Page 154 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

Footsteps approach me. Two sets, one limping heavily, the other moving with ease. They’re taking their time now, savoring the victory. I’m not going anywhere and we all know it.

“That was significantly more entertaining than expected,” the archer says, limping into view. He moves stiffly, favoring his wounded leg. Each step leaves a boot print dark with blood. The beak of his crow mask sits askew on his face, knocked loose during our fight. But he’s smiling behind it. “Color me impressed. The failure actually has some fight left in him.”

“He’s exhausted, poisoned, and injured,” the mage observes coldly. “Hardly sporting at this point.”

His voice comes from my left, outside my limited field of vision. I can hear him but can’t see him.

The archer prods me with his boot, purposely pressing into my injured ribs.

Pain explodes through my chest. But the paralysis spell is absolute. I feel the pressure yet I can’t even flinch let alone scream.

The archer removes his boot from my chest, leaving behind a muddy imprint on my ribs. He circles me slowly, examining me from different angles.”He fights well for someone who failed his last three contracts. Better than his guild records suggested.”

“He’s a Wolven of the Sylverin clan,” the mage points out. “Of course he fights well.”

“Well, he made me bleed,” the archer says, touching his bandaged thigh. “Standard retrieval is boring. I vote we get creative.”

There’s an eagerness in his voice that makes my stomach turn.

The mage tilts his head. “So what do we do with him?”

My fate hangs on their whim and there’s nothing I can do to influence it.

“We’re supposed to deliver a fate worse than death for his desertion.” The archer traces his knife along my paralyzed arm, the point dragging across skin without breaking it. I feel every little inch of that blade’s journey. The promise of pain contained in that gentle pressure. “Let’s cut him open nice and slow. We’ll pack him with stones and sink him in the river.”

An image of it forms in my mind. My belly split open, stones weighing down my corpse. It’s exactly the kind of death the guild approves of for failures who run.

The mage clicks his tongue.

“The river’s two days from here,” he mutters dryly.

His protest has nothing to do with kindness.

“Guild will pay us better if we deliver him alive.”

A live retrieval is worth more than a corpse. Delivered to the guild house in one piece means a full bounty.

He reaches up and removes his reaper mask. The face beneath is younger than his voice suggested, smooth skin unmarred by scars. There are no distinguishing marks except for those cold eyes the color of winter ice. Pale blue, almost colorless. They’re completely devoid of empathy. I’ve seen warmer eyes on corpses.

I burn every detail and every line into memory.

If I survive this, I will find him again.

The vow forms in what’s left of my conscious mind, searing itself into my memory. I will make him pay.

The archer leans closer. He’s close enough that I could bite him if my jaw worked. “He doesn’t even have the Sylverin clans silver fang,” the archer says, studying me with disappointment. “Would’ve been fun to hunt an actual wolf.”

He wanted the prestige of hunting down a real wolven warrior. Instead he got me. A broken remnant who cannot shift.

Something flickers in the mage’s expression. “Wait. I think I have something.”

His eyes light up with the particular gleam.

The archer turns to the mage. “I know that face. What are you scheming?”

He steps back slightly when his partner’s fingers start to glow with sickly green light. Even the archer recognizes danger when he sees it. This particular shade of green means necromantic magic.

“You and your little tricks, Quinnlan,” the archer scoffs.