Chapter 35

Spencer

It'sunclear how many days have passed. I drift in and out of consciousness, the pain making it almost impossible to remain awake. I know I'm brought food and water, most of which I don't touch. I know I'm questioned and beaten, beaten and questioned. I know despite this my body is healing. But the pain, the pain remains.

Unconsciousness should be a relief from it all. But my sleep is fretful, full of dreams of the past, of the future, of nonsense. Mostly it's full of my brother – and I wake forgetting for that fraction of a second that he's gone, forced to experience the agony of losing him all over again.

In some ways, maybe it's better that he's gone. Not here to bear all this.

How many days have passed? How many endless days will pass like this? Stretching on and on forever. Until I'm beginning to lose the ability to tell when I'm awake or asleep. Both as painful as the other.

Sometimes, when I have the strength, I think of her. Of Rhi. I hope they've found her. I pray she's safe. I hope she's far far away from here.

I dream of her too. I dream of that morning in the gymnasium when I left. I dream that I don't go, that I stay. I dream that I tell her the truth. I dream that I confess how much I care about her. I dream that everything turns out different, that fate leads us down a different path, one that doesn't end with me chained to the wall of a cold and desolate dungeon.

Occasionally, when he's awake, I talk to the other were in my cell. He tells me tales of running as beasts with his pack, through the woods, through the mountains, of hunting together, of living free. Most of the time he's out cold, and I'm forced to watch as they attack his unmoving body with glee.

It's too painful. Far worse than enduring the beating myself and I slip away as often as I can, into the darkness.

I wake.

The pain hits me and I wince, my body contracting into a tight ball. I force myself to uncurl and reach for the cup of stale water resting by my side. With a shaking hand, I bring it to my lips, most of it spilling down my front and over my chin. My lips are cracked, and the water stings. I gulp it down. My leg is no longer contorted and twisted, my arm no longer hangs loose, but there are new injuries to my body. Cracked ribs that make it hard to breathe, a smashed nose, a bloody hand.

I drop the cup, to the floor, and lean back against the damp wall, panting.

I can hear footsteps behind the door. Drawing nearer and nearer, closer to my cell. I brace myself. It could be the delivery of today's rations of food – if you can call it food. Or it could be another interrogation, another beating.

The lock clunks, the door draws open.

I blink. Am I dreaming again? Is my mind playing tricks on me? Or is this …

"Hello Tristan," I say and he steps forward from the shadows.

"Looking good," he tells me, stepping into the cell.

I manage a smile, the expression causing my lip to split open, and I taste blood in my mouth. "You know me, I like to look my best. Have you come here to gloat or–"

He frowns. "I've come to get you the hell out of here," he says.

"Then I hope you're prepared to carry me, man, because I can barely fucking stand."

"Lucky I'm damn good at healing you then." He steps further into the cell, crouching down in front of me, and peering through the darkness into my face. "Fuck, man," he mutters, taking a grip of the back of my head and resting his forehead against mine. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

I open my mouth to reply to him, to give him one of my usual witty remarks, but I have nothing, nothing to say, just a lump forming in my throat.

"Just get me the hell out of here, Tris," I whisper at last, "please."

He squeezes the back of my neck and meets my gaze. His emerald eyes are wet. "Of course."

Then he's closing his eyelids and muttering under his breath. I feel his magic sink into my body, warm, comforting, all the pain melting away. My own eyelids droop.

"Stay with me," Tristan says. "Stay awake."

I nod and force myself to concentrate in on the sensations of his magic creeping through my body, working to repair all the damage. Is it my imagination or does his magic seem different than it did before? In my mind's eye, his magic was always a vivid blue like the color of the sky. Now it's more purple like the sky right after sunset. And there's something wilder about it.

"Your magic's changed," I say.

"The bond," he tells me.

"How … how does it feel?" I ask.

He frowns, his eyes still closed. "Painful."

"Because you're apart?"

He nods. "It's impacting the strength of my magic."

"Where is she?"

He hesitates, the frown growing deeper on his face. "I don't know."

I grip his wrist, leaning forward. "She's not–"

"No, no. Fuck, I'd know if she were."

"Then why aren't you out searching for her?"

"I'm going to." He opens his eyes. "But I came to rescue you first." I lean back against the wall.

"You shouldn't have done that. She's more important than me. She should be your first priority."

"There are others searching for her," he says.

"And no one searching for me," I say.

"Your parents?"

"Dead. Killed resisting arrest – according to your dad."

He nods. "I guess we're both orphans now."

"Your dad–"

"Is dead to me," he says resolutely, resting his hand over my cracked ribs and repairing them carefully with his magic. "There are a lot of injuries." I can hear anger in his voice.

"Yeah, I tried to repair them myself–"

"There are too many and you're too hurt."

I lean back against the wall. "Yeah."

