue eyes and thin fidgeting fingers, scenting his fear, so potent it might bring forth my beast if I hadn’t made a kill recently.

My expression must have betrayed my unease because the king’s smile vanished. “Do you dislike him? I could find you another.”

“No, no, Your Majesty. It’s just unexpected. But I’m very grateful, Your Majesty.” I offered a polite bow. “It’s just his fear—”

“I have faith in you, Garret. You’ve shown your ability to control your hunger time and again. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have such a benefit. And if you kill him, well, he’s only a slave. I can always find you another.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” I nodded politely.

“And you’re sated, yes?”

“I am, Your Majesty.” The king provided me with men to kill whenever the need arose, usually deserving prisoners sentenced to death, sometimes vagrants or undesirables when no prisoners were available. Still, glancing at the frightened slave, I hoped I’d gorged on my last victim enough that he’d be safe with me. It would be nice to have someone around to take care of the house—if I could prevent myself from killing him.

The king’s smile widened, and he clapped his hands jovially. “It’s settled then.” He gestured to the slave, waving him toward me. “Go on then. Go with your new master.”

After another bow, I turned and left King Yanthos with Zayne trailing behind. The refined ladies and gentlemen, along with the guards outside the throne room, hastily parted as I exited, their eyes darting away. Slipping into a passage rarely used by others, I guided Zayne down a short hallway before descending stone steps that led into the tunnels between the palace and my residence. I grabbed a spare torch and lit it with one on the wall, then traversed the lengthy corridor, passing several openings until we reached the one that led to the basement of my home. I doused the torch, relying on another that remained lit in the corridor for visibility. I had enhanced eyesight, so I needed little light anyway.

A wide stone archway framed a small alcove that contained the door to my basement. Though it had a lock, it boasted a sign that said “Hand of Death” in large letters to ward off anyone who might foolishly think of attempting entry. Once inside, I led Zayne past my stock of wine barrels and whiskey casks, then gestured to an old prison cell in the back of the room, a remnant from the jail that used to be where my home stood now. “This is where you’ll sleep and where I’ll keep you when I don’t need you.”

“Ye-yes, Master,” he said softly with his blue eyes focused on his new quarters.

The basement was cool and dank with its gray stone walls and floor. But the cell contained a cot, along with a rickety side table and a three-legged stool.

“I’ll get you a pillow and blankets, along with an oil lamp and a bucket to relieve yourself.”

“Th- thank you, Master.” Sweat beaded on his brow, and he continually fidgeted, rubbing his thumbs together nervously.

I looked him up and down. “How old are you?”

His busy hands stopped while he answered. “Twe-twenty-two, Master.”

So, he was a man, but more youthful in appearance than most his age. At least he knew his age. I envied that, as I didn’t know my own. I appeared to be in my late twenties. But I’d been a Wyra for thirty years and didn’t seem to age.

“Do you stutter all the time, or is it just your fear of me?” I asked.

He curled in on himself. “I- I’m sorry, Master. I’m just- just—you’re the Hand of Death.”

“I am, and fear entices me. You’re going to have to learn to control it.”

I never understood why people feared the sight of me to such a degree. Yes, I had a reputation for being a monster. Rumors of executions I carried out for King Yanthos spread quickly after my missions. People whispered about bloodless victims with flesh torn and eaten until they were nearly unrecognizable. But almost no one had seen my beast form and lived to talk about it.

In human form, I looked ordinary enough. Maybe larger than most men. Fiercer too. Intimidating? Surely. But people often feared me on sight as though they were seeing me in beast form. The young man before me was no exception. He’d better get over it in time.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“Not- not today, Master.”

It was late afternoon, so he’d gone most of the day without food. If he was going to be able to serve me, I couldn’t allow him to starve. “Come. There’s some food upstairs. I’ll show you around.” I turned and walked past the wine and whiskey to the stairs that led to my residence.

We ascended into the foyer, a palatial space with marble floors and a grand piano I never learned to play. Turning right, we passed through an arch that led down a hallway to my well-appointed kitchen with two coal-fired stoves, an enormous icebox, more cupboards than I’d ever use, and an extraordinary collection of copper pots that hung over the huge marble-topped worktable in the kitchen’s center. “You’ll have your meals there.” I gestured to a small plain two-seater table to the side. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Only a little, Master.”

“You’re to learn then. You’ll get vegetables and herbs from the potagerie, and meats from the palace kitchens. And control your fear. I can still smell it.”

