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“Right…” Fenrir shifted, wheelchair protesting under his substantial weight. “And yet my arm…”

“Would have been perfectly suitable to reattach if not for our dear guest.”

Fenrir shoved away the stab of anger. He’d have time to get upset later, after he found Orpheus. “She’s secured, right?”

“Quite secure. Though she’s refused food and water, and after eight days has shown no signs of typical biological stress. I believe something else sustains her. Another kind of energy source not found in known flora or fauna.”

“Hate, probably,” Red snapped. “Possibly murder.”

“Both good guesses if your ancestor’s historical accounts regarding Hell are in fact accurate, my colorfully-haired friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” Red muttered, fists clenching at her sides before she broke and gestured at the door. “Let us in, already.”

Bastion turned towards what appeared to be a computer mounted to the wall and Fenrir latched onto the phantom feeling of his missing arm because it was better than thinking about the alternative.

She definitely knows where Orpheus is. And Fenrir would get that information out of her even if it cost all his remaining limbs.

The heavy door clanged, internal mechanisms activating in a series of rhythmic knocks before the door itself sank back away from the frame to reveal an enclosed sally-port and a second, even heavier, door.

Red brushed past Bastion as if touching him stung, waving to Vera and Fenrir to follow. Once sealed inside, Bastion’s voice crackled over a hidden speaker.

“Miss Red, you may now open the interior door.”

Red took hold of the enormous locking wheel, spun it one quarter counterclockwise, met Fenrir’s eyes, then pushed.

An elf. It was the only name Fenrir could think of for the dusky, blue-skinned woman strapped to what appeared to be a torture chair. Her white hair was halfway pulled from its knot, strands tangled in a long frizz that framed her sharp, narrow face, her once white cloak torn to dirty strips. If Fenrir had spent eight days in a coma, their prisoner had likely spent them bound to this chair. But there were no fresh wounds to be seen. No torture performed. No cruelty wielded. Something tight inside Fenrir’s chest released with that knowledge, and he met Red’s eyes with a quiet thanks.

Whatever had brought this woman here, they would figure it out—then they would fix it.

“So, you do yet live,” the elf spat once their eyes met. “Though not unscathed, I see.”

Fenrir’s stump itched uncomfortably and he resisted the urge to scratch it. Instead, he sat up straight in his wheelchair and asked, “What’s your name?”

The elf laughed, sharp as the blade she’d wielded against him.

“My name, Ama? Which of my many should I give? Umbral of the Deep? Hell’s Hallowed Bounty? Waste Walker? Wraith is what my enemies call me, if you require something to utter when you sleep.”

Fenrir breathed slowly through his nose rather than take the bait. “What does your mother call you?”

“Whelp, of course,” the elf scoffed, chin lifting. “Wicked little thing, when I was particularly bloodthirsty.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“Does the hunt no longer bring you joy?” The corner of her mouth quirked up when she said it, golden eyes sliding to the place where his arm should be. “I suppose you are here for an apology, hmm?”

It’d have been easy to rise to the bait, get mad, and make threats and play into whatever power dynamic this elf thought she possessed. But the information he needed was more important than his pride or his arm. Orpheus was gone, and only she knew where he was.

“So, you’re a hunter too?”

The elf lifted her head. “Hell’s best.”

“Guess I should be honored.” Fenrir laughed, ignoring the itch in his arm. “Hear that, Red, not even Hell’s best hunter can kill me!”

“What do you want, a medal?”

“At least a statue.” Fenrir grinned while he said it, eyes locked on the elf’s despite the way they’d narrowed. “Though I’d probably settle for a plaque.”

“General Fenrir Rawkner: No arms, no mercy. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”