The shouted words made Bren seize, his black, clawed fingers tightening around the vines in panic. For a split second he wondered if he could make it over the wall before the figure reached him, but the sudden hand gripping his cloak said otherwise. 

Struggling to keep hold of the ivy, Bren grunted against the force of the pull from behind him. There was the sound of snapping stems, the vines ripping away from the side of the manor house as he was yanked backward. 

Falling through nothing but air, the breath was knocked out of him as he landed hard on his back, bits of vine and tattered leaves still clutched in his monstrous hands. Bren coughed, groaning as his head spun. When he went to sit up, the firm sole of a leather boot stopped him, resting on his chest as a threat.

Laying in the lush, dewy grass with his arms splayed in surrender, Bren looked up at the man above him. Unlike the man from the alleyway at the outskirts of the city, this man was well-dressed, wearing an expensive tailored suit of light gray silk. He stood with his hands on his hips, teeth gritted as he stared down at Bren with a sharp brow raised in question. His eyes were piercing, an icy blue behind long, dark waves that were loosely pulled back from his pale face… The same blue eyes and dark hair as Brennon’s. 

“You’re dead.” The words made Bren flinch inwardly, anger and disapproval lighting the man’s stare. “Mother and Father have been worried sick about you! Did you think we wouldn’t notice you were missing?”

Bren dropped the foliage that had been held tight in his fists and went to push the boot off his chest, but it only made it press harder against his ribs, straining them. His face crumpled into rage, claws digging into the fine leather as he seethed, “Get off me, Archer—”

“I don’t think so! Not until you promise me you’re not going to run off again!” The raised voice made Bren look toward the back of the manor house as he wondered who else might hear them. 

He sighed, giving in as he muttered, “Fine. I promise.”

Archer narrowed his eyes at Bren, glancing over him as if he were debating whether or not he could trust his word. The boot lifted, Archer stepping away from him and allowing him to sit up. Bren brushed the dirt off his shirt, glaring up at his brother only to be met with a reluctant sigh. Archer hesitated for a moment before he rolled his eyes and reached down with an outstretched hand, saying bitterly, “Good.”

Bren stared at him for a moment before he clenched his jaw and took Archer’s hand, accepting the gesture as Archer helped pull him to his feet. There was an awful pang inside him as he realized his brother was staring at where their hands met, his long, narrow fingers wrapped around the quilled black flesh of Brennon’s. “Your hands…” Archer breathed out in a whisper. 

Quickly breaking the hold, Bren defensively hid them inside his cloak, his face heating with guilt as he ground out, “You don’t want to know.” 

“You’re right. I don’t,” he snapped, no doubt irritated at Bren’s secrecy. His voice softened though as he said the one thing that sent true fear shuddering down Bren’s spine, “But Father will.”

Bren blinked up at his brother, a look of pleading on his face as he said, “Look, just sneak me in through the front window. The latch is broken, I can just shimmy it up and you can tell them I was in my study—”

“I don’t think you understand what I meant when I said they have literally been worried sick about where you’ve been.” Archer didn’t stop, his voice carrying through the garden and echoing off the stone of the manor as he continued, “They searched the whole house, Bren. If you weren’t back by morning they were going to call the authorities! You can’t just sneak out and back in whenever you like. If someone else caught you— If they knew what you were—”

“Well, now I don’t have to speak to Father, because you sound just like him.” Bren hadn’t meant to snap it so harshly. He didn’t know if it was the adrenaline or trying to run from everything that had happened that night, but he had never felt so ashamed…and defeated. 

“I take that as a compliment, though I know you didn’t mean it as one.” Archer straightened, crossing his arms firmly over his chest; it made the fitted fabric of his shirt bulge against his muscles. Now that they were both standing, the difference in their stature was far more obvious. Archer had always been the brawn of the family, a good head taller than Brennon and far stronger…but it was the look in his gaze that Bren hated. Pity. “Look, you came home and that’s all that matters. Now, are you going to come inside? Or am I going to have to drag you in by force?” 

Bren watched as Archer’s arms unfolded, a soft, golden glow lighting from his fingertips in a threat. Instinctively, Bren reached into his pocket, feeling the heavy coin brush against his skin. The moment he tried to connect to it he felt his hand throb, dropping it out of his grasp as he winced and pulled his hand away. He swore, holding his right hand gingerly with his other, rubbing at the stained, inhuman skin. “Damn it,” Bren sighed, trying not to let the agony show on his face. 

Archer stepped closer to him, his brow tight with worry as he murmured, “Here, let me see.” His voice was gentle, hands reaching out tenderly as if he were afraid Bren might spook. 

Reluctant at first, Bren cautiously extended his hands toward his brother, both of them looking down at them with concern. “It’s never lasted this long before,” Bren said softly, the hostility he’d had earlier melting away as he saw Archer’s concern for him. 

“It looks bad, Bren. I don’t know how much I can help, but… I’ll try. Mother and Father would hate to see you like this.” The comment stung, but Bren didn’t have time to snap back because Archer was already working. His fingers glowed and sparkled with a soft, warm light that spread over Bren’s skin as he brushed his fingers over it. 

Unlike Brennon’s magic, which was abrupt and violent, the magic of a Manos was full of natural virtue. Bren could feel the warm fluttering over his skin, the color lightening, quills retreating, and the claws shrinking back to nails. With Archer’s steady focus, his hand slowly returned to normal, until only the very tips of his fingers were stained, nails still black. 

