Page 157 of The Mirror of Beasts

I watched in sickening horror as he held it out for his father to take. Endymion drifted toward him, lifting his wraithlike fingers as if in a dream. The hunter’s hands turned to flesh and bone in front of my eyes again, the skin gray and bloodless. Emrys’s hand closed around it.

“Goodbye, Father,” he said.

Endymion looked up in confusion, but it was already too late. Emrys spun him hard, heaving his father forward through the mist—to where the Mirror of Shalott hung on the wall.

Endymion collided with its magic, and with a gasp of fury, he tried to pull back from its snare. Wisps of body, his transmuted soul, tore away at the touch of the rippling glass, as if the mirror were inhaling him.

Endymion dropped to the floor snarling, clawing at the mirror in a futile attempt to break its hold on him.

“Master!” he called. “Master!”

The mirror shuddered and rattled against the wall, swallowing the last of Endymion Dye’s soul with a satisfied sigh.

Emrys hooked my arm through his and drew me away from his father’s screams of fury—safe, for once, in the knowledge that this man could no longer hurt him. His shoulders shook as we retreated toward the entry hall.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.

But as I met his gaze once more, I realized he was laughing.

It was a laugh of incredulity and elation—the delirious release of some impossible weight, some hideous shadow, lifting from his shoulders. He leaned down and kissed me, pouring every ounce of his relief, his joy, into it. I gripped his arms to steady us both.

“How adorable,” came a silky voice from the atrium’s entrance.

The laughter died on Emrys’s lips.

We turned to meet the sorceress striding toward us. Madrigal seemed unbothered by the fighting still raging on the floors above us, the inhuman bellowing of phantom horses and their riders. Her appearance was immaculate; not a single strand of her bright red hair was out of place. It was as if she’d only just arrived, and she moved with the confidence of someone who knew they were untouchable. That they weren’t in any danger.

The realization dawned cold and terrible.

“You,” I breathed out. “You told him about Neve—where to find her.” She’d been the one to feed the information about Neve to Lord Death—how long had she been working with him? Since Neve’s first letter?

Emrys sent me a questioning look, but the sorceress spoke first.

“Your cleverness failed you this time, Beastie,” Madrigal said. Her gaze moved over me, disgust warring with curiosity. “Lord Death told me I was mistaken, that someone else—someone even more pathetic—has the soul.”

He’s still nearby, I thought, fighting the barb of fear. I couldn’t feel the cold pressure of his presence, but he couldn’t have gone far with the fight still raging on.

Madrigal turned to address Emrys. “Kick your sword over and bring her to me, pet.”

Emrys stepped in front of me. “I’m not your pet.”

Madrigal’s lips curled as she raised her wand. “I’ll ask you one last time.”

She took his silence for an answer.

“Emrys—” His name fell away from my lips as his body suddenly seized, tensing until his spine went straight as a board. The tendons in his neck strained, the muscles in his arms and back bulging. The sword fell from his hand, clattering to the floor.

“Emrys!” I gripped his arm, fear flooding my veins. His hand rose, shaking.

“Run,” he choked out. “Ru—”

His face hardened, and between one terrifying heartbeat and the next, his hand lashed out and wrapped around my throat.

His fingers pressed into my soft skin like an iron band, squeezing harder with each moment we stayed there, locked in place. The suffocating press of his grip hurt less than the look of horror in his eyes as we stared at one another.

“What did you think I meant when I told you your heart belonged to me?” Madrigal crooned at him. “Your life is mine, pet. Unless …”

Emrys’s face was terrible, void of any emotion, save for his eyes. I shifted my gaze to the sorceress, a tremor of fury building in me. She met my gaze with a look of twisted delight.

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