“Ye- yes, Master.”

“When I’m done showing you around, check the cupboards and familiarize yourself with everything.” I pointed to a bowl on the worktable. “And you can help yourself to that fruit. Eat as much as you like.”

“Tha-thank you, Master,” he said with surprise in his voice.

By the looks of him, whoever owned him before had barely fed him. Unlike many masters, I’d allow him to eat freely, including the meals he’d cook for me. Other owners fed their slaves scraps or days-old food. I never understood that. If I was going to have a slave, I wanted him to be strong and healthy so he could serve me to the best of his ability. Keeping him well fed only seemed logical.

I led him through the kitchen to my formal dining hall with its intricately carved heavy wooden table surrounded by ten hourglass chairs, each upholstered in silk. Mine, a fancier high-backed chair with comfortable armrests, stood at the head of the table. I looked at my long mahogany bar to the left, its rear cabinetry filled with a myriad of bottles behind panes of etched glass. “Are you familiar with bars and alcohol?”

“N- no, Master.”

“Your fear, Zayne. I can still smell it. And you’ll learn how to make my drinks as well.” I glanced at the massive smooth-stoned fireplace, one of several in my home. “Do you know how to light and tend fires?”

“I do, Master.”

At least he knew something.

We crossed the rear portion of the foyer, and I opened the heavy walnut timber double doors of my library. The library housed my writing desk, strewn with letters covered in flowing calligraphy, letters to no one that I’d never send. Grand bookcases framed by barley twist columns and accented with finely detailed wildlife sculptures filled the walls from floor to ceiling, broken only by the massive fireplace and a set of three arched stained-glass windows that let in light in a kaleidoscope of colors. “This is where I spend a good deal of my time,” I said as we walked past the burgundy wingback chairs in front of my fireplace.

We passed a large table that occupied the space near my rear wall of books, one I used to lay out and review maps, and went through an archway into what would normally be a sitting room. I never had guests, so I’d converted it into my workspace where I carved wood and made candles. “And this is the other room where I spend a lot of time,” I said.

His eyes rested on the sculpture I had in progress. With brows scrunched, he looked quizzically at the wooden stump with half a head and ear tufts. “It’s going to be an owl when I’m done with it,” I said. His eyes widened—a hint of surprise. I supposed most people wouldn’t expect the Hand of Death to create art. He took in the room’s tall windows adorned in heavy drapery with golden tassels, and scanned the series of artistically carved candles lining the shelves behind my work area.

“Come,” I said, and returned to the foyer. I turned to him once we reached the staircase to the second level. “Those are the rooms I use on this floor. You’re not to go into any of the others.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, I climbed the stairs. On the upper floor, I pointed out the doors to three of my eight guest bedrooms, then entered my chambers.

We traversed over the plush cream carpet, past my hand-carved grand canopied bed, into my lavatory. I gestured to the tub and said, “You’ll bathe here and launder your clothes in the washtub out back.”

“Bathe? Here? Bu-but…”

I turned to him. “What is it?” Based on his expression, I guessed he’d never seen a gold accented porcelain tub set into a marble surround, let alone bathed in one. I could have had him bathe in the downstairs lavatory, or in one of those attached to the myriad of guest rooms I never used. None were as extravagant as mine. But I saw no reason to dirty more than one washroom in the house.

“No- nothing, Master.”

“Then get to it. I’ll see if I can find you some other clothes in the meantime. You can eat after you wash.”

I returned to the palace to locate one of the king’s servant girls. They’d be able to find a set of clean slave’s rags for him.

Leaving him alone was a risk. He might try to escape. But he wouldn’t get far on palace grounds, and I was the Hand of Death. Attempting escape wouldn’t end well for him. I suspected he knew as much.

***

Zayne was so drenched in fear, he was a chronic source of enticement and, within two days of having him in my home, I had to visit King Yanthos to request a prisoner I could enjoy. The kill sated me, but not for long. When I returned covered in blood, Zayne’s fear only increased, a scenario that repeated many times throughout his first month of service to me. He continued to tremble in fear and sweat constantly to the point that I killed twice as many men than usual that month just to avoid killing him.

I also visited Nadya, one of the king’s servant girls, far more often than usual in an effort to reduce my need. No one understood how or why, but sexual release was the only thing besides killing that could sate a Wyra, though it was a poor substitute in comparison. Still, it was better than nothing, and the king had only so many prisoners.

