Page 33 of The Dead Saint

“Who’s going?” Thompson’s gaze swept the group.

But the ruthless faces staring back at him were washed out and drawn in the flickering light of their few torches.

“I’ll go,” Juri said. “Who’s coming with me?”

Till lifted a hand without speaking. Magnus said he would go. The three left the ruins quietly, swords drawn, leaving the torchlight behind.

“No longer than ten minutes and remain within sight of the ruins,” the Wolf said, nodding to another group of three preparing to go in the opposite direction. “Be quick. Be quiet.”

“And her?” Revenant asked, drawing his sword and moving to keep watch over the arch as the men passed through it.

“Not your responsibility,” the Wolf replied, weapons remaining in his hands.

The Wolf turned, and warmth spiked through Sorcha as their eyes met. He looked away first, a strange sensation tickling across her skin. Sorcha forced herself to watch the remaining men as they adjusted their weapons and dropped their cloaks, testing the buckles on their leather armor. Beyond the arches, the horses whickered and stamped, restless as the howls filled the air.

The group left behind sat or stood together, listening to the night, hearts racing with a shared dread and unease.

* * *

“Are you afraid?” she asked the Wolf.

The question surprised her, and she bit her tongue, keeping whatever else she might say inside. But she searched his profile, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of the truth. He stood just beyond her reach, a barrier in the night against the unknown, guarding her because his prince demanded it.

“No,” he responded flatly, turning his dark gaze to her.

I am, she thought, wanting to offer him comfort so she might receive some in return—wanting something else to be happening in this moment other than what was. But why? Why do I want comfort from a killer? It was the fear. It was the howling filling her head, the wolves beyond the temple walls, the sense that they were creeping closer and would soon be on them.

But besides wanting comfort, now, even as she hoped to escape, even as she hoped the prince would be displeased and separate the Wolf’s head from his body, she also wanted a shred of warmth.

Sorcha was disgusted with herself, shifting her gaze away, turning inward. It was better not to meet his dark eyes, better not to look too long into the handsome face of this monster.

“I won’t let anything in these woods touch you,” Adrian said, his face expressionless, voice pitched low.

Sorcha nodded, accepting the comfort, the small amount of warmth he offered.

A scrabbling sound reached them, like massive claws on stone. A horse screamed, and Sorcha jumped to her feet, pressing her back against the wall. A figure appeared in the torchlight, filling the entrance, hulking and covered in fur—it stood on its hind legs, as tall as the lintel. Orange eyes swept over them, and bloody saliva dripped from the creature’s muzzle.

* * *

A werewolf.

Adrian’s childhood nurse had scared him with folk stories about them. She’d warned that if he misbehaved, they would come for him in the night under a full moon—a moon like the one above his head. She promised he would be turned into one of them, cursed to see the world through the eyes of a wolf and he would never again play or eat sweets or walk under a clear sky. He would be forever tainted.

A wolf. It twisted in him, the thought that he’d become what she’d warned him against being. He’d ended up on that road anyway—he had become a wolf. He’d believed her wholeheartedly as a child. As an adult, he’d roamed the continent, had seen things from myths and legends. There had been creatures, people who were not people, and he now understood the truth in her stories.

He simply drew his sword and hoped it would be enough.

“What is it?” Thompson hissed.

“Werewolf,” Adrian replied without taking his eyes off the beast.

It stood seven feet tall, a huge, broad-chested wolf-human hybrid with a sharp pointed face and orange eyes. Sharp claws tipped its fingers and feet, furious anger rolling off it in waves as it lifted its head and let loose a piercing howl.

Others answered.

There would be no way out of this place without facing them. Adrian heard other swords being drawn around him and Domenico murmuring a prayer to one of his gods. Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the creature. What did it take to defeat werewolves? In the stories, it seemed impervious to whatever weapons might be brought against them.But nothing could survive if you separated the head from the body.

“What do we do?” Thompson asked.

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