Ilona Andrews - On the Edge

She clenched her teeth and lay absolutely still, afraid to breathe. Her mind painted a horde of hounds streaming up the wall of the ravine. She imagined wicked dagger teeth ripping into Declan, tearing flesh off his bones. All of what they were, all their fears, worries, happiness, all that made them human, didn’t matter. To hounds, they were just magic-infused meat. Cold descended on her, locking her muscles. Her heart hammered.

Declan’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. She looked at him, wide-eyed, and saw calm, steadying strength in his eyes. He didn’t lose his head. He didn’t seem afraid. She held on to his courage like a crutch and exhaled her panic in tiny, silent breaths.

Something stirred on the floor of the ravine.

Declan focused on the movement. His eyes turned gla cially cold.

A clump of the hounds parted, and a tall figure rose, swaddled in a long cloak.

Casshorn.

There he was. They finally found the sonovabitch. Triumph filled her. Thought he could hide, did he?

Casshorn swayed, as if woozy, but righted himself. He flicked his fingers, and the hounds parted before him, clearing a path. Slowly he dragged himself to the device.

She stared at his back and wished him dead. If they were within flashing distance, she might have tried frying him.

The device emitted a screech of metal rubbing against metal. Gears whirled.

Casshorn crouched down and picked something off the ground.

The glowing cone in the center of the device split open. A dark object slid out, wrapped in a membrane laced with thick purple and yellow veins. The object fell to the ground with a wet thump and squirmed, stretching the membrane.

Casshorn approached it and pulled a large, wicked-looking hook into the light. A thick chain stretched from the hook, disappearing into a dead tree to the left.

The thing in the membrane wriggled. With a brutal strike, Casshorn stabbed the hook into the membrane and kicked a lever protruding from the wooden block next to him. The chain snapped taut, dragging the membrane sack across the ground and jerking it in the air, to the tree, where it hung suspended three feet from the ground.

Casshorn scratched at the membrane, brushing it away, revealing a fully formed hound writhing upside down on the hook. He grasped the beast by the head, and she saw Casshorn’s hand. His fingers had grown very long, and on top of each one sat a two-inch black claw. Those claws dug into the beast’s neck, but the hound did nothing to resist.

Casshorn struck. His claws sliced the hound’s throat. A stream of gray spilled from the wound. Casshorn picked up a cup from the ground and held it under the stream. The liquid splashed into the cup and onto his hands. A few seconds later, the hound stopped jerking. The stream of fluid died. Casshorn wiped his hand on the beast’s back and brought the cup to his lips.

Her stomach clenched. Rose clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting.

As Casshorn lifted the cup, the cloak slid off his shoulders. He was nude underneath it. He was very tall with broad shoulders and a large chest, but inhumanly thin and corded with tight muscle like a greyhound. Splotches of yellow and purple stained his skin. His arms and legs were disproportionately long.

Casshorn tipped the glass, turning, and she saw his face. He must have been a handsome man at some point. She still glimpsed echoes of it: the large hooded eyes, the square line of the jaw, the shadow of what had once been a broad, strong, masculine face. He must’ve looked similar to Declan in the past, but no longer. A network of veins stood out on his temples, like rope threaded under his skin. His long hair, still golden blond, had thinned and now dripped from his scalp in isolated clumps to his chest. His face sagged and wrinkled, and when he opened his mouth to swallow the contents of the glass, she caught sight of his teeth. His mouth was filled with bloodred fangs.

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.