The king’s servant girls were among the few in the palace who’d interact with me, and the only ones who’d dared have relations with me. Nadya was my third since I’d become a Wyra, and I’d been bedding her for years. I enjoyed our time together, though I had no emotional attachment to her. It was said my kind couldn’t experience the full range of human emotions, nor could I always understand, recognize, or interpret the emotions of others. Like Nadya, for instance. I couldn’t comprehend why she continued with me, what she got out of it. But she was always willing, and our interactions helped sate my need, so I didn’t question it.

Over time, Zayne learned I didn’t lay a hand on him, didn’t strike or discipline him unless he deserved it—maybe once or twice when I needed a kill and lost my temper. For the most part though, as long as he behaved, I didn’t harm him, and his fear lessened.

I also grew to enjoy him. He kept the house clean, laundered my clothes, learned how to cook my favorite meals, make my favorite drinks, even learned how to make the dye for my candle wax. He catered to my every want and need, often without requiring a command. When I asked him why he consistently exceeded expectations, he told me it was because he’d never been treated so well.

I, Garret Garrison, the Hand of Death, treated him better than anyone ever had. The irony wasn’t lost on me, and I doubted it was lost on him either.

One chilly evening, after he’d been with me for about three months, I rested in one of the lush velvet sitting chairs in my library while he brought logs in from the back and built a fire. Once the crackling flames warmed the air, I asked him to join me for a chat. We’d barely spoken beyond necessary exchanges, and I felt I should know something about this person living in my home. He gingerly sat in the chair next to me, and I asked him to tell me about his life before he came into my service.

“I was a sex slave, Master, owned by a nobleman, a hunter.”

My eyebrows arched. “A sex slave? To a man?” I knew such a thing existed, but I couldn’t conceive of using a slave for such purposes—and he’d said it like it was normal.

“To many men, Master. He used me and shared me with others.”

“Shared you? With who?”

“His friends. Other nobles, whoever visited. Anyone who wanted to use me.”

I blanched. I tried to picture myself in his position and couldn’t imagine it. Being forced to perform for and service other men—the humiliation of it alone made me shudder. “Wasn’t this nobleman married?” I asked. Most were, and I couldn’t understand the need to use a slave for sex if one had a wife.

“He was, Master. But that didn’t matter to him.”

“It must have mattered to his wife. Didn’t she know?”

“Yes, Master, and she hated me for it, blamed me for it. She’d yell at me and beat me all the time, saying that I took her husband from her.”

“Why would she blame you?”

Zayne shrugged. “I think because he preferred men, but didn’t know it until he owned me. Once he did, he never bedded her. Only me.

“And his sons,” Zayne continued with a scowl, “he had two—sixteen- and seventeen-years old—they would do all sorts of things to me. Like, sometimes when my Master shackled me outside overnight in the pen with the pigs, his boys would—”

“Outside with his pigs?” Considering how well behaved he was, I couldn’t see any reason for treating him in such a manner. Though I might engage in acts of torture, even I only did so when the victim was deserving—lest I be put to death like all the Wyra before me.

“Yes, Master,” Zayne answered. “He’d often make me sleep outside—with the pigs, with the goats. It didn’t matter. And his sons—I hated them so much, maybe even more than him. He’d beat and whip me, but they were even crueler.”

“Crueler how?”

“Well, they’d do things like wake me by… by pissing on my face.”

I wasn’t the type to react to many things, but my eyes widened at his words yet again.

“Then they’d throw rocks at me, or kick me and laugh. They’d do things to get me beaten, too, like mess up my work, or shove me into the pig’s shit or the slop troughs. Then my master’s wife would get angry about me being dirty, so my Master would whip me to make her happy.” He shrugged as though what he’d been through was inconsequential. But even with my limited grasp of human emotions, I could see the contempt in his eyes.

“Not that he needed an excuse to whip me,” Zayne continued. “He carried a whip coiled at his belt all the time, one of those thin bull whips with the stingy tails at the end. He was always patting it, looking at me and patting it. So, I was constantly afraid, waiting for the next time he’d use it. And I didn’t even have to do anything wrong. He and his sons would…” He shook his head and pressed his lips into a flat line. 

“Go on,” I prompted.