Archer let out a pant like he’d been holding his breath, the light that gloved his hands slowly dissipating. “That’s the best I can do,” he huffed, looking over Bren’s hands before his eyes flicked up to lock their gazes. “Brennon…this has to stop. Where were you? You know it’s not safe for someone like you to be out at night. There are too many patrols—”

“Someone like me?” Bren scoffed, snatching his hands out of his brother’s grasp. He shook his head in rage and disgust, his heart racing as anger flared inside him. “Sorry to be the disappointment. Must be really horrible for you, having a brother that’s an Um—”

Archer moved faster than Bren had ever seen, jolting forward to seize Brennon and slam his hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare say that word out loud.” His tone was baleful and unwavering, glaring daggers at Bren before he stepped back and released him.

Bren returned the look with a scathing stare of his own. He shivered, realizing how much it reminded him of being attacked earlier that night. He felt sick, his mouth salivating as bile burned the back of his throat. 

Shouldering past Bren, Archer’s tone was still vexed as he muttered, “Come on, we’re going inside. You’ve spent enough time out here as it is. Mother and Father are waiting.” 

Standing there, Bren’s eyes bore into the back of Archer’s head. For a split second he debated trying to make his way back over the wall, longing to avoid his parents’ disappointment and be in the comfort of his own room. He wouldn’t stand a chance; Archer hadn’t been kidding, he’d drag Bren inside by force if he had to. 

Looking down at his much more human hands, Bren shoved them into the pockets of his cloak, dragging his feet as he fell into step behind his brother. His gaze shifted over the light that spilled across the lawn, his hurried footprints still pressed into the damp grass. He’d almost made it undetected, but luck had never been much on his side. 

Bren glanced up at the back of the manor house, his heart feeling tight as he took it in. This was his home, though it had never felt much like it. From the outside it emitted grandeur with all its floors and turrets. There were balconies with large bow windows, surrounded by ornate balustrades. It was a dark house, faced with hard gray stone and trimmed with elaborate, black spires. It was a house of wealth and prominence…and everything about it pushed Bren further out of place. 

He broke his gaze as he followed Archer up the low stone garden stairs, clipped footsteps audible against the stone. Through the back doors made of glass, white gossamer curtains fluttered as they walked through them to the sun room. Leaving behind the sweet, fresh air, Archer locked the door behind him, briskly striding past the exotic plants that lined the large glass panels to a lavish daybed where he picked up a thick tome. 

“Were you waiting up for me?” Bren muttered, eyeing the soft blanket that was crumpled at the end of the chaise lounge.

Archer scoffed, though it was mirthless. Tucking the book under his arm he blinked up at Bren, saying curtly, “We all were.”

It pierced Bren’s heart with stabbing guilt. 

Remaining silent and taciturn, Bren carried on behind Archer as they walked into the main section of the house. The halls were all dark hardwood, lined with long, embroidered carpets. The moldings on the black wall panels were all extravagant and embellished, small bracketed sconces pooling light along the corridor in intervals. It felt eerie and haunting, each gilded painting and tapestry contrasted with light and shadow. Even the high ceilings were plunged in darkness just like the sky outside. 

The floorboards creaked, muffled under the thick fabric as they walked to the main sitting room. Bren’s heart was in his throat, hammering against his bones as if it were trying to escape them. He could see the flicker of firelight beneath the crack under the door, trying to steel himself a moment before Archer reached for the door handle. 

He twisted the crystal knob, the door opening to the large room Bren was all too familiar with. The sitting area was filled with plush sofas that surrounded a large, central fireplace. Though it had the same dark walls as the rest of the house, the furnishings were all a breathy light blue, making it less oppressive.  

Bren paused as he watched Archer go first, murmured voices already filling the air. His ears were hot, face flushed as he looked down at his hands once more, trying to think of everything he was going to say—how he could explain himself and everything that had happened. Why it had happened. 

With a deep, steady breath, he entered the room, all voices ceasing. His stare was rooted to his boots, dark blood still splattered and crusted against the black leather. It made his heart drop, memories flashing through his mind of the man in the alleyway—his final moments, his dying breath…

“Brennon Endrith.”

Bren felt his muscles tense, his throat sore as he swallowed hard. He didn’t want to look up and see the disappointment on his Father’s face… 

Forcing himself to pry his eyes away from the bloodstain, Bren brought his gaze upward. 

The firelight of the hearth made his parents look haloed, glowing against the shadows that swallowed Bren. He met his father’s rich brown eyes, gray hair combed back neatly from his strong features. He was well dressed as always, standing tall and ridgid with his hands behind his back. Bren broke the stare to look at his mother, seated next to the fireplace in a brocade armchair and dressed in a silken nightgown. Her red hair was a fiery mane of curls around her shoulders, blue eyes blazing with the rage and disappointment he had feared. 

“Well?” his father snapped, bringing Bren’s attention back to him. 

His stomach bottomed out as he looked up at his father, anxiety eating him alive from the inside. Jaw clenched and mouth glued shut in overwhelming contrition, Bren felt his eyes sting. 

His father waited for a moment for Bren to speak—say something, anything—but when he couldn’t, the man let out a deep, agitated sigh. His eyes were like razors, his tongue equally sharp as he demanded, “What do you have to say for yourself?”