The Bonded man tosses the deserter forward to his wolf, who snaps him out of mid-air with his powerful jaws. His direwolf spits the deserter onto the ground and then snaps at him again by his neck, shaking him once, twice. The man—the body—has stopped moving.
The direwolf feasts on him, blood coating his muzzle.
I make myself watch for as long as I can, determined to sear the image into my brain, to remember this for the rest of my life.
To remember how absolutely fucking cold-blooded the Bonded are and how unfairly the cards are stacked against the rest of us.
Eventually the sight turns my stomach and I look away, only to make eye contact with the brutal, maniacal Bonded again. He’s looking at me assessingly. I wonder if he gets off on making people cower in fear and pain. If this is fun for him.
I lift my chin higher.I’m not afraid of you, asshole, I tell him in my mind even as my hands tremor, even as his bold-faced unblinking violence shakes me to my core.
There’s no emotion in his dark eyes, none at all.
The Siphons might be our enemy, but I’m certain that this man is the true face of evil.
CHAPTER THREE
Igor and I were able to round up a dozen of Saela’s friends and our neighbors for training, which is a start.Within a few days, we’ve got them on a schedule, meeting after school as soon as I bring Saela home.
Now, I wince with sympathy as I watch a kid a few years younger than Saela fall face-first into the dirt. Falls like that hurt, but of course it’s nothing to his youthful body. He springs up like a hare, grinning, eager to go again.
And it’s not just hard knocks from training that they’re springing back from, not after last night.
“Which one was it?” Igor asks me, coming up beside me so he can keep his voice low.
“There—Timun, that gangly one,” I gesture. Timun is twelve and has just started another big growth spurt. He looks like he’s not sure where his body starts or ends.
Last night, a Nabber tried to get him, but Timun fought him off. He used a small carving knife he’s been keeping next to his mattress, along with some tricks to get away that we’ve taught him.
His mother rushed him over to my house this morning so he could tell me in person. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more elatedthan I was when looking at the sheer gratitude written on Mrs. Sulvan’s face. Knowing that I’m the one who helped save her kid.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Igor murmurs, and I flush.
“He didn’t get a look at the asshole’s face, though,” I say regretfully. “Apparently it was dark, and their face was covered…”
“Hmm,” Igor says, and we both fall into silence, watching Timun. He’s rolling happily in the dirt with two other boys, practicing their escapes, the trauma of last night seemingly forgotten.
“You’re pretty good at this, kid,” Igor grunts finally. I struggle for a retort, momentarily thrown off by the rare compliment. “You could think about charging for this, you know.”
“What, these kids? Their parents barely have the money to pay for new clothes when the old ones are pinching.”
Igor laughs. “No, I was thinking more like in the Northern Quarter, where the parents have a few coins to rub together.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Even in those nicer parts of town, things have been getting rougher. I bet the parents would be interested in helping their kids learn some self-defense skills.”
He pushes off from the fence and stretches. I can hear the cracks in his back and neck as he moves them.
“Anyway. Something to think about. It’d maybe get you out of the heat and steam of the laundry.”
It’s an idea. I nod and then turn away, calling in the kids.
“Okay, good job, everyone,” I say when they’ve gathered around me in a circle. Their little faces look up at me attentively. “I can see you’ve been practicing what we learned last time.”
I pause, looking over the dozen children that are gathered in the school’s sorry excuse for an exercise yard. Most of them are a little too thin, like they could use an extra meal or three. Signs of their parents’ care are abundant, though; little touches sewninto their clothing, like the heart-shaped patch that six-year-old Sami sports on the left knee of her trousers.
Waving Saela up to the front, I announce to everyone, “We’re going to show you a demonstration for some new moves you can use if an attacker grabs you from behind.”
Saela steps proudly forward, her shoulders back. I grin at her confidence.
“Ready to show what we practiced?” I murmur, voice pitched low so only she can hear.
