Lyall and four of the werewolves who threatened and blackmailed Tristan... were lying in a circle on the mess hall floor.
They were so untouched and serene, you could almost believe they were sleeping, if it wasn’t for the fact there were two holes in their heads where their golden wolf eyes were supposed to be, and the bloody mark of the Avos coven in the middle of their circle.
“What is going on?” I rasped. “Who is doing this?! Why!”
“I cannot answer you,” Sabrina replied, gazing at the scene with the same solemn quiet. “But I can say that the picture is becoming clearer.”
“What? How?”
“The ssspilling of demon blood, the piercing of a vampiric heart, the plucking of shifter eyes,” she hissed, “and always, always, always in groups of five. Charlotte—”
I startled at her saying my name for the first time.
“I don’t believe this is wanton murder, or a campaign of intimidation and fear. I believe this... is a ritual.”
“A ritual?”
“Yes,” she whispered—speaking almost to herself. “A ritual that could not begin until all of the pieces were in place. A ritual... that is far from over.” Sabrina slithered out from myshirt. “I need to look closer. This may be my only chance before the staff throw you all out and lock down the room.”
“But—”
“What the fuck?” someone muttered. “Why’d the bitch dump these dogs here? The mutts have their own mess hall.”
“If I ventured a guess...” Ronin’s shadow fell over me. “I assume it’s because someone in particular is supposed to be greeted with this sight before they choke down their breakfast.”
I turned around—we all did—as Tristan entered the room.
Tristan took one look at the horrible scene, and stopped.
A million emotions flashed across his face in a split second—shock, disbelief, rage, horror, and so many more I couldn’t name.
My lips parted to say... something! Anything! Tristan called Lyall brother. Were they really siblings? Did Tristan really wake up today readying to face a fight to the death with his brother, and instead found his brother dead on the floor after being murdered by the serial killer?
Whatever the truth was, he needed a friend, and that is what I made up my mind to be for him.
Something flitted through the crush of the crowd, drawing my eyes away from Tristan and locking on to hers.
All the air punched out of my gut.
Dora blinked at me—eyes huge, then turned and ran.
“D-Dora?” I croaked. “Dora!”
I took off running, chasing her through the darkened halls. Flickering candlelight skimmed her form, barely gracing her as if wanting to spare me the sight. And it was pity I needed.
Dirty, torn feet left bloody footprints on the carpet—so clear even though the fabric was dark. Dora wore the same clothes she had on the night she was taken. Once a beautiful dress chosen for her proudest day, it was now nothing more than foul-looking rags, barely hanging on to her skeletal frame. Her hair was atangled mess. Her arms were covered in welts. And for the brief moment I saw her face, it was swollen and streaked with tears.
Oh, gods, what’s been done to her!
“Dora, wait,” I cried as she whipped around the hall corner. “Wait!”
I ran faster, sprinting through the hall and shouting her name uncaring of who might hear.
“Dora, why won’t you stop? It’s me. Don’t you recognize me?”
Saying those words punched sense into my head. Of course she didn’t recognize me. All she could see was some horrific green demon chasing her through the halls. She must be terrified thinking I’m going to grab her and drag her back to her captor.
“Dora, it’s me! It’s—” My name clogged in my throat, my tongue held back by sudden warning.
