Page 20 of Dance of Deception

“You have been found guilty by the Black Court for the crime of breaking a blood marker.”

The kneeling man—Mushkin, did he call him?—sobs.

The man speaking barely acknowledges it.

“Mr. Mushkin, your fate now lies with my associate, The Hound.”

The man with the dog mask rises. He descends the dais with slow, measured steps, radiating unhinged hunger. His broad shoulders strain the fabric of his black suit, thick biceps rippling under the sleeves as he rolls his neck and stops right in front of the prisoner.

“Fight, or flight,” The Hound growls in a low, velvety voice that dances over my skin like silk and smoke. A voice that tugs at something inside of me, like a memory I can’t place.

Mushkin shakes his head violently.

“Fight…” The Hound murmurs again, turning and gesturing toward a table laid with gleaming, evil-looking medieval weapons. “Or flight.” He turns the other way, raising a hand to a massive stone doorway carved with runic symbols, with nothing but blackness beyond it.

A chill slithers up my spine.

“I’m not going in there!” Mushkin screams.

“Fight it is,” The Hound rasps.

There’s glee in his tone.

Still dancing, I watch him walk to the table and select two gigantic hunting knives. One of the guards walks over to him, takes one and brings it to the prisoner. They press the hilt of it into Mushkin’s shaking hands after they release his wrists from their bonds.

Mushkin is still sobbing as The Hound twirls his own blade absently, gazing at it through his mask as the thick gold ring on his finger with the black opal or maybe diamond glints alongside the knife.

“Mr. Raven,” he murmurs quietly, turning to glance up at the dais toward the man in the bird mask. “I believe we’re ready.”

The Raven nods. “Then the fight has already begun.”

Mushkin stumbles shakily to his feet, weeping abjectly. He and The Hound circle each other. Even I can tell this isn’t going to be a fight. It’s going to be a slaughter. The Hound is clearly just fucking with him.

Suddenly, he makes his move.

And he’sfast.

Mushkin barely has time to react before The Hound's knife slices both his wrists. Mushkin yelps, his own weapon clattering to the floor. The Hound’s next slash takes him across first one thigh and then the other, sending him to his knees.

Then, The Hound is done toying with his prey.

He grabs Mushkin by the throat, yanks him close, and with one thrust rams the knife into his chest and rips upward, throughflesh, through muscle, through throat, sending a tsunami of red gushing all over the stone floor.

It can’t be helped. Can’t be stopped. Can’t be contained.

Not the blood.

I'm talking about thegaspthat bursts sharply and audibly from my throat.

I try to spin—try andforcemyself to tear my eyes away from the horror in front of me and pray that nobody heard me.

Unfortunately, someone did.

Every nerve in my body whines. Every inch of my skin goes cold as The Hound turns and staresdirectlyat me, his head cocking slightly, his attention locking on me with unnerving precision.

My entire body goes still as he drops the body, knife and all, to the ground. The guards drag the dead prisoner away as my ears ring.

Keep dancing.

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