The last whisper of pink fades under sparking stars, and the moon crests the ridge.
Please, gods, help me end this. Let me get Sam out of this hell.
I freeze my breath and plunge.
Through the sludge, I swim toward our future.
The underwater gate is still broken open, just as I left it earlier, and I pull myself through. My fingertips find the edge of the stone platform, and I surface enough to wipe the shit from my eyes before hauling myself up.
I race along the stone hallway to the wooden door.
It’s been hung back in place.
Not surprising.
I yank the pins from the hinges and let myself through again. There are no guards; they only work during the day, and theydefinitelydon’t work on the full moon.
Retracing the path the guard led me down earlier, I pass cell after cell. And then my eyes grow wide as my magic tracks movement and bodies in the darkness. My vision sharpens, and my insides curdle as I take in the sight before me.
The cells are stuffed with humans—a feast for after the full moon packed into cages for safekeeping. Most are alive, some drained, as though the guards who stashed them in here couldn’t control their bloodlust. The sound of the humans’ pleas boils my anger, and I retrace my steps to the first brimming cage, my magic whirring and muscles transforming.
My magic will remain in the bars of these cages if I use it, but the lives I’m saving make the risk worth it. We don’t typically leave traces of ourselves outside of Mortifer—we never want the use of our magic to fall into enemy hands—but this warrants an exception because I don’t have time to fiddle with keys and unlock every cell.
So I make my choice.
Gripping the bar of the first cell, I fire my magic down the entire row, and lock after lock flies through the air, clattering against stone.
In seconds, I free hundreds.
My eyes meet a starved man on the other side of the bars, and I swing the cage open. “Follow me,” I tell him and move briskly down the corridor.
I jog down the hallway toward the dungeon door, bare feet pattering behind. Thankful whispers and whimpers echo in the stone hallway, and a teenage girl races ahead of me.
We reach the massive iron door, and I unclip the ring of keys.
Please, gods.
The girl looks at me, eyeing the keys and then the holes.
“Which one fits?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying the first one and failing.
She bats my hand away and peers into the first keyhole. “Three teeth.”
I stare at her, stunned. Shaking myself to attention, I assess the keychain. Five options with three teeth.
“How did you know to check for that?” I ask her as I try the first one.
It doesn’t turn.
“Father was a locksmith,” she sniffles.
“Was?”
“He’s dead in the cell.”
Fuck.
