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Night is almost upon us, but there is still enough light to make out the movement of figures racing from the trees.
Snow crunches under slow footsteps at my back. They stop, and a hand with a vice-like grip grabs my shoulder and rolls me onto my back.
A woman made of ice and snow stares down at me. “Stop being weak,” the Voice says, her annoyance evident. She sighs and reaches for something. It’s small enough that her fist conceals all but the cork.
I scowl, knowing precisely what it is. For creatures who possess speed and strength far beyond the ability of any human, they seem to love their poisons. I wonder what it is why some find pleasure in watching their victims squirm as they suffer a slow, painful death.
“Do you still have the queen’s vial?” she demands. Her long fingers pinch my jaw and jerk my head to look her in the eye.
I press my lips together and don’t answer. Elizabeth said it was rare. That could have been another of her countless lies, but in case she spoke the truth, the last thing I will do is allow it to find its way back into her possession.
The Voice takes my silence for what it is, a refusal to answer, and lets the subject drop. She brings her fist to her mouth, biting the cork and spitting it out.
The pounding of feet grows louder as Oliver and the other reinforcements draw near, though I don’t think they will make it in time.
Her long fingers press painfully into my cheeks, forcing my lips to part enough for her to pour the contents into my mouth. I cough and sputter on the syrupy liquid. It does little good because she covers my nose and mouth with her hand, tossing the empty vial over her shoulder with the other.
“Drink it, or suffocate,” she hisses through her teeth.
I fight it for as long as I can, but in the end, I am betrayed by my body’s reflex, swallowing twice before she releases me.
I suck in deep lungfuls of air as I choke on the cloying aftertaste. Other than a trace amount that spilled from the corner of my mouth and the sticky remnants on my lips, I drank it all.
One set of feet, swiftly joined by several others, comes into view as I go limp. Bone-chilling snarls surround us.
“What did you give to her?” Oliver demands. But then the Voice straightens, and the growls cease abruptly. “You…”
She walks around me, making way for two wolves kneeling on either side of me. They get to work. I don’t have the strength to tell them it’s pointless. One shifts me, the other ripping at my clothes to get to the wound.
“It has been a long time, Mr. Wolvrik.”
Fingers press against my side. I can barely feel it—I can barely feel any part of my body anymore. It seems they really were too late. A giggle escapes my lips, a half-mad sound, though there is nothing humorous about this situation.
“So it has,” Oliver says.
My sanity is unraveling. My ally and the woman who remained behind to finish me off are speaking like old friends.
Fresh-cut grass and something else, something I can’t identify, fills the air. At first, it’s light and almost warm against the winter air, then it quickly morphs, turning thick and cloying.
Several conversations are happening all at once, but I can’t focus on any of them.
The wolf holding me up straddles my legs, pinning my arms off to the side. I grunt at the uncomfortable new position. Though, I don’t have to wonder at the reason behind his actions for long. A needle pierces my flesh, tugging, over and over.
Varin seizes full control, and I gladly allow it.They are mending you.
Their explanation is little comfort. I’d gathered as much.
Each stab of the needle is another small torture added on top of all the others. Heat washes over my skin, pushing away the frigid air and harsh cold of the ground beneath me. Beads of sweat break out across my forehead, my neck, and down my spine, dampening my clothes so they cling to me. I am not as numb as I thought.
“Unless you want to see her dead, I suggest you get her away from here,” the Voice says coolly.
Bile rises, and I think I might be sick. The stitching stops, replaced by a slimy mixture, the consistency of paste made of ground leaves and mud.
“What did you give her?” Oliver repeats his earlier question.
“Blood bane.”
A growl that could almost be mistaken for thunder rumbles over my head. “She is bleeding to death, and you still give her poison?”
