Prologue I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no mor. —John Clare The dream was always the sam. Only it was not a dream but a memory, and his body knew it, reacting to the terror imprinted upon his very bones with the same infirm jerks as if responding to that long-ago tortur. Trapped within his mind, he could not escape, but lay helpless as it came for him yet again. Always the sam. Strapped by gold chains to a trolley, he could not free himself as the vacant-eyed thug rolled him along. Overhead, coal-blackened stone arches drifted by, the bed beneath him bumping and rattling on ancient cobbles. His heart pounded, fear churning within his gut. But rage overshadowed everything. It made his fangs drop over the gag that cut into his lips. He held himself still, kept his wits about him. Ignore the fear. Focus. He had a good idea who had him and why. He’d been careless, and loyal to someone who worked for the wrong sid. Jack Talent. His best mat. And now he’d pay for helping him. And it would hurt. The scent of blood and metal hit him before the doors opened. Then he was in a cavernous room, the stench of suffering rising