Chapter 1

A Gift from the King

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

As I knelt before the king, the beast curled in my gut, scenting the delicious fragrance of potent terror permeating the gilded throne room. The aroma didn’t come from the king, nor any of his two dozen guards who lined the great hall, their pike heads gleaming in uniform ranks. They’d grown accustomed enough to my presence that their fear remained subdued, a mere low hum of energy coupled with a faint scent. Nothing that would interfere with my control over the beast’s urges.

This terror, on the other hand, overwhelmed my beast’s senses. Rich and intoxicating, like the thick, heady rush we experienced when we entered the dungeon’s killing wing. He prowled restlessly within me, craving a second chance to play today. Always hungry. But we’d already made a kill, already sated his lust for blood and human flesh once, and the king wouldn’t permit two executions in one day.

Unless…

I so badly wanted to glance at the source of all that tantalizing terror. It had the scent of a man interwoven amidst the mouth-watering bouquet. Maybe the king had summoned me to give me a special prisoner, one who deserved the brutal and savage end only I could offer.

If not, I needed to get this meeting over with and return to the blissful solitude of my manor, where I could regain control.

The king sat upon his gold-trimmed throne on a high platform before me—flanked by two guards and safely out of my range. Even he didn’t want to be too close to his Hand of Death, the human-beast hybrid who carried out justice in his name.

“Rise, Garret,” he said, addressing me by name, one of the few who dared such a feat. Most people avoided me entirely, let alone addressed me, and I preferred it that way.

Despite my urge to whip around and pounce on the human male whose panic beckoned me, I lifted my head, keeping my eyes on the king. Sunlight streamed through the room's large ornate windows, casting a menacingly long shadow next to me as I rose to full height. My beast drank in the tension that rippled through every human in the room, and a ghost of a smile met my lips as we reveled in our superiority.

King Yanthos smiled wide, likely thinking he was returning a polite gesture, oblivious to the fact that my smile had nothing to do with courtesy. Foolish king. Even after three decades of me serving as his assassin and executioner, he still didn’t truly understand the beast.

His smile deepened the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, his white beard lifting with an air of self-satisfaction. “I have a gift for you,” he said, with the wave of a hand, gesturing toward someone outside my vision.

My eyes followed the gesture until they landed on a thin, curly-haired boy. Ah! The source. I inhaled deeply as his delectable scent washed over me. The beast went wild with excitement, certain this trembling morsel was a feast meant for him. The boy, wearing slave’s rags, shuffled hesitantly toward the center of the room, stopping a safe distance from me with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped inward, and his clasped hands shaking.

My smile grew until it became toothy, though I held my beast’s fangs at bay.

“This is Zayne,” King Yanthos said, reminding me of his presence and my very public location. Despite his snarling objections, I beat the beast back. As annoying as it was, we had to wait for the king’s permission. Even once we got it, the king wouldn’t allow a bloody execution in his gleaming great hall. So we had to hold back just a little while longer.

Then we would feast once again.

“Zayne, say hello to your new master,” King Yanthos urged.

What? The voice inside my head screeched in protest. Had he gone mad? I couldn’t be anyone’s master!

Zayne dared a quick glance. “Hel-hello, Master,” he stammered. 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.

But that wasn’t important. What was important were the king’s words. I turned back to him. “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 recently eliminated an adversary, but the king rarely granted me rewards for carrying out an extermination. Nor did I expect any. As it was, he paid me handsomely, and I lived in the largest residence on palace grounds, second only to the palace itself. Still, despite the riches he had already bestowed upon me, it seemed King Yanthos wanted to show particular appreciation for this task.

An appreciation I didn't share in the least.

I stared at the young man, at his frightened blue eyes and thin fidgeting fingers. My beast reveled in the slave’s weakness and insignificance. I locked my jaw, clenching my teeth to prevent my fangs—or any other part of the beast—from surfacing.

My expression must have betrayed my struggle—or at least my unease—because the king’s smile vanished. “I thought you would appreciate him. He’s a reward for your service, after all.”

“No, no, Your Majesty. I’m very grateful,” I lied, offering a polite bow. “It’s just that 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.”

Ten talons and two fangs weren’t enough reasons?

I stood dumbfounded as King Yanthos continued. “And if you kill him, well, he’s only a slave. I can always find you another.”

I nearly gaped; he’d left me with no argument. But why? Why saddle me, of all people—creatures—with a slave? No one else at the palace had a slave. Was this some kind of game? Or a test? There had to be an ulterior motive. King Yanthos did nothing without purpose.

Regardless, he’d given me no alternative, so I simply said, “Of course, Your Majesty,” then nodded politely.

“And you’re sated, yes?”

“I am, Your Majesty.” As much as I could be anyway. Though my beast’s hunger simmered like embers in the dark, always ready to reignite, especially when stoked by fear.

Then there was the perpetual need to kill, with or without the temptation of fear. Thankfully, the king provided deserving prisoners regularly—usually once per week—to sate my beastly desires. No shortage of prey for my beast.

