Lord David’s words seemed to reverberate upon the air.

Hand her over to me, Ironclad, he’d said.

Hand her over to me, the chatelaine is mine.

Around Stray all was silence, her heartbeat galloping in her chest, tears scalding her eyes as she stared at the boy she’d abandoned. The boy she’d sworn she’d marry. The boy whose kiss had first revealed to her what she truly was. Servants, aristocrats and the Company of Miracles were shifting uncomfortably, their collective gazes darting back and forth between herself and Lord David. Some shocked, others nervous, the two knights who had first accosted her and Logan glaring at the young Lord, their faces set and grim. At the very edge of her vision Stray could see a couple sitting on a raised dais, surrounded by other nobles. A redheaded beauty dressed in widows-full-mourning stood at their left hand, a young, laughing-faced boy in a red and blue tunic and hose sat near their feet to the right. The throned woman they guarded was lovely and fair as a honey-lily, the man broad of shoulder, his face covered- curiously- with a bluntly-forged silver mask. All of the nobles were staring at her situation in open interest: Stray did not understand why, but for some reason the sight of the masked man set the beast within her snarling even more than it already had been-

She heard a low growl come from behind her and realised with a start that Logan felt the same way.

But she could not concentrate on that now: She was too busy wracking her brain for a way to deny what Lord David had just said. Trying to conjure a way to escape. She could think of nothing though. Were she to explain what her supposed sweetheart had done to her the night before their wedding she would likewise have to explain his discovery of her Curse and what it had inadvertently done to him. And that would be signing her own death warrant and the Company’s, she entertained not a doubt of it. There was no legally recognised excuse for hiding one of the Cursed except for ignorance of their condition, and Stray sincerely doubted that suspicion once raised against her would remain fixed on her alone. Ororo’s exotic looks would stir curiosity at the very least. By the looks of things it already had: Etienne de Rogeres kept shooting the huntress these unreadable little glances. In fact, the knight couldn’t seem to keep his gaze to himself at all. Stray shook her head, the seriousness of her situation setting panic clawing in her stomach. She was about to be sold to a boy she knew she’d never want just when she’d found the man she knew she’d always need and there was nothing she could do about it-

As the first tears began sliding down her cheeks she felt for Logan’s hands, there where they were splayed against her waist.

She squeezed the fingers so hard she thought she might have heard them crack, and without a word he pulled her more tightly against his chest.

Clearly Lord David found this amusing though, for he shot her a smile as arrogant as it was galling. His mocking, dark eyes raking over her and Logan’s embrace in frank distaste. Stray stiffened, the memory of the last time he had done so spiking through her- fear and snow, the press of skin on skin- No, David, No- and as she did so she heard Logan growl again, more softly this time. Felt the prickly of his beard as he nuzzled his hairy cheek against her temple, his arms tightening around her waist. She recognised the gesture as one meant to comfort one’s mate and it calmed her panic. The effect must have been obvious for she saw David’s eyes narrow sharply, something ugly moving over his handsome face. His grin turned wicked as he looked to the gathered nobles and bowed jestingly as if playing to an audience. “I see you’ve taught her manners at least, huntsman,” he announced lightly, inclining his head to Logan. Stray couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard the man in the silver mask snicker at his words. “Pray, did you have to show her a weapon,” the boy continued politely, “or did she spread her legs of her own free will with you, as well..?”

One moment Logan was behind Stray, the next he was before her. His hands going for Lord David’s throat, the beast within him shivering far closer to the surface than was safe among people such as this. The Company’s reaction was immediate: Ororo, Katherine Shadowskin and Master Summerisle all darted forward. They moved with such perfect synchronisation that it was clear they had done this before. Neither of them would have been fast enough however, had not Etienne de Rogeres and Anthony Ironclad darted into the fray, each grabbing one of Logan’s arms and pulling them loosely behind him. He swore and snarled but they held him, their armour weighing him down as much as anything else. Stray couldn’t be certain but she thought she heard de Rogeres hiss, “You’re no good to her dead, man-” and this seemed enough to stall him-

Before she could ask what that meant- or even thank de Rogeres and Ironclad for their interference- the man in the silver mask rose from his dais and walked slowly forward. As soon as he did so the entire room, including Seneschal Shaw, swept into their deepest bows and Stray couldn’t help but notice that even Anthony Ironclad’s handsome face lost its cocky grin. “Your Grace,” the knights said quietly, managing between them to wrangle Logan into a sufficiently respectful bow by the scruff of his neck. The werewolf snarled at the indignity of it, but he had enough self-possession not to fight- This time.

The masked man’s voice sounded amused. He nodded to Ironclad and de Rogeres. “Lord Etienne, Lord Anthony,” he said. “As always you retain your tiresomely diligent streak. Could you not at least have let the woodsman gut the boy and provided us with some sport?”

Ironclad went to answer but Lord David bristled, speaking over him. “Your Grace,” he huffed, “The same blue blood runs through my veins as yours. You couldn’t mean to-”

Faster than should have been humanly possible the masked man rounded on the boy. David had the good sense to skitter a couple of steps back. “Our blood is not even the same temperature,” he rasped in a voice unlike any Stray had ever heard before. No human throat could have made that sound. “And if you wish to keep your head and your shoulders in their current, charming configuration then you will keep your thoughts to yourself, is that clear?”

