Page 15 of Thief of Dreams
But even as I sprint toward the palace, I know I'm not going to be that lucky.
Blood splashes the marble floors of the hallway, and there's a long, bloody mark where someone tried to crawl away. The clash of swords echoes ahead of me, and there's this horrible, awful snarling sound that sends a chill down my spine.
I don't know where Keir's gone, but he's most likely headed directly to where the sounds of fighting echo.
Stalking along the hallway, I hold myself right on the edge of the Sift, just in case I need to get away suddenly.
One step around the next corner and I'm confronted with a sight directly from my nightmares. Lady Altrea stares blankly at the ceiling, her throat torn out and the skin around it bleached of all color. She was one of the females in Narcissa and Ismena's alliance, and though I wasn't fond of her, no one deserves this.
I kneel beside her, closing those cerulean eyes even as I examine the wound. There's something not right about it. Long, bloodied gouges like teeth marks have torn her throat right out. But it's the grayed edges that look unnatural, as if something's tainted the flesh.
A grunt huffs through the hallway behind me, and every hair along my spine rises.
I'm not alone.
Spinning to my feet, I catch a glimpse of a creature warped of pure shadows stalking toward me. It lifts its muzzle to the moon and howls.
A Wyrdwolf. Twice the size of me and covered in dense black tufts of fur. A ruddy light glows behind the cage of its bleached ribs, as if its heart is forged with the light of a dying star. It looks like it has crawled out of some grave somewhere, and its putrid breath fogs the air, stinking of rot.
A nightmare twisted directly from the Shadow Realms. After all, the Court of Dreams is but one Other World. There are more. And they're not all as pretty as this one.
"Mother of Night, protect me," I whisper, taking a stealthy step back as the Wyrdwolf advances.
No Sifting will save me now. Wyrdwolves have the ability to Shadow Walk too.
It ripples toward me, red eyes glowing and its bloodied maw dripping crimson with Altrea's blood.
I hold the knife low. Good, cold iron crafted by a goblin smith that fused pure shadows to the blade. It can cut through anything, but as I see more of the Wyrdwolf, I'm suddenly not so certain of that. Iron can kill any of the fae. I have to hope it will be enough.
Shouts echo behind it.
The Wyrdwolf's ears flicker back, and then it launches forward, aiming for my throat.
I Sift to the side, my iron raking along those rotten ribs. And then I throw myself forward into a roll, momentarily thanking every master in the training camps for pushing my body to the brink all those years ago.
There's no time to think or dwell. Only time to move. Every animal instinct I own is telling me to get out of there, but what if it follows me through the shadows?
"Merisel!" someone yells, and then the prince is there, striding along the hallway with his robe flaring wide behind him.
His skin is gilded with light as his magic spills out of him, and it glows in his eyes. Keir twists his hands, and golden chains shoot out from his palms, lashing around the Wyrdwolf's legs.
I roll under its abdomen, slashing up with the knife and spilling hot entrails across the floor. Then I'm gagging as the stink of it hits my nostrils with the force of a runaway carriage.I didn't get any of it on me, did I?
"Get out of the way!" Keir snarls, weaving his hands together in a sinuous dance. The chains work their way around the creature's body, twisting brutally into shadowborn flesh.
Gladly.
I bolt to the side, but a vicious snap of teeth catches the hem of my skirt, and I go sprawling. No time to look. I have to move. Scrambling to my hands and knees, I slash through the ends of my skirt, and suddenly I'm free.
I can practically feel its hot breath on the back of my neck. I know I said I wouldn't Sift in front of Keir, but right now—
Just a blink. A slip in shadows.
A clash of fierce teeth over open air, right behind me.
I gain enough space to scramble free, though the fucking skirts are doing their best to betray me. How, by the light of the Cauldron, do fae princessesdoanything in these blasted things?
The Wyrdwolf screams in animalistic rage as those chains bite deeper into its putrid flesh. Bones pop. Fur sizzles with the wet reek of something from the swamp. It bites and snaps at the chains cutting their way through its flesh, but then its red eyes lock on me as if it knows its not going to escape. As if it knows death is but a mere twist of Keir's hands away and it wants to take every last living thing with it.
