The man tilted his head as though considering it. “Should you have?”
Eli fell silent. The wind howled as it swept around them, flattening the tall grass and stirring Eli’s cloak. Rain fell in thundering sheets over the field, and the fireflies disappeared into the grass. Water fell over Eli’s upturned face, and the man shifted slightly, almost as though he wanted to turn around.
“The Wild Hunt is calling,” he said. “A hunter comes for you.”
“What?” Eli tried to step forward, but the rain fell harder, obscuring the man from view. Wind rushed in his ears, and something in it sounded almost human, familiar, a voice calling Eli’s name.
“Eli!”
Eli opened his eyes just as his body was thrown off the side of the bed, tumbling onto the bare wooden floor. The bed groaned above him, and he heard Rey grunt over the sound of wind howling through the small room. Rain spattered the floor at the foot of the bed, and when Eli got up, he could see shards of glass spread out below the window.
And there, fighting Rey like a wild cat caught in a trap, was Olivier Blanchet.
He hadn’t changed since the party two nights before. His fine clothes were rumpled and dirty, his shoes were scuffed, and his hair had been mussed by the wind and rain. A damp bandage was peeling back over his wounded shoulder. Beyond that, his eyes had changed. They were wild, feral, the eyes of a creaturedriven beyond reason by a force too powerful for the mind to bear—the eyes of one of King Tristan’s hunters. Eli had seen it in the eyes of too many men over the years, but he couldn’t help but think of the first time, when he had plunged a knife into Lord Blanchet’s body as the country manor collapsed around them.
Olivier looked up into Eli’s eyes, and he tried to leap off Rey to lunge for him. Rey cursed and wrapped his legs around Olivier’s, but Olivier was close enough to grab a fistful of Eli’s shirt and drag him to the bed.
“You,” he hissed. “You ruined me.”
“He must have climbed up to the window,” Rey said, struggling to grab Olivier’s arms. There were shallow scratches on his face from Olivier’s nails, and the sight of blood oozing down Rey’s cheekbone snapped Eli out of his daze. He backhanded Olivier, who let out a guttural growl that no human throat should have been able to make.
“He’s in thrall to the Hunt,” Eli said. He grabbed Olivier by the hair and slammed his temple into the wooden frame at the foot of the bed. Olivier scrabbled at Eli’s face, but Eli just struck him a second time, and his eyelids drooped, limbs going limp. Eli braced himself and drew Olivier’s head back for a third blow.
“Wait!” Rey scrambled over Olivier’s slack body, throwing himself between Olivier and the bed frame. “What are you doing? That’ll kill him.”
“I know.” Eli’s body hummed with the jittery battle nerves that always came down hard during a fight with one of Tristan’s hunters. “He’s been taken by the Hunt. Tristan won’t let him go after this—if I let him live, he’ll keep hunting me.”
“But he’s a noble. We can’t just kill him.”
Eli looked down at Olivier’s face. Olivier was struggling to stay conscious, eyelids fluttering. “It won’t be the first noble I’ve killed—not even the first Blanchet.”
“We can find another way.” Rey lay a hand on Eli’s chest as though trying to soothe a wild creature, and Eli realized he was breathing hard. “He attacked us. He can be held for a time—long enough for us to find the sword, at least. If he dies and we’re found out as his killers, Sabre will never agree to join us.”
“Sabre.” Olivier’s voice was a mumble. “Working with Sabre...the whore. What did he do, what did he pay you…”
“Shut up,” Eli said, and shook him by the hair. “Fine. Fine, so we’ll tie him up. You can charm the guards, maybe? Ease our way a little?”
“A little.” Rey kept his hands on Eli, running them up to his shoulders. “Breathe, Eli, slowly. I know it was a shock.”
“I got complacent.” Eli dragged Olivier off the bed. “I’ve been too comfortable here. Get me rope and then we can figure out who to contact. Olivier’s not rich, but he has connections. The guards might be swayed to his side even with your talents.”
“Rope first,” Rey said, and rushed to the bathroom where they’d left it from the night before.
For a second, Eli considered killing Olivier anyway. It would be easy—one more blow, even a soft one, would be enough to do it. But that was how hunters thought. It was how his mother thought, considering people as easily replaceable pawns in a game only she knew how to play.
Olivier was starting to come to when Rey was done untangling the rope. He struggled a little as they bound his arms and legs, and some of the wildness returned to his eyes when Eli searched his belt for weapons.
“Are you one of Sabre’s whores?” Olivier asked. “One of his guttersnipe confidantes? You look the type. So honorable, so pure, until you get a rope round your neck and a boot on your cock. Bet even you’d be begging for it, dominant or no. I’ll even cut it off for you.”
“I don’t have a cock to cut off, actually.” Eli pulled a knife from Olivier’s back pocket and secured it to his own belt. “I’m almost sorry for you. If you hadn’t met me, you’d probably be asleep right now and dreaming of, I don’t know, being a little shit-for-brains.”
Rey snorted, but his grin died when Olivier spat in Eli’s face.
“I’ll eat your beating heart raw,” Olivier snarled, and jerked in his bonds. “I’ll fuck your bleeding corpse until you break apart.”
“And that’s the Hunt’s influence,” Eli said. He stood with a sigh. “Bringing out all the dark thoughts you’d rather keep quiet.”
“They all say things like that?” Rey recoiled from Olivier, who slumped against the side of the wall. “Every time?”
