The Night Prince (The Wolf King, #2)(106)

The torches that line the wall flicker and dim, one by one, and James shuts his mouth. The shadows thicken and I feel them—cold and restless—writhing like snakes over my body. A low rasping hiss travels down the corridor, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I think about the bit of shed skin that Blake picked up when we found ourselves in Night’s prison.

A hole is carved in my chest, and the darkness slithers up through my nostrils. That wild thing, deep within my soul, tries to break free.

I can’t afford to lose consciousness. Not here. Not now. I clench my fists. I dig my nails into my palms, drawing blood. I barely notice James’s grunt on one side of me and Claire’s body stiffening on the other.

The sound stops. The torches flicker back to life. I let out the darkness on a long breath that mists before my face. I turn to Claire.

“What was that?” I breathe, but I think I already know.

“We call it the Dark Beast,” says Claire.

“Night’s prisoner,” I whisper in horror.

James runs a hand along his jaw. “It’s what we’ve been brought here to fight.”





Chapter Fifty-Seven





The hours bleed together.

I bring my knees to my chin and clutch my legs in an attempt to keep warm. The torches flicker on and off. I’ve never been this cold before. My head throbs as blood trickles from the wound Philip gave me, then dries on my cheek. No one speaks. Despair hangs in the air, acrid and heavy. James mumbles something every so often. Ryan whimpers. I just want to sleep.

I fall between the nightmare I’m trapped within and the terrors that haunt my dreams. Both are dark and restless, filled with prison cells and darkness. They plague me until I can no longer differentiate between the two. All I can feel is the cold, oily terror that curls like a snake in my chest. It suffocates whatever wolf I have within me. It whispers that I will die. That no one will care. That my life will have amounted to nothing.

All of this has something to do with the God of Night.

Callum told me that his acolytes used to sacrifice Wolves to gain his favor. Does Alexander intend to sacrifice me? Will he kill my brother too?

Alexander must have guards. Perhaps I can persuade one of them that killing the heirs to the Southlands throne would be ill-advised. I don’t want to use the name and title of my father—the man who killed my mother—to save myself, but I don’t want to die, either. I need to save Ryan, too.

My mind frantically whirs through every possibility until dots dance before my eyes and I slump against the wall.

Hopelessness crashes over me.

I hear my mother’s voice echo in the darkness.

Have courage, little one.

I don’t know how much time passes before footsteps approach the door. Hooded guards enter the kennels and open all the doors except mine. Wolves are dragged into the corridor. They’re too weak to fight and they’re shackled, and collars are placed around their necks.

James grabs the bars of my cell before he’s led away. “Does he know you’re here?” he asks hurriedly.

“Callum?”

James looks at me pointedly as the guard shoves him forward. “No. Not Callum.”

Darling, I will always find you.

Cold darkness spreads through my veins. “Yes.”

He nods. “I’ll try and buy you some time.”

“What are we going to do?” Ryan asks behind him.

“You’re going to do nothing, lad.”

Chained together, they’re led away.

**

A key turns in the lock, and I jerk my head upright as finally, someone comes for me.

I spring to my feet. “Listen, I don’t know what Alexander has told you, but I’m the Southlands princess. My father would reward you greatly if—”

The man who walks into my cell looks like a phantom in dark robes with a hood that conceals his face. He grabs my arm, and his fingers tighten painfully around it. I catch a glimpse of a tattoo—a key with crescent moons in the bow—on his wrist. Night’s symbol. My hope flickers out. Alexander’s guards are zealots, like him.

“We don’t answer to your father,” he says.

He drags me into the curved corridor.

“Are you going to sacrifice me to your god?” My teeth chatter with the cold as he drags me up some stairs.

“We need to check you’re the right one first.”

“The right what?”

The man says nothing as I’m pulled through a door and down a corridor lit by flickering torches. The walls are damp and coated with a layer of lichen. The scent of salt and blood hangs in the air, and there is noise ahead—shouts and jeers, the rattle of metal and a roar of pain.

Ahead, two cloaked figures guard the exit of the corridor. I’m shoved past them into a dark amphitheater and the echoing roar is almost deafening. My heart stops. The Wolves are on their knees in a circle—beaten and bloody and chained—perhaps twenty in total. I search for Ryan, but my attention is stolen by the cloaked figures who watch them, watch me, from the tiered seating.

Alexander sits on what looks like a stone throne on the other side of the circle. My brother is on his knees, in chains, beside him. He’s no longer wearing his coat, and his shirt is bloody. Torchlight flickers across his pale face. He lurches toward me, but Alexander hisses something—the wolf glinting in his eyes—and Philip slumps back down.