Blood and Bitter Earth
The travel from The burning safehouse and the open moors at night to The Ashby family crypt, ancient and cold consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The crypt smelled of old stone and older blood. Dante’s boots scraped against the uneven flagstones as he descended, each step taking him further from the smoke-choked air above. The torchlight flickered, casting long shadows that danced like specters along the walls.
Cole Blackthorn stood at the far end, his silhouette framed by the family vault. Behind him, marble effigies of Ashby ancestors lay in eternal repose, their stone eyes judging the living who dared disturb their rest.
“Your ancestors would be ashamed,” Cole said, his voice echoing off the low ceiling. “A duke who gambles his bloodline on sentiment.”
Dante’s gaze swept the crypt, cataloging exits. Two. The stairs behind him, and a narrow passage to the left, likely leading to the old chapel. “Where is my son?”
“Safe. For now.” Cole’s hand rested on the marble lid of a sarcophagus. “But time is a currency that depletes quickly. Sign the papers. Renounce your claim to the northern territories. I’ll let the boy live.”
“You’ll let him live regardless.” Dante stepped forward, his hands loose at his sides. “Because if you harm a single hair on his head, there isn’t a corner of this empire where you can hide.”
Cole laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “Brave words from a man who came alone.”
“I came to talk.”
“And I came to win.”
The ground trembled. A low, grinding rumble that grew into a roar. Dante spun as the ceiling above the stairs cracked, stone grinding against stone. A cascade of rubble crashed down, sealing the entrance in a cloud of dust and debris.
When the air cleared, the stairs were gone. Buried under tons of rock.
“A contingency,” Cole said, brushing dust from his coat. “The crypts are old. Tunnels collapse. Tragic, really. The Duke of Ashby, killed in a structural failure while inspecting his family’s resting place.”
Dante’s jaw did not tighten. Instead, his eyes tracked to the narrow passage, calculating. Twenty feet. If he could reach it—
“Don’t.” Beckett’s voice cut through the gloom. Dante turned. The younger Blackthorn emerged from behind a pillar, Milo clamped against his chest, a pistol pressed to the boy’s temple. Milo’s lip was bleeding now. A single drop of red ran down his chin, caught the light, and fell.
“Father,” a small voice whispered over the wind.
Dante’s blood ran cold.
“Choose, Your Grace,” Beckett said, his voice flat. “Your dynasty. Or your son.”
Silence hung in the crypt, heavy as the stone above them. Dante’s mind raced, counting seconds, measuring distances. Beckett stood fifteen feet away, partially shielded by a marble column. Cole remained near the vault, twenty feet further back. The narrow passage was to Dante’s right, ten feet.
His eyes met Milo’s. The boy was terrified, but he wasn’t crying. He was watching his father, waiting.
*Clever boy. Brave boy.*
“You’ll kill us both regardless,” Dante said, keeping his voice calm. “That’s the play, isn’t it? Kill the duke, kill the heir. The Blackthorn family claims the northern territories by default, and the crown is too weak to challenge you.”
Cole’s smile was thin. “Perceptive.”
“But Beckett doesn’t know, does he?” Dante’s gaze shifted to the younger man. “He thinks he’s your successor. That when you take the north, he’ll rule it. But you’ve never shared power, Cole. You never will.”
Beckett’s eyes flickered to his father. “What is he talking about?”
“Nothing. He’s stalling.”
“He’s planning to kill you too,” Dante pressed. “Think about it. Why would he need you once the territories are his? You know too much. You’ve seen too much. You’re a liability.”
The pistol wavered. Just a fraction, but enough.
“Ignore him,” Cole snapped. “He’s trying to divide us.”
“Am I?” Dante took a step forward. “You said it yourself, Blackthorn. Time is a currency. And you’ve been spending his since the day he was born.”
Beckett’s face twisted. “Shut up.”
“Your mother died in childbirth, didn’t she? Cole was away. Attending a trade conference, they said. But you always wondered. How long did it take him to return? A week? Two?”
“I said shut up!”
The gun fired.
The bullet screamed past Dante’s ear, chipping stone from the pillar behind him. Milo screamed. But Beckett’s aim had shifted at the last moment—not at Dante, but at his father.
Cole stared at his son, disbelief etched across his features. The bullet had torn through his coat, grazing his ribs. Blood seeped through the fabric.
“You shot me,” Cole whispered.
“You were going to kill me.” Beckett’s voice cracked. “Weren’t you? After everything, you were going to throw me away like the rest.”
“You fool. He’s manipulating you.”
“Maybe. But he’s right about one thing.” Beckett’s hand trembled. “I’ve been your tool long enough.”
The crypt door exploded inward.
