Page 43 of Storm of Shadows
Room seven is the first on the left.
Beaufort rests his ear against the door. “He’s in there,” he whispers, disapproval written all over his face. “You ready?”
I nod.
Beaufort takes a step backwards, lifts his arms and blasts the door clean away, the piece of wood flying from the doorway, through the room beyond and crashing against a window, glass and wood splintering everywhere.
My friend always likes to make an entrance.
A high-pitched scream issues from inside the room and when we step inside we find a couple in bed together, both scrambling around for clothes.
We don’t give them the chance to find any. I march straight over to the girl, some curvy thing with big blue eyes, grab ahold of her upper arm and drag her from the bed. She’s wearing panties and nothing else.
“Out!” I order her, flinging her in the direction of the door. Covering her tits with her arms, she scurries away, leaving the boy I assume is Stanley scrabbling to pull on a pair of boxers.
“What the hell,” he mutters.
He’s tall and built with a little muscle. Not as lean as most of the kids from Slate Quarter. Probably stronger than them which is why he’s been throwing his weight around. Although why the fuck he’d hurt our girl, I can’t understand.
“Stanley?” Beaufort asks him.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling a shirt over his head and trying to stand up tall as if he isn’t intimidated by us, when it’s clear he is.
My bond brother lifts his hands again and this time sends the asshole flying across the room and smashing into the broken wood and glass.
He hits the debris with anoof.
“Hey man, what I–”
Beaufort sends another blast of magic hurtling towards him, hitting him right in the belly. He groans, folding over in half.
“I don’t know what this is about but I–” he mutters.
Beaufort isn’t in the mood for talking. He targets him with a volley of vicious magic. It’s not enough to kill or maim. It is enough to hurt – possibly scar. The boy jolts around on the floor, moaning and groaning with every impact, curling up into a tight ball.
Beaufort stops, his shoulders heaving. He turns and looks at me.
“Want a go?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
I walk over to the far side of the room, splinters of glass crunching under my boots, and grab hold of the boy by his neck. His eyes are swimming around in their sockets as he struggles to focus on our faces.
“Know who we are?” Beaufort asks him.
“Yeah, but I don’t know what–”
“The girl,” he says, as I squeeze his throat, “you don’t touch her ever again.”
“The girl?” his brow crinkles in genuine confusion. “That girl just now?”
“Briony Storm,” I tell him, liking the sound of her name in my mouth.
“Briony!” he says, eyebrows leaping up his forehead and a smirk forming on his lips. “This is about Briony? Man, she’s not worth–”
I swing back my fist and slam it right into his mouth. Despite my gloves, I feel a tooth crack against my knuckles and when I withdraw my hand, his mouth is full of blood.
“The black eye,” Beaufort growls from behind me. “You gave it to her. Only seems right that we repay the favor.”