David gave a quick, shaky nod, suddenly looking every inch the youth Stray had been betrothed to. The realisation made her stomach feel slightly sick. Lords Anthony and Etienne threw a dark look at one another, worry etched clearly across their faces, but this was to be the least of her problems. For now that he had left his throne the masked man walked towards her, his tread certain and heavy, everything about his large, powerful body designed to intimidate. Unfortunately- or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it- Stray had recently faced the Hollow Empress, the Phoenix and Mistress Gold: Set in that auspicious company the masked man’s demeanour barely registered as a threat. He came to a halt before her, far closer than was comfortable or polite, and she felt rather than saw his eyes narrow as they met hers. There was something, something weighing and measuring and utterly, utterly dismissive in that gaze and Stray held her breath as it rested on her.

“Do you know who I am, girl?” he asked softly then.

Stray shook her head, the beast within her growling ever louder in anticipation of danger.

Of course, Logan was doing that openly.

The masked man gave a bark of laughter. “Shushanna!” he called to the blond woman seated behind him, “Did you hear that? The chatelaine says she doesn’t know who I am.”

Stray might have been imagining it but she thought the blond woman winced slightly at his words. When she spoke her voice was steady however- low and soothing and as lovely as the chime of a brass bell. “She is from the frozen Hrimcaeld, Victor,” she said. “Pray, do not hold her ignorance against her-”

“You wound me, Shushanna,” Victor said. “Clearly you’ve spent too much time listening to your darling Richard’s fictions regarding my temper.” So this, Stray realised, was the Duchess Shushanna Stormholt that de Rogeres had mentioned. But if that was the case then surely then where was her husband? Who was the man in the mask? Not that Stray had time to ponder that right now, for said nobleman was hovering right over her, his breath practically mingling with hers. In fact, had his lips not been covered Stray almost thought he might have tried to kiss her.

“Such a scandal she is, my dear Shushanna,” he murmured, his tone confiding. It seemed to slither across Stray’s skin like a snake. “A highborn woman who willingly wed naught but an upstart hex-worker like Richard Reed. A Duchess who could have had anyone- even me- but who chose a whoreson peasant to warm her bed.” Victor leaned in closer, his tone gloating. From the very corner of her eye she saw De Rogeres grit his teeth in annoyance, but Ironclad’s hand on his shoulder held the knight back. “Fortunately, my dear, I saved her from all that,” Victor murmured. “I took her away from Reed’s brats, and his idiocy, and gave her the life she was supposed to have had- The life my Shushanna deserves. But she is not grateful for it. You can see that, can’t you?”

Mutely Stray nodded, having not a clue where this conversation might go.

“So perhaps you can enlighten me?” Victor was asking, his voice low and dangerous and coaxing. “Perhaps you can give insight into why my Shushanna behaved as she does. I ask only because I see you too left a highborn lover for a lowborn one, so perhaps one might consider you an expert in the field: What is the fascination between women and peasants, little chatelaine? What do women like you-” He jerked her chin up with his fingers, “always seek out men like him?” And he indicated Logan with a dismissive flick of his chin. “Do you itch so for cock that you’ll take it wherever you can find it, even if it’s in a slave’s bed?” he was asking. “Do you crave an animal because no man would put up with your wantonness and filth? Tell me please-” He put his face directly in hers, his fingers tightening painfully on her chin, “What exactly is it within your blood that makes a gently-raised woman behave like a whore?”

And with one swift, sharp, calculated movement Victor drew his hand back and struck Stray forcefully across the face, sending her reeling.

She hit the floor with a painful thump, shock and humiliation coursing through her frame.

Had Stray had more practice at controlling the thing-made-not-of-words within her what happened next might not have happened. Had she been older, or wiser, or more trained or less angry or more noting of the cynical, calculated quality to Victor’s stance when he struck her then she might have been able to halt the reaction which went hissing through her bones right then. But she wasn’t older or calmer or more trained; She was young and frightened and horrified and tired and the beast within her came howling to the surface with nary a thought for the consequences. Tearing at rational thought and worries for her safety. Obliterating anything but the need to not be helpless around another aristocrat again. The creature took over her skin and her reflexes faster even than it had in Illyenka’s vile court: One moment she, Stray, was standing before the gathered nobles, in her own skin and body, trying desperately to keep the gathered aristocrats from guessing the Company of Miracles’ secret- And the next moment she was entirely transformed, her gown and her human skin dropped from her bones like an unneeded cloak. Her teeth going for Duke Victor’s throat like the wildest animal, the will to harm the man who had so insulted and harmed her- and whom she suspected wished to hand her over to Lord David for devilry- driving out the last traces of the girl she was from her mind. Victor laughed as she clawed and snarled at him. Laughed even harder as Logan broke away and sheer blind panic began to bring transformation on him too. The masked Duke sounded delighted as he called out to Ironclad and de Rogeres- “Finally,” he muttered, “Finally, I’ve found a breeding pair for my legion-”

There was a hiss of smoke and magic and brimstone and for some strange reason Stray could not fathom Ororo gave a long, furious, wicked-with-purpose scream.