Page 44 of The Stones for It
But worry gnawed me at the thought of what state we’d find him in.
The prickly gargoyle had agreed I’d know if one of my mates was killed, but there was a whole world of hurt between dead and alive.
I dipped my chin in acknowledgment, staying quiet as we crept through the rainforest.
Within minutes, a wild, rasping cackle rang through the twisty trees.
My eyes shot to Vrath. “It’s him,” I breathed.
Grim determination settled over his rugged features. “Yes.”
“Shut up,” a distant voice snarled. “Or I’ll rip your tongue out before our royals even start their revenge.”
A thud and strained wheeze cut off the familiar unhinged mirth.
Crescents of pain bit into my palms as my hands fisted, and I fought the desperate need to storm through the trees.
Vrath shook his head, and I took a second to steel myself before nodding. He crouched low and snuck closer to the sounds through a thicket of rose-gold ferns. I trailed carefully in his wake, without even a rustle of the dense fans that hid us.
He stopped minutes in, and I peered around his broad frame.
My heart jerked at the sight.
Tied to a lone stake in the middle of a vast clearing, hung a battered kitsune.
Neiron.
Chapter seventeen
Kelsea
Blood dampened swaths of my mate’s fur, blending in with the russet hue but stark against the white of his chest. Deep cuts gouged his torso and arms, continuing down his body to rip through sections of his dark trousers.
They’d used him as a damn scratching post.
One eye was swollen shut, and more blood trickled from his mouth, but judging from the staining around his muzzle, he’d bitten one of his attackers. Foxy ears pressed low to his skull and his nine tails drooped limply instead of their usually bushy splay.
The wounds looked too fresh, and my heart squeezed. He wasn’t healing.
Either they’d shot him up with iron, or he was too drained after his magical wildfire and the damage he’d suffered.
Twelve werehyenas and three jackalopes. The group of soon-to-be-dead fae lingered around the clearing, the size of a football pitch. Wide tree stumps littered the ground along with matching felled logs, like it had been cleared recently.
A lavish bonfire crackled several metres from our hiding spot, casting enough light with the moon and bobbing orbs to make out the clearing despite the cloak of night. Setting a campfire that close to the downed timber seemed reckless, but the boudas had a lazy, arrogant air about them.
A sour-faced jackalope female roasted a hunk of meat over the fire, slowly turning the spit as dripping grease caused the flames to pop and sizzle.
Apparently, they were planning a relaxing dinner while waiting for their royals to turn up and commit murder.
I battled the urge to rush in, half-cocked, and start madly swiping at the mangy fae clustered around my mate.
Holding him prisoner.
Hurting him.
But I’d learnt from my last attempt at running into danger head-first alone.
Instead, I catalogued every detail. The number of boudas and jackalopes. What weapons they carried. How alert they looked. What they were doing. What I could use to distract them.