Still, as I glanced at the frightened slave, doubt plagued me. King Yanthos might trust my control, but I didn’t, and they’d exterminated all the others of my kind for killing indiscriminately. So despite what the king had said, I felt confident killing the slave could result in my own execution, something I strongly preferred to avoid.

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, with Zayne and his overwhelming fear in tow. Refined ladies and gentlemen, along with the guards outside the throne room, hastily parted as I exited, their eyes darting away, their hearts pounding loud enough for my heightened senses to hear every beat. I held my breath as I strode past, purposely trying to avoid the compelling scent of their terror. No need to tempt my beast further. I was sure the little spit of a man behind me would do enough of that all on his own.

I slipped into a rarely used passage, guiding Zayne into the dim, winding tunnels beneath the palace. The air grew cooler, barely warmed by the flickering torches that cast elongated shadows against the stone walls. Three tunnels and two turns later, we reached the alcove entrance to my home. A crude wooden sign nailed to the door read “Hand of Death” to ward off any dullard foolish enough to think about attempting entry.

Inside lay my basement, its gray stone walls and floors lined with wine and whiskey casks, along with remnants of the old jail that used to be where my home stood now. I gestured to the iron-barred cell. “This is where you’ll sleep and where I’ll keep you when I don’t need you.” It was the furthest place from my bedchamber that I could think to house him, for both my sanity and his safety.

His blue eyes darted to the cell, then back to me, his hands twitching in front of his belly. “Y-yes, Master,” he said softly, though his voice cracked on the final word.

The cell contained a cot, along with a rickety side table and a three-legged stool. Sufficient accommodation for a slave. Still, I said, “I’ll get you a pillow and blankets, along with an oil lamp and a bucket to relieve yourself.” Simple enough tasks.

“Th–thank you, Master.” Sweat beaded on his brow, despite the basement’s dankness.

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 part beast for thirty years and didn’t seem to age, nor did I recall anything of my existence prior to the beast.

“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’d better 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 assassinations I carried out for King Yanthos spread quickly after the bodies were found. People whispered about bloodless victims with flesh torn and eaten until they were nearly unrecognizable. But no one except King Yanthos had seen my beast form and lived to talk about it.

Aside from two black lines on my cheeks that marked me as the Hand of Death, I looked ordinary enough in human form. Maybe larger than most men. Fiercer too. Intimidating? Surely. But people often feared me on sight almost as though they were seeing my beast. The young man before me was no exception.

Hopefully, he’d get over it soon, before my primal desires for his flesh took over. The word “tasty” came to my mind. Not that the beast spoke to me, but I could often feel his thoughts.

Though there wasn’t much in front of us to taste. The slave looked like he hadn’t been fed in a month. “Have you eaten?” I asked.

“Not today, Master.”

It was late afternoon, so he’d gone most of the day without nourishment. How could the young man serve me if he was starved? That wouldn’t do. I’d allow him to eat freely, including the meals he’d cook for me. It only seemed logical.

“Come. You’ll eat. I can’t have you starving to death before I figure out what to do with you.” I swallowed the beast’s insistence that I sniff the young man’s throat, and instead turned and led him up the steps to my residence.

We ascended into the foyer, a palatial space with marble floors. I strode past the grand piano I had never learned to play, leading him down a hallway to my kitchen. An extraordinary collection of copper pots hung over a huge marble-topped worktable that functioned as the kitchen’s centerpiece. It was about as useful to me as the piano in the foyer.

In addition to its many pots and more cupboards than I could count, the kitchen featured an enormous icebox and its two state-of-the-art gas stoves—new contraptions King Yanthos recently had installed throughout the palace. At the time, I’d thought it foolish that he included my manor during renovations. What use were they to me, after all? But perhaps I could have Zayne make use of them.

“Do you know how to cook?”

“Only a little, Master.”

“You’re to learn then.”

I’d send him to the king’s private kitchen where the king’s personal chef could teach him. For years I’d been suffering cold meals delivered by the king’s man servant, who left them at my basement door to avoid seeing me. Having Zayne cook for me might allow me to enjoy warm meals for a change.

“You’ll get vegetables and herbs from the potagerie, and meats from the palace kitchens. And you’ll have your meals there.” I gestured to a small plain two-seater table in a nook at the side of the room. “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 need.”

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

“And control your fear. I can still smell it.” His fear lingered in the air, a constant hum beneath the surface of my thoughts, no matter how much I tried to ignore it.

I led him through the remaining rooms I used downstairs—my dining room, library, and art room—while I informed him that he’d be making my drinks and tending my fires. If I was forced to have a slave, I might as well use him.

He ogled as we passed my floor-to-ceiling bookcases, eyeing the finely detailed wildlife heads I’d sculpted. When we made it to my art room, his gaze rested on the sculpture I had in progress. With brows scrunched, he stared 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, but I had to do something to occupy myself during the many hours I spent alone in the manor, waiting to make my next kill.

