A woman. Mid-fifties perhaps. Thin face, sharp features. Recognition flickers—Halloway introduced her earlier. Something about treasury management. I didn't bother committing her name to memory. It was unimportant then, and only mildly useful now.
I place my bare foot against her throat, not pressing down—yet. "Where's Halloway?"
Her eyes dart wildly around the room. Blood trickles from a cut above her brow. Her arm's flopped at an unnatural angle and her breath comes in short, desperate gasps.
"I—I don't know—"
My foot presses down slightly, cutting off her words. "Try again."
Fear sharpens in her eyes. "I don't—"
My voice remains level, but the pressure on her throat increases. "I don't have time for your lies."
She swallows hard against my foot. "He's… he's looking for your Luna."
My spine turns to ice. "What do you mean?"
The woman coughs, her windpipe constricting beneath my foot. I ease the pressure—just enough to let her speak. Death would be too merciful for what I need now.
"The h-hospital..." she wheezes. Blood flecks her lips as she draws a ragged breath. Internal injuries, probably from the shift I forced on her. "Halloway got a call. The girl escaped. He went to retrieve her."
My eyes narrow. "Escaped? Or was she taken?"
Her eyes dart sideways, avoiding mine.
I press my foot down again, just enough to make her gasp. "Answer."
"I don't know," she chokes out. "Just that she's loose."
Relief and terror war within me. If Grace escaped, she's smart. Resourceful. But also vulnerable.
Jack-Eye will be there soon. We will know more then.
Fenris's words do little to soothe the worry and anger blending together in my chest.
I kneel beside the woman, blood from my wounds dripping onto her face. "Why were you stupid enough to think you could go against the Lycan King? What did Halloway promise you?"
Her face changes. A beatific smile crosses her face, her eyes glazing as she croons, "None can escape the Great One." Her voice strengthens despite her broken body. "Her powers eclipse that of even the Lycan Throne. She has lived for hundreds of years. You'll never win."
A chill trickles over my back. Not fear—I don't fear gods, or monsters. But it's never good to hear of something unfamiliar.
"Her?" I narrow my eyes. "Who is your Great One?"
Her teeth are stained red as she laughs, though the sound turns into a sputtering, wet cough. "You'll know soon enough," she wheezes.
I glance around the decimated hall. Bodies lie scattered across marble floors. Blood paints abstract patterns across white tablecloths. This is the Fiddleback Pack—or what remains of it.
"Where is your Great One now?" I grab her chin, forcing her to look at the carnage. "Fiddleback's abandoned. I've won. You've lost."
Her lips pull back in a bloody grin. "She is everywhere. She can never die."
A gasp builds into a groan. Not just from the woman beneath me, but from every living body scattered across the floor. The fallen wolves arch their backs, spines cracking as they bow upward at impossible angles.
The screaming howl they emit defies description, a chorus of agony and the wails of hellbound souls.
My hands instinctively cover my ears, but it does nothing to block the sound; it exists both inside and outside my head.
The woman beneath me convulses, her back arching like the others. Her scream joins the unholy chorus.
