Page 42 of The Enemy to the Living
“About us?” Sorrel knocks back the rest of his drink. Celyn scoffs at the display and reaches over, lifting the needle from the record next to his seat. “No, perhaps we were not clear. Hmm?”
He looks at Celyn, who shrugs and twirls a lock of red hair around his finger. “Perhaps not.”
“I didn’t break any part of the deal,” I protest. “I didn’t tell them anything about you or what happens here.”
“You should not be fraternising with the Hunt at all,” Sorrel hisses. He’s before me in an instant, sharp teeth bared on a hiss, and I swallow down the whimper that threatens to rise in my throat. “We do not think we made it clear, the bargain you made.”
“Y-you did. Please…”
“Celyn,” Sorrel says. “Show him.”
Celyn pushes away from the armchair and approaches Bryn with slow, lingering steps. Bryn shrinks back, but Celyn reaches and grabs hold of his chin, forcing his face up so their eyes meet.
“This is not all about you, Quinn,” Celyn says. His fingers are tight on Bryn’s face. “This wolf also failed to fulfil his part of our bargain. You should see what awaits you should you fail us again.”
I try to take a step forward, but the troll’s hands land heavily on my shoulders, holding me in place. If I had my wolf—
I could what? Kill them? I remember that vampire on the ground suddenly, the scent of his blood visceral, but Bryn cries out and I come back to myself before I can fall apart.
Celyn is still holding him in place. Magic flows from him, visible even to me, and wraps around Bryn’s entire body before it sinks under his skin. He goes unnaturally still, the entire room silent except for the crackle and pop of logs in the grate, and then—
And then hescreams.
It’s a scream that rends me open, that has me pulling at the troll’s hold, and I’m almost free, but then Sorrel grabs me and holds me in place with no trouble at all. I see the magic twist and turn inside Bryn—I don’t know how, but Ido—and then watch it pull back, dragging something bright and silver with it.
It’s so bright it hurts my eyes to look at, but I can’t bring myself to look away, either. Celyn’s magic—blood red, like his hair—has it firmly trapped in place, but still it twists and lashes out, reaching for Bryn, who sags sideways once it’s free.
Dawning horror reaches me, and the cry I let out sounds a thousand miles away.
That’s his wolf.
That’s hiswolf.
Celyn pulls a small jar from the mantelpiece and his magic forces the still-snapping wolf magic inside. It rattles when he sets the lid on it, but once it’s shut, the entire room is still, silent.
The fire goes out. My heart pounds in my ears. Slowly, Sorrel lets go.
He reaches over and flicks on a light. I can hear Bryn’s breathing, but he’s out cold, and I don’t like how shallow it is. That hurt, didn’t it? They’re going to make it hurt.
“I hope things just became a lot clearer,” Sorrel says venomously.
“They did.” My voice comes out as a croak.
The troll lets go, too, and Celyn lowers himself into one of the armchairs. Sweat beads his brow.
“Take him to the pack house,” Sorrel says, now eyeing Bryn speculatively. “Let the wolves know what they are dealing with.”
The troll nods. He moves around me, picks Bryn up as though he weighs nothing at all, and leaves the room. Sorrel strides away and takes the other armchair.
They both eye me, then exchange a look. Celyn tips his head back against the chair, but Sorrel looks at me again.
“The terms of your deal have changed,” Sorrel says.
“You—”
“Nine fights,” he says, and I snap my mouth shut. “This will count for one, as I imagine you will be no good in the cage after seeing that.”
“We want to be entertained,” Celyn says with a nod.