Grant crashed through the rubble, a crowbar in one hand, a service revolver in the other. Behind him, Margot emerged, dust caking her dress, her eyes wild with fury.
“Milo!” Margot spotted the boy and lunged forward.
Beckett swung the pistol toward her. Grant fired first. The bullet caught Beckett’s shoulder, spinning him. Milo dropped, scrambling away as Margot caught her, dragging her behind a marble pillar.
“Stay down,” she hissed, covering the boy with her body.
Cole moved. His hand dove into his coat, emerging with a second pistol. He aimed at Grant, but Dante was already in motion, crashing into the older man, sending the shot wide.
They hit the ground hard. Cole was older, but he was wiry, desperate. He drove an elbow into Dante’s ribs. Dante grunted, rolled, came up with his hands empty.
Grant had Beckett pinned, the younger Blackthorn bleeding onto the stone floor. Margot was whispering to Milo, her voice steady despite her shaking hands.
Cole scrambled for his fallen pistol. Dante kicked it away. The older man snarled, pulling a knife from his boot.
“You should have stayed dead, Ashby.”
“I tried.” Dante circled, keeping his weight balanced. “But I had reasons to live.”
They engaged. The knife slashed, Dante sidestepped. He caught Cole’s wrist, twisted, but the older man was stronger than he looked. They struggled, breath ragged, muscles straining.
From behind the pillar, Cassidy watched. Her fingers dug into the stone. She wanted to run, to help, to do *something*. But she was an ordinary woman. No combat training. No weapon. She would only get in the way.
*Trust him. Trust the father of your child.*
Cole broke free, slashing wildly. The blade caught Dante’s forearm, opening a gash. Blood ran, warm and slick, dripping onto the ancient stones.
“End of the line, Your Grace.”
“Not quite.”
A gunshot.
Cole froze. His eyes went wide, fixed on something behind Dante. He looked down. A red stain spread across his chest, blooming like a dark flower.
“Father,” Beckett whispered, the pistol smoking in his hand. “I’m sorry.”
Cole collapsed. His body hit the ground with a heavy thud, blood pooling beneath him, seeping into the cracks between the flagstones.
Silence.
The crypt was still. Dust motes drifted in the torchlight. The marble effigies watched, unmoved, as they had watched generations pass.
Grant moved first, disarming Beckett, forcing him to his knees. Margot emerged from behind the pillar, Milo clutched to her chest. The boy was crying now, great heaving sobs that echoed off the stone walls.
Cassidy ran to Dante, her hands finding his face, his shoulders, the wound on his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’ll live.” He pulled her close, his voice rough. “Is Milo…”
“He’s safe. He’s safe.”
Milo broke free from Margot, running to she father. Dante dropped to one knee, gathering the boy in his arms, holding him tight.
“I was scared,” Milo whispered.
“So was I.” Dante pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head. “But you were brave. Braver than I ever was.”
“I didn’t cry. Not until the end.”
“That’s okay. There’s no shame in tears.” Dante looked up at Cassidy. “No shame at all.”
A noise from the stairs. Boots, many of them, marching down the debris-littered steps.
“Constable,” Margot said, her voice steady. “I sent word before we breached the crypt. The authorities should be arriving any moment.”
They came in force. Red-coated men with muskets and lanterns, their sergeant taking in the scene with cold efficiency. Cole Blackthorn, dead. Beckett Blackthorn, wounded and subdued. The crypt, bloodied and torn.
The sergeant approached Dante. “Your Grace. We received a report of an attack on Ashby lands. I’m sorry we were not here sooner.”
“You arrived exactly when you needed to.” Dante rose, Milo still in his arms. “Take Beckett Blackthorn into custody. Charge him with attempted murder, conspiracy, and the kidnapping of a child. His father… his father will need to be removed as well.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The constables moved efficiently, securing Beckett, covering Cole’s body. The younger Blackthorn didn’t resist. He seemed hollow, emptied of whatever fire had driven him.
As they led him past, Beckett paused, meeting Dante’s eyes. “He was going to kill me. You were right.”
“I know.”
“I hated you. For what you had. For what I never had.” Beckett’s voice was barely a whisper. “But I couldn’t let him kill the boy. I couldn’t.”
Dante said nothing. There was nothing to say. The man had made his choice, and now he would face the consequences.
The constables filed out, taking Beckett with them. The crypt fell quiet again, the only sound the drip of water somewhere deep in the earth.
Dante turned to Cassidy, to Milo, to Margot and Grant. His family. His people.
“It’s over,” he gasped, blood pooling beneath him.
Cassidy knelt, tears streaming. “Don’t leave me. Not now. Not when we finally have a chance.”
He smiled, weakly. “I’m not going anywhere, my duchess. I have a son to watch grow up. And a wife to properly court.”