He took in the room’s tall windows and then scanned the series of artistically carved candles that lined the shelves behind my work area. For those few seconds of distraction, the scent of his fear abated ever so slightly. Then he lifted a hand with hesitation, pointing toward the candles. “Did you…” He shook his head quickly and returned to fidgeting.

“Did I what?” I asked more gruffly than I’d intended.

“No-nothing.” His trembling increased as did the pounding of his heart in my ears.

“Did I what?” I demanded, this time intending to be gruff. I had no patience for this display of weakness.

“Did-did you make them, too?” he said in barely a whisper.

“Yes, I made them. Now, come.” I led him up the grand staircase. On the upper floor, I pointed out the doors to my guest bedrooms with a wave of my hand, then entered my chambers.

His terror exploded, spiking so sharply it staggered me. My steps faltered as I glanced over my shoulder. He stood frozen at the threshold radiating fear like a beacon. What was wrong with him?

Whatever it was, I needed some distance. Quickly. I strode over the plush cream carpet, past the canopied bed I’d carved by hand, and into my lavatory. I waited there for several deep breaths before he entered with great trepidation, as though he were stepping into a pit of vipers.

“I don’t want to be near you, either,” I barked, my need to escape him increasing by the moment. With a hasty gesture at the gold-accented porcelain tub, I said, “You’ll bathe here and launder your clothes in the washtub out back.” I could have had him bathe downstairs, but why dirty more than one washroom?

“Bathe? Here? Bu-but…”

“What is it?” I growled, my beast surfacing enough to make his presence known. The hair on my neck prickled. The last thing I needed was to kill this slave within five minutes of having him in my charge.

“N–nothing, Master,” he said, shrinking back.

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

I departed swiftly and 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. The trip would expose me to more people, but most of the servants had grown accustomed enough to me that their fear was tolerable.

It crossed my mind that leaving Zayne alone was a risk. He might try to escape, but he wouldn’t get far. Not from me, not from the king’s Hand of Death.

#

With Zayne 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. He granted my request without hesitation; I suspected he realized my beast’s need was due to him forcing me to share my home with a slave.

Some “reward.”

From the throne room, I went to the dungeon’s entrance, where two guards escorted me on a familiar journey into the dark depths beneath the palace. After a long walk, they gestured me into the killing wing, where those sentenced to death were kept until they received their final visitor: me.

The moment I entered, the despair of the condemned engulfed me with stifling intensity. I breathed in the pungent dread of the inhabitants, and a hot surge of hunger climbed up my spine. Excitement raced through my veins, fire coursing through my blood; the beast knew where we were and what lay ahead.

Where others cowered from the suffocating stench of death, we felt most alive, most at home. In the darkest pits of the palace, I could embrace the exhilaration that the executions sent through my body. I allowed that exhilaration to flood every part of my being, providing me a much-needed reprieve from the monotony of day-to-day existence. Given the opportunity, I would have indulged my beast daily, just to allow myself that period of elation where my beast could soar free.

Slowly, I passed the gloomy cells. Each dreary, dank chamber contained a prisoner who knew what lay in store, for they heard the cries of anguish every time I visited one of their brethren. I allowed my icy gaze to penetrate each of the inhabitants to their core, reveling in their reactions. Some shrunk into corners or against back walls. Others pissed themselves. The most delicious among them shrieked.

Once I reached my prey at the end of the long corridor, I removed my leather trench coat and hung it on a hook next to the cell. Then I stood outside the bars and squared my wide shoulders, purposely making myself look even fiercer and more imposing as I drank in the man’s terror. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and savored the irresistible scent feeding my beast’s desires. With glee, he rose within me, knowing he’d be released soon. Though he already lurked so close to the surface, his lust for blood consuming me, blurring the fine line between us.

“Please, no,” the criminal pleaded, his deep-set eyes wide, his voice pitched high in fright.

I allowed my fangs to extend just enough to offer a viciously toothy grin.

“Oh my God.” He shrunk back, sliding to the floor in the corner, curling himself into a tight ball.

“There is no god who will save you from me,” I said, my deep bass echoing eerily throughout the stone chamber, the unmistakable hint of my beast’s growl enhancing the effect. The man trembled as I inserted the heavy iron key into the cell’s lock. “Nothing will save you from me,” I said as the tumblers turned. I grinned again, enjoying the effect it had on my prey.

The longer I could draw out the torment, the greater their terror. The greater their terror, the more delectable their blood.

This one had committed murder, too, and I cherished murderers, for King Yanthos had granted me permission to be as harsh as I liked with them.

And my beast delighted in being ruthless.

I stepped inside, my boots clicking ominously on the stone floor. As I slipped the key into my pocket, the cell bars closed with a clang of deadly finality.

Don’t forget to sign up below to be notified when the book is published!

To sign up to beta read the novel before it’s published, click here.