Page 71 of The Mirror of Beasts

Caitriona emerged first, holding out a hand to us as she looked around. I pushed Emrys aside and joined her, letting the slow horror of the scene wash over me.

“Holy … gods …,” Emrys began.

The fine carpets squelched underfoot, blood soaking the hem of my jeans. The feel of it, the stench of it all—raw meat—was intensified by the sight of the human remains strewn like a wolf’s uneaten carrion across the furniture, the low shelves, everywhere.

Some had tried to run for the display cases before the hunters had stolen the weapons inside, leaving only bloodied handprints on the stands.

The silence from the hall was absolute, the terror of it penetrating the library and spreading through us. The smell of smoke clung to everything, but still wasn’t enough to cover the cloying stench of blood.

The world flickered around me, and for a moment, all I could see was the tower’s courtyard. The bodies.

It’s happening again.

We moved in different directions, searching for survivors, or anything that resembled a weapon.

As I rounded one of the bookshelves, my foot caught, and I fell. A scream clawed its way up my throat, lodging itself there. The headless torso shuddered as I staggered forward, heaving, desperately trying not to vomit.

I swore a blue streak under my breath, picking up one of the wooden chairs and slamming it against the worktable until the leg splintered and finally broke off. It was likely the best weapon I was going to find here.

Emrys tried to pull an old sword down from where it was displayed over the fireplace, yanking it with increasing frustration.

“It’s bolted on, genius!” I snapped.

“You think?” he bit back. The whole plaque came tumbling off the wall with his next tug. He yelped as it hit the floor and the blade broke off from the hilt.

It was only then that I saw who was crouched beside the unlit hearth.

Olwen’s knuckles were white as she gripped a piece of smashed shelving. Her hands trembled violently as she tried and failed to force herself to rise. Breath tore in and out of her. Her eyes were unblinking as she stared at a nearby body, her face devoid of color.

I gripped her arm, forcing her to look at me. “Olwen?”

Her gaze seemed to pass through me. She wasn’t really here—and I knew her mind was in the past, in the courtyard of the tower.

“Olwen!” I gave her a hard shake, finally breaking through. She turned with wild eyes. She might have been a healer, she might have dealt with broken bones, pus, and jagged cuts, but you could only heal the living.

“You should go downstairs,” I said. “Stay with the mirror while we see what happened.”

“What?” Olwen said. “No—no, I can handle this.”

“Please,” Caitriona said, crouching down on the other side of her. “It’s all right. We’ll rejoin you in a moment.”

“What if someone needs help?” Olwen breathed out. “And I can heal them.”

“Dear heart,” Caitriona said, holding her hand gently. “They didn’t leave anyone alive.”

Indecision warred on Olwen’s face, but in the end, she nodded. We waited until she was safely down the stairs before turning back to the carnage around us.

“Why would they do this?” Caitriona asked me.

I lifted a shoulder in a helpless shrug. This wasn’t the bloodless death of the Sorceress Hemlock, when her soul had been ripped out.

“Maybe the violence is the point?” Neve said, looking faint at the scene around us. “Violent death creates more death magic, doesn’t it?”

Glass crashed just outside the door to the hall, ripping me out of the haze of fear. Caitriona pivoted toward something in the far corner of the library—a pale spear half buried beneath a pile of Immortalities and the remains of one of the Hollowers.

“That’s—” Emrys choked at her manhandling of the weapon, following her as she strode toward the door leading into the hall. “That’s Gáe Bulg, the spear of Cú Chulainn—made of the bone of a sea monster—”

She threw a single glance back over her shoulder as she pulled the door open. “Now it is the spear of Caitriona.”

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