Blood.
The smell of it fills my nose, thick and coppery. I’m walking through darkness, torchlight flickering at the edges, giving me glimpses of bodies on the ground, throats gaping open, blood pooling beneath them. One is still twitching, fingers scrabbling weakly at the dirt.
My hands are wet, and when I look down, the long fingers are covered in blood.
Should have killed him slower. Should have made him watch.The thought slides through my head, casual and cold. Not my voice.
There are more bodies near a brazier, and in the darkness beyond it, there are shadows whispering.
A building looms ahead, coming into view as I move toward it.
The lodge. I’m at the Dell!
Lights are burning in the windows, but the main door is open wide. I glide inside, ignoring the trophies mounting the walls and walk down the hallway to a door, which crashes open before I touch it.
Cowen is at his desk. Papers scattered in front of him, a drink at his elbow. He looks up at the sound, confusion filling his face, and then his eyes find me, and the confusion becomes terror. He lurches up from his chair and bolts toward a door at the farside of the room.
Good. I was hoping he’d run.
I let him almost reach the door before I’m on him, moving with a speed that blurs the air at the edges of vision. My hand closes on the back of his collar and I shove him toward the wall. He hits it, bounces off, and trips, crashing to the floor. My boot pins his hand to the floorboards as he tries to push himself up. Bones crunch. Cowen screams.
That’s for the collar.
My boot grinds down.
And that’s for the antlers.
I crouch over him and tangle my fingers in his hair.
“Look at me.”
That voice. I know that voice. It is not mine.
Cowen’s eyes roll. His mouth is working, trying to form words, but fear won’t let him.
“I want to know where the other preserves are. Names and locations.” The voice is silky, nothing like I’ve ever heard before. “Tell me everything, and I might make your death quick.”
Cowen doesn’t even try to resist. He gives up everything. Names, places, contacts. And when he runs out of words, there’s a moment of silence.
“Thank you.” I release his hair. “That was very helpful.”
Hope flickers across Cowen’s face.
“We’re not done yet.” I drag him to his feet and haul him back to the main hall where the trophies hang, and rage floods through me. Yet my voice that isn’t my voice is calm when I speak.
“What were their names?”
Cowen stares at me.
“The fae.” The voice that isn’t mine has lost its gentleness. “The ones you turned into decorations for your wall. What were their names?”
“I don’t … they're just … We don’t keep records of?—”
“You don’t know.” It’s not a question. “You tortured them. You watched them scream while their bodies were reshaped into whatever your patrons requested. And you don’t even know their names.”
“They’re animals.” The words come out pleading. “They’re just animals. They don’t have?—”
My fist connects with his mouth. Teeth scatter across the floor.
