Page 93 of Burdened Bonds
As if he’s agreeing wholeheartedly with that sentiment, the beast growls inside me. It’s the first time he’s stirred for days and for once I’m relieved by it.
All these years I’ve hated him, despised his existence and the cruel situation in which I’m caught. I’ve never considered what he brings me, how much I need him. How dependent I am on him. Until he was gone, I never felt that at all. Now I welcome his return. Yeah, we’re going to rip those throats out together.
I peer down at the injured man slumped on the floor.
“You need to heal him too. Free him,” I say.
“There isn’t the time.”
I ignore my friend and crouch down by the crumpled figure. He stinks of piss and shit and I suspect I smell no better. But underneath it, faintly, ever so faintly, I can smell the mountains and the forest and I can see it in my mind. Just as he described it.
I shake him gently.
“Jacob,” I whisper. “Jacob. It’s time to go, buddy.”
His eyelids creak open.
“To the gallows,” he murmurs sarcastically.
“To anywhere but here.”
His eyes open fully and he looks up into my face.
“Moreau?”
“Come on.” I snap through his chains and his collar and hooking my arm under his elbow drag him to his feet. “Tristan.”
My friend examines the battered form of the werebeast and the werebeast examines him right back.
“That’s Kennedy’s son,” he hisses. He spits in his direction. “Piece of shit.”
“Yeah,” Tristan says, “delighted to meet you too.”
“He’s here to rescue us.”
“You,” Tristan corrects.
“He’s coming with us. So stop wasting time and heal him so we can get the hell out of here.”
“It will take too lon–”
“It will take even longer if I have to drag him like this,” I snap, and with a huff of disapproval, Tristan steps forward and lays his hands on the injured man.
Jacob groans with relief, just like I had as Tristan sparks across his body. My friend focuses on the most crucial injuries – fixing his broken arm, his sliced leg and his mangled stomach – and leaving the superficial. After a few minutes, Jacob pushes his hands away.
“That’ll do.”
“I should fix your–”
Jacob shakes his head. “There’s no time.”
Together, we walk through the open door of my cell and into the heart of the dungeon – just as damp and dank. There’s no light at all but with my wolfish vision I see all the other heavy doors that line the circular space, behind which I smell my kind, can sense their pain and misery.
“Werebeasts,” I mutter.
“Yes, the warden said all the werebeasts were being kept down here in the dungeon.”
“We need to free them,” I say, strolling towards the first door. Tristan captures my arm.
