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 settled that debate.

Struggling to keep hold of the ivy, Bren grunted against the force of the person pulling him from behind. 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, Bren felt the breath 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.

Lying 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 on 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 brow raised sharply in question. His eyes were piercing, an icy blue behind long, dark waves of hair that was 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 as anger and disapproval lit 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 he’d still been holding tightly in his fists and went to push the boot off his chest, but that only made it press harder, straining his ribs. His face crumpled into rage and his claws dug 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 to the back of the manor house as he wondered who else might hear them.

He sighed, giving in and muttering, “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 and Archer stepped away from him, allowing him to sit up. Bren brushed the dirt off his shirt, glaring up at his brother.

Archer hesitated for a moment, letting out a reluctant sigh. He rolled his eyes and reached down with an outstretched hand, saying bitterly, “Good.”

Bren stared 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 the point where their hands met and 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,” Archer 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 pleading look 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 walls of the manor, “They searched the whole house, Bren. They were going to call the authorities if you weren’t back by morning! You can’t just sneak out and back in whenever you like. If someone else caught you— if they knew what you are—”

“Well, now I don’t have to speak to Father, because you sound just like him.” Bren hadn’t meant to snap at Archer 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 statures was far more obvious. Archer had always been the brawn of the family; he’d been top of his class in sparring and self-defense. If it had been up to Archer, Bren was certain he’d have become a prosecutor, out in the field and ready for a brawl. He was a good head taller than Brennon and far stronger… but it was the look on his face 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 and his hands reached 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 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.

Unlike Brennon’s magic, which was abrupt and violent, the magic of a Manos was brimming with natural virtue. Bren could feel the warmth fluttering over his skin, the color lightening, the quills retreating, and the claws shrinking back into nails. With Archer’s steady focus, his hand slowly returned to normal, until only the very tips of his fingers and his nails were still stained 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 isn’t 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, and he glared 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.

Archer’s tone was still vexed as he shouldered past Bren and 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 bored into the back of Archer’s head. For a split second, he debated trying to make his way back over the wall, longing to be in the comfort of his own room and avoid his parents’ disappointment. 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 in 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. It was a dark house, faced with hard gray stone and trimmed with elaborate black spires. There were balconies with large bow windows surrounded by ornate balustrades. 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, their clipped footsteps audible against the stone. The back doors were made of glass, their white gossamer curtains fluttering as the two of them walked through them to the sunroom. Leaving behind the sweet, fresh air, Archer locked the door behind them, briskly striding past the exotic plants that lined the large glass wall 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 daybed.

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

Guilt stabbed at Bren.

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 corridors 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, mirroring the sky outside.

The thick fabric of the carpets muffled the creak of the floorboards 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. He tried to steel himself a moment before Archer reached for the door handle.

Archer twisted the crystal knob and opened the door to the large room with which Bren was all too familiar. The sitting area was filled with plush sofas surrounding a large, central fireplace. Though the room 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 in first and heard murmured voices already filling the air. His ears were hot, his 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, and all voices ceased. His stare was rooted to his boots, at the 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, and his throat was 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 blood stains, 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. His gray hair was combed back neatly from his strong features. He was well dressed as always, standing tall and rigid 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, her 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?”