Page 69 of The Mirror of Beasts

“Oh, damn me, the Helm of Awe?” one of them said. “I’m taking it.”

“Then I’m taking Chrysaor—I spent years of my bloody life looking for this blasted sword, and they’ve had it all along,” said another.

The Hollowers did what Hollowers did best. The scavenging turned feral, the smashing and plundering frenzied. Death had only unleashed their darkest instincts.

“I’ll tell you about the others hiding down here!” the hag cried. “I’ll let you feast on their flesh instead!”

My blood turned into ice. Emrys’s fingers tightened around my wrist.

“Keep searching,” Endymion barked out. “Leave nothing of value behind!”

“There are—there were four girl whelps, and a boy,” the hag continued. “His name was—it was Emrys!”

I lifted my head, and that slight movement, that shift in weight, sealed our fates. The armoire creaked loudly in the heavy silence, and my heart stopped dead in my chest.

A heavy, oppressive feeling of malice neared, turning the air noxious. I stared out through the cracked opening between the doors, too scared to even draw in a breath.

“What did you say?” Endymion asked, his voice hushed.

Emrys’s breathing grew shallow, as if recognizing something in the tone. He released his hold on me, pressing his fists against his eyes. I didn’t know what to do—the plans wouldn’t come. There was no way to get either of us out of here without one of the hunters seeing.

The terrifying sensation released as Endymion stalked back across the shadowy warehouse, kicking aside broken chairs and crunching through shattered glass as he approached the mirror like a looming thunderstorm.

“What did you say?” he growled.

“Look!” The hag retreated in the glass, until I could no longer make out her eerie shape. “His face was like this—look, look!”

He fisted one hand in the velvet cover, ripping it away from the rippling surface of the magic. Whatever Endymion Dye saw there drew him closer. Closer.

His profile, barely visible through the darkness, wasn’t of the man who’d exercised such careful control over the perfect image he’d cultivated as the de facto leader of our guild—charming one moment, cutting the next.

And there, staring into the depths of the mirror, the last trace of the man he had been shattered.

“You lying bitch!”

He gripped the frame with a scream of pure animal rage, throwing it to the ground. He whirled, upending the nearby table with a single hand, kicking in the oak legs, unleashing the deadly edge of his sword on its body until splinters exploded from it.

He fell upon the armchairs with the same mindless fury, shredding them, ripping out their stuffing as if they were entrails, before turning to the racks of wine and champagne bottles. The air was stained red with the spray of wine and fizz, a river of it snaking through the shattered remains of the warehouse.

The other hunters stood by, watching silently. Unwilling to disrupt his rampage, unwilling to risk joining him in case that scalding anger rebounded onto them.

Emrys lifted his head, but the set of his mouth, the look in his eyes—that wasn’t fear. It was a bone-deep weariness. Recognition.

The ache in me deepened.

Nash had been a real bastard at times. He’d subjected us to curses and the elements when we slept rough. But even when I’d riled him up until he saw red, he never raised a hand to us. Never.

I watched Emrys, not his father tearing the paintings down from the wall, punching through the priceless canvases with his fists. How many times had his son been on the receiving end of them? How many times had his mother?

He lowered his head again with a shaky sigh. Trying to make himself smaller.

Above us, the horn sounded its thunderous cry, echoing through the levels of the house like a building quake. Then, and only then, did Endymion stop.

The destruction he’d wrought was still collapsing, shards of broken bottles still dripping champagne. The transformation was terrifying for its swiftness. He straightened, the placid mask slipping back into place as he faced the other hunters.

“If it was a feeling our lord had, he was likely sensing the hag,” Primm told him. “Waste of time, if you ask me—”

Endymion flashed across the room, his ghostly hand closing around Primm’s throat. “No one asked you.”

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