“They just- they had these games. One was to put me in the middle of their grand salon while they sat around me with the whips in their hands. They’d tell me to dance, then laugh as I jumped from foot to foot trying to avoid their strikes.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, then down at the table between us. He refilled my empty glass with whiskey from a carafe he’d brought in earlier. By the time he finished, he appeared composed again. “Abusing me was their entertainment,” he said, his eyes more sad than angry now. “That’s why I’m so happy serving you, Master.” He smiled a little through his sadness.

For some reason, the fact that he’d been treated so horribly pained me. I didn’t enjoy the company of others, didn’t feel sympathy for them, and suffered no remorse for those I killed. So, the feelings I had for him perplexed me. But, after hearing his stories, I swore to myself that I’d never lay a hand on him again, never hurt or abuse him in any way.

We spoke a while longer, and I learned he’d been with that family for nine years—suffered nine years of abuse at their hands, and he wasn’t the only one. His owner, Lord Saggart, used to whip his animals, too, even their dog, and they had a maid for a while who simply disappeared one day never to be spoken of by the family again.

His previous owner, another nobleman, hadn’t been physically abusive, at least not in the same way. But the man used him for sex as far back as he could recall, early into his childhood. He never knew a day of freedom and, like me, he didn’t know his parents or where he came from. We had that in common, and it made me feel as though he could understand something about me no one else could.

***

Conversing with Zayne became a nightly affair after that first evening, and I learned more and more about the brutality he suffered at the hands of his former owner and the man’s sons, especially his sons. The things they’d done to him were horrific, the humiliations they’d made him endure, some of which stretched beyond even my own inventive cruelty. They’d used him sexually as well, often together, though they’d hid those acts from their father.

Zayne asked many questions about my carvings and candle making, and spent several evenings watching me do both. Eventually, I showed him my formal ballroom, a gigantic space filled with the carvings I’d made over the past thirty years. He looked at the vast array of sculptures, from those the size of a fist, to those taller than him, in wide-eyed wonder, and told me I should show them to the world.

“But why?” I asked.

“So people won’t fear you as much.”

I gave him a neutral glance but said nothing. No need to tell him I enjoyed that people feared me, that it smelled like a sweet and tempting intoxicant. Though I didn’t want him to fear me, didn’t want him to tempt my beast, and found myself feeling pleased that the scent of his fear had become less prominent.

I grew to enjoy his company more by the day, too, especially our evening conversations, though they were sometimes awkward. Conversing with anyone was unusual for me, so I supposed that was to be expected.

Several weeks later, King Yanthos sent me on another mission to eliminate an adversary who’d plotted against him, one rumored to be hiding in the forest a short distance from Oxwick, the city in which we resided. Because we were going to be scouting the woods, I had Zayne pack extra provisions, enough for two. Since his former master was a hunter, I brought him thinking he might be of some use.

A palace wagon took us along the king’s private road, a road I chose often to avoid the city and its many inhabitants. The wagon carried us until we reached the countryside. From there, we traveled on foot.

Zayne did well on what became “our” mission, aiding me in the hunt with few missteps. We found my prey in an isolated cabin, and Zayne waited outside while I eliminated him with great joy. He was one who was especially deserving of the kill, so I took my time torturing him beforehand, though I made sure not to get too bloody. We’d be returning to Oxwick and, even with taking the king’s private road, I didn’t want to risk being seen in such a state.

Before I finished with the man, I marked him with the crown of King Yanthos, etching deep lines into his chest with my talons. Then I carved a Y in its center, all the while basking in the delectable scent of fear in the blood that oozed from the lacerations I’d created. He gawked at me with a mixture of disbelief and terror when I licked the blood from the Y with a smile. By the time I granted him death, his blood tasted exquisite. I leisurely feasted on him, savoring his flesh as well as the delectable red nectar. But I left his chest intact so the crown would be visible to those who found the body. The symbol of King Yanthos would serve as a deterrent to others who would think to betray or sabotage him, and all would know he perished at the king’s Hand of Death.

We departed the cabin in the wee hours and began our return journey. But little light found its way through the forest canopy during the daytime hours, let alone at night when the moon was nothing more than a sliver of a crescent. I led the way, but even with my enhanced eyesight could barely see. I tread slowly and carefully, but not carefully enough. About halfway through our trek, I stepped onto what looked like flat ground but turned out to be vegetation that covered an opening. I slid, and Zayne reached out. Reflexively, I grabbed his arm, but I weighed at least twice as much as him. Instead of preventing my fall, I brought him with me, and we plummeted down a wide hole.

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