Page 156 of The Mirror of Beasts

One of the hunters stood over a terrified sorceress, who was scrambling on hands and knees across the blood-damp carpets to get away. He raised his sword above his head, death magic writhing along the silver blade in anticipation of another claimed soul. The hunter turned his face just enough for me to recognize the man he’d once been.

“Dye!” I shouted.

Endymion looked over his shoulder, his glowing eyes sparking with amusement. His humanity had been the mask, and death had only revealed the monstrosity that had always lived inside his skin.

The sorceress seized her opportunity to escape, fleeing into the maelstrom without a backward glance. Now that I had the hunter’s full attention, I couldn’t seem to remember why I’d thought this was a good idea.

“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” he said, with a smile that revealed his sharpened teeth. “How convenient that I’ll finally be able to kill you, too.”

“Can’t say I like the new look,” I told him, edging back in the direction of the hallway. “Undead tends to be an unflattering shade on most people, though.”

“Undead?” Endymion laughed. “My child, I am so much more than that. My power is beyond your comprehension.”

“You’re probably right about that,” I said. “I don’t speak Asshole, and the One Vision doesn’t seem to be willing to translate.”

“And here I thought I might never hear the legendary wit of the Larks again,” Endymion said. “How satisfying to know that it’ll truly be the last time I’m subjected to it.”

I stood my ground as he sauntered toward me, knowing the dagger in my hand wouldn’t be powerful enough to stop him.

Death magic emanated from the core of his being. There was a burning sensation on my jaw as his phantom hand turned to icy flesh and came up to grip it. My death mark echoed the pain, searing.

Tell him who you are, my mind whispered. He won’t kill what his master wants.

“Cat got your tongue?” Endymion sneered, lifting me by the collar of my shirt. I fought, kicking my legs to no avail.

“Father.”

Emrys stood a short distance away, hand curled around his sword hilt once more. He squared his shoulders, and there was no fear in his eyes. Only a carefully controlled hatred.

There was something immensely gratifying about the shock that crept over Endymion’s gaunt features as he turned toward his son. His hand slackened and I fell to the floor in a heap, gasping. Emrys’s mismatched eyes darted toward me, making sure I was all right, before returning to his father.

“This is not …,” Endymion began faintly. “You’re not …”

“Real?” Emrys finished, circling us. Endymion tracked the arc of his path, his neck twisting unnaturally. “Breathing? Here? You have a wide assortment of words to choose from.”

Endymion shook his head. If he’d been alive, perhaps his lungs would have worked like bellows, or he might have clawed at his pale hair. But now, he could only release a guttural sound.

“You’re dead,” Endymion said. “This is a trick.”

“No trick,” Emrys said, facing his father. He began to back away, receding through the red smoke as he taunted, “Come on now, Dad. Is that any way to greet your beloved only child? Your son and heir?”

I scrambled to my feet. The hunter’s jaw sawed back and forth, all but unhinging itself in agitation.

“A trick,” Endymion repeated. There was a note of pleading in his voice now. The sword fell from his limp hand, bursting into sparks of silver as it struck the floor.

“Was it worth it?” Emrys asked, hidden in the depths of the smoke. “Everything you did to us? Did it make you feel powerful to know that you could hurt your wife? Your son?”

“You are not him!” Endymion raged, charging toward the sound of his child’s voice. “You are not my son!”

“Did it become harder and harder to satisfy with each hit, each punishment? Did it kill the weakness in you the way you hoped?” Emrys asked. “When my blood splattered onto your face, did you recognize the taste of it as your own?”

Endymion descended into ominous silence. It stretched on long enough that my hands began to lose their feeling. But slowly, so slowly, his expression turned from rancorous to almost … morose.

“I burned your heart,” Endymion said as Emrys appeared ahead of us again. He inclined his head toward his son, as if listening to something beyond my hearing. “How can it still beat?”

“You bastard!” I snarled. I lunged at him, only for my blade to pass through his intangible body and fall to my knees.

“I’ll show you how,” Emrys said, so calm. “Give me your hand. Feel mine.”

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