Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(96)

The undead before him took whatever punishment Julian dished out, either knowing that he wouldn’t succeed or forced to take it whether it wanted to or not, bound to the orders of others. He suspected it felt no pain, no fear, and even if Julian could pierce its dense iron armor, his sword would be useless against its undead body.

Panting with exertion, Julian finally relented. His rage was in danger of fading in the face of this obstruction, and the result was unwanted clarity. Maybe he should have left with Wren when he’d had the chance.

Maybe he was a fool.

Mind racing, he took a step backward, deeper into the room, his gaze darting around the small space. If he could lure it away from the door, he might be able to use his speed to get around it and—

His thoughts—along with his strategies—sputtered out as the revenant moved into the room to pursue him, and a second one filled the empty frame.

Julian’s back was against the wall, literally and figuratively.

But this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to escape. He wanted to look his uncle in the eye. He wanted to demand answers. But as talented as Julian was, there was no way he could defeat two iron revenants and a full squad of his uncle’s personal guard.

If he wanted to face him, he would have to do so as a prisoner.

Heart hammering, Julian lowered his sword in surrender.



* * *



The cowards that made up his uncle’s Red Guard waited until Julian was subdued by the revenants before they entered the room. Prudent, maybe, but also pathetic. He thought of what Wren would say if she were here. The insults she’d spit. The way she’d throw them a challenging smile, even in defeat.

His stomach twisted. Better that she wasn’t here.

His uncle wanted her, for some bizarre reason, and Julian felt nothing but deep satisfaction in denying him that.

His uncle. His uncle.

The reality of it finally hit home. This was the man who had raised him, saved him, built him up only to break him back down. The man was a monolith, the foundation upon which Julian’s life was built.

The man he thought he’d known. The man he thought he’d understood, flaws and all.

Julian understood him, all right. Understood he never should have trusted him in the first place.

The revenants each took one of his arms, holding him in a grip strong enough to bruise. Then one of the Red Guard hastened to disarm him, avoiding his eye. Julian knew these people, had trained with them, walked the same halls as them, had served alongside them.

Did they know what his uncle’s orders had been? Even now, did they know the full picture? Or had Francis cooked up some story to justify the action? It wouldn’t be the first time.

The revenants increased the pressure on his arms, pulling him forward, and Julian wondered idly whose orders they were actually following. He’d thought only that ghostsmith boy—and Wren, apparently—could command the undead. But maybe the Corpse Queen was real. Maybe Francis wasn’t actually calling the shots. Maybe he, too, was a puppet in someone else’s game.

Julian thought he was ready to confront his uncle, but as he entered the next room, a cold sweat broke out over his brow, despite the warmth of the fire. Warring emotions battled inside him. He had always feared this man—but he had trusted him, too. Looked up to him. Taken his lessons about strength and sacrifice to heart. Believed him when he said everything he did was for the good of their house.

But Julian was a part of that house. Born to be its leader.

And so was his father.

If this man could so easily use them for what they offered and then casually order their deaths, that meant his uncle was less concerned with what was best for their house and more interested in what was best for him.

“Julian,” his uncle said, tone incredulous as Julian was pushed to his knees before him. “Thank hammer and sword, you’re alive. I—”

“Save it,” Julian snapped.

“I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, son, but—”

“Don’t call me that,” Julian said, voice barely above a whisper. The worst part about all this was that he’d let it happen. Welcomed it, even. He’d been young and scared, and so he’d let this man take from him over and over again. Had been grateful for it.

Thank you, Uncle, for taking over the House of Iron.

Thank you, Uncle, for forcing me to be strong.

Thank you, Uncle, for turning me into a weapon… whether I wanted to be one or not.

He clenched his fists.

His uncle noticed but made no comment as he turned to one of his guard. “Did you check the room? And the rest on the floor?”

“I came alone,” Julian said.

Francis ignored him, keeping his attention on the guard, who confirmed it with a sharp nod. “We’re just checking the last of the rooms, Lord-Smith, but no sign of anyone else.”

Julian allowed himself a small moment of relief. If Wren got away, it meant not only that she was safe but that she could ensure that the truth of what was happening here didn’t remain inside this room. Julian was dubious that anyone from the Dominions gave a damn about him or his house, but they cared about Prince Leopold and the danger he might be in. And if they were smart, they’d see the bigger picture and send aid. Quickly.

His business taken care of, Francis reclaimed his seat in the high-backed chair by the fire.