Casshorn emptied the glass. So that’s how he did it. He paid for the immunity to the hounds’ magic with his mind and his body.
Declan’s strong fingers pressed on her arm. She glanced at him. His gaze was fixed on a point well above Casshorn, on the other side of the ravine. She looked and bit back a gasp before it had a chance to escape.
A wolf lay in the brush, solid black and huge, like a nightmare come to life. In her memory, he’d been enormous. She’d thought fear had played tricks on her, making him larger than he really was, but no, he really was that huge.
Declan’s lips moved, and he mouthed a silent word. William.
The wolf shifted his gaze and saw her. His eyes flared with amber. His black lips rose in a silent snarl, and William showed them a mouth full of fangs. Rose shivered.
Something wasn’t right. If William was in league with Casshorn, then what in the world was he doing hiding in the bushes?
A crash made them glance down. Casshorn had hurled his cup at the device, and it bounced off. He leaned back, dragged his clawed hands through his thinning mane, and began braiding it in a mechanical fashion, the way he must’ve done a thousand times. He’d managed to plait a couple of inches when the entire thing slid off his head, leaving him bald. Casshorn stared at the hair in his hand in disbelief and flung it from him. It caught on one of the gears and hung there.
They couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. Rose grabbed Declan’s arm, clenching her fingers until he looked at her and whispered so quietly she could barely hear herself. “Hair. His hair.”
Casshorn sank into the dirt. The sea of hounds brushed against him. He hugged one and put his cheek against the pale hide. The beast lay down on its side, and Casshorn lay atop it.
Declan nodded and reached to the pack next to him. Carefully they unwrapped the crows. Rose prayed George would see the hair. She’d stressed what he had to look for: clothes, a brush with hair on it, personal items, silverware . . . Hair, that much hair, just fresh off the body, was any curser’s dream. Only blood was better and only short-term—it rotted too quickly.
The wolf’s gaze burned her as they worked. The ravine ran almost two miles in every direction of tough wooded terrain. She knew William wouldn’t be able to get to them, but the way he stared at them made her want to scream.
Rose clenched her bird. By now George would feel them handling the crows and would be paying attention. She pointed the bird so the hair was directly in front of it and whispered over and over, “Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair . . .”
Declan released his bird. A moment later she let hers go. The crows swooped down like two black rocks. Declan’s crow plunged and came up, its claws caught in the fabric of Casshorn’s cloak. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, Georgie . . .”
A hound snapped up its head, then another. A dark body lunged up, and the crow went down.
The second bird made a slow circle above the hounds, turned, veered left—he was going after the cup. Rose’s heart hammered. She squeezed her hands into fists, willing the bird to turn right.
At the last moment, the crow dropped right and snagged the braid off the gears.
A tendril of dark magic snapped from the device, stinging the bird’s wings. Rose held her breath. Come on, George, come on, you can do it.
The crow faltered, jerked, beating its wings furiously, and flew up, higher and higher, disappearing beyond the trees heading back to East Laporte.
Rose dropped her head facedown into the dirt. He did it. Her brother did it.
Declan’s hand gripped her shoulder and jerked her up, hard. In the ravine below them, the hounds were rising. Declan’s face was dark. At the other end of the ravine, William retreated, crawling away.
They slithered from the cliff. Ten feet. Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty. Declan hauled her upright and breathed one word.
“Run!”
They dashed through the woods, running as fast as the terrain would allow. The tree trunks flew by. She leapt over the branches and crashed through the brush.
“Faster,” Declan called directly behind her.
Rose squeezed out a burst of speed. The air seared her lungs. Her side began to hurt. She kept running. The woods blended into a blur, punctuated by her hoarse breaths.
They burst into a small glade. Declan caught her arm and spun her around. “We make a stand.”
She doubled over, trying not to vomit. He didn’t even look winded.
Declan pulled a sword from the sheath on his back and turned it over once. “Use short-range flash,” he said. “The less noise we make, the better.”
The first hound padded out of the bushes into the open. It tensed, the muscles along its long limbs contracted, and it leapt into the air.
Declan swung. The blade cleaved the hound in two, and he sank flash into the ruin of the body. Acrid fumes surged from the hound’s carcass. Rose coughed and moved away from him. Short-range flash. She could do that.
A hound burst through the shriveled brush. It made for her, jumping in great leaps, maw gaping, bloodred fangs ready to rip. The four eyes glared at her with luminescent gray. The hound lunged, and Rose flashed. Her short, controlled burst of magic cleaved across the creature’s shoulder all the way deep through the chest. The top half of the beast slid aside, betraying a glimpse of soft purplish innards filled with gray slime, and crashed to the side.
Another hound dashed at her from the right. Rose flashed again and watched its head roll through the dead grass.
A dark flood of the beasts came loping through the Wood, stark against the dull, magic-drained trees. It headed straight for them. In a moment they would be overwhelmed.
Rose leaned back and took a deep breath. A line of magic thrust from her, curving to the ground. It split into three and began to circle her.
The foremost beast sprinted, muscle flexing under the bruise-colored pelt, legs pumping, horrible teeth bared. It leaped at her and fell aside, cut in three pieces.
They made right for her. With her flash blazing bright, she made an irresistible target. She concentrated on rotating the arches as fast as she could, slicing through the hideous bodies until the ground grew wet with their gray sluice. To the left, Declan struck at the stream of hounds, his blade a lethal whirl. He cut with deadly precision, fast and unstoppable. Every time his sword sliced, something died. He was absolutely beautiful.
The last hound paused on the edge of the clearing. Rose dropped her flash and sent a single sharp bolt of blinding white at it. Declan flashed at the same time, the two flashes connected, and the hound went down.
The clearing was wet with gray blood and littered with smoking bodies.
Declan looked her over. “Unhurt?”
She nodded.
“How many did we kill?” he asked.
She surveyed the carnage. “Fifty?”
“Twenty-two.” He wiped his sword and slid it back into his sheath.
“Only twenty-two?” She couldn’t believe it. It seemed like many more . . .
“Twenty-two.” He took her by the arm. “Run. Before the rest get here.”
They ran through the woods.
“I don’t think William’s helping Casshorn,” she said.
“I don’t think so either.”
“Then what is he doing here?”
“Hell if I know.”
If William had been in league with Casshorn, he had only to make a noise, and the entire swarm would’ve been on them.
“What was that?” Declan asked.
“What?”
“The sphere of flash you did back there?”
“It’s a modified Ataman’s defense,” she told him. “When I saw William for the first time, I got scared he’d get through and split the arch into three. For some reason, I can rotate them a lot faster this way. Why, you never saw something like this before?”