He continues his work, muttering the words of the incantation, his hands resting over each injury in turn. Occasionally he pauses and glances over at the other unconscious man in the cell or over to the door.

"I'll know if anyone's coming. The advantage of wolf hearing," I say.

"Then listen out."

"I assume that means you're not meant to be in here."

"My dad sent me back to the academy–"

"The academy?"

"Yeah, he has guards watching it. They're pulling students out for questioning left, right and center. Several have vanished altogether."

"You snuck out?" He nods. "But they'll notice you're gone eventually."

"Come morning, yeah. And I'm assuming someone at this prison is going to make a call at some point to check I am here under my dad's orders like I've claimed."

"Shit, how long do you think we have?"

"Not long at all." He pulls his hand back. "But you're done. At least for now, I can repair you better when we're out of here."

I roll my shoulders and my neck, flex my fingers and shift my legs. While there are some remaining aches and pains, I feel a hell of a lot better than I did fifteen minutes ago. To prove it, I bust through the collar wrapped around my neck and break the chains tied to my wrist.

"Fuck, that's better," I mutter.

"Can you stand up?"

"Yes, I can stand up." I jump to my feet to prove it, Tristan examining me as I do.

"And can you transform?"

"Now?"

"I'm thinking your beast is going to come in handy in busting our way out of here."

I manage a grin. "And I think he'd rather enjoy ripping a few throats out."

As if he's agreeing wholeheartedly with that sentiment, the beast growls inside me. It's the first time he's stirred for days and for once I'm relieved by it.

All these years I've hated him, despised his existence and the cruel situation in which I'm caught. I've never considered what he brings me, how much I need him. How dependent I am on him. Until he was gone, I never felt that at all. Now I welcome his return. Yeah, we're going to rip those throats out together.

I peer down at the injured man slumped on the floor.

"You need to heal him too. Free him," I say.

"There isn't the time."

I ignore my friend and crouch down by the crumpled figure. He stinks of piss and shit and I suspect I smell no better. But underneath it, faintly, ever so faintly, I can smell the mountains and the forest and I can see it in my mind. Just as he described it.

I shake him gently.

"Jacob," I whisper. "Jacob. It's time to go, buddy."

His eyelids creak open.

"To the gallows," he murmurs sarcastically.

"To anywhere but here."

His eyes open fully and he looks up into my face.

"Moreau?"

"Come on." I snap through his chains and his collar and hooking my arm under his elbow drag him to his feet. "Tristan."

My friend examines the battered form of the werebeast and the werebeast examines him right back.

"That's Kennedy's son," he hisses. He spits in his direction. "Piece of shit."

"Yeah," Tristan says, "delighted to meet you too."

"He's here to rescue us."

"You," Tristan corrects.

"He's coming with us. So stop wasting time and heal him so we can get the hell out of here."

"It will take too lon–"

"It will take even longer if I have to drag him like this," I snap, and with a huff of disapproval, Tristan steps forward and lays his hands on the injured man.

Jacob groans with relief, just like I had as Tristan sparks across his body. My friend focuses on the most crucial injuries – fixing his broken arm, his sliced leg and his mangled stomach – and leaving the superficial. After a few minutes, Jacob pushes his hands away.

"That'll do."

"I should fix your–"

Jacob shakes his head. "There's no time."

Together, we walk through the open door of my cell and into the heart of the dungeon – just as damp and dank. There's no light at all but with my wolfish vision I see all the other heavy doors that line the circular space, behind which I smell my kind, can sense their pain and misery.

"Werebeasts," I mutter.

"Yes, the warden said all the werebeasts were being kept down here in the dungeon."

"We need to free them," I say, strolling towards the first door. Tristan captures my arm.

"We can't just leave them here to suffer."

"They won't be able to go anywhere unless we heal them and I don't have enough in the tank," Tristan says, yanking me backwards towards a set of spiraling steps.

"We can't leave them," I say, tugging my arm free of his grip.

"Spencer," he says, "we'll come back for them." I scoff. "I promise you. We'll form a plan and we'll come back."

Is that usual Tristan Kennedy bullshit? Making promises he has no intention of keeping just to secure his own way? Except, there's something genuine in his tone, something I can't help believing.

"The priority is getting you out," Jacob says, and he uncurls his body, standing to his full height. He's massive, nearly seven foot.

"Me?" I say.

"Four fated mates," he says, holding my vision. "It must mean something. You need to return to her."

Tristan's gaze flicks from me to Jacob. I don't know if he's right but I see the determination in the were's face. I nod, then follow Tristan up the steps, Jacob right behind me, and at the top we face another locked door, one I can tell is fortified with complex locking spells.

"I know how to open it," Tristan says, "but you have to be ready. There'll be guards on the other side and as soon as they see you with me, they're going to know and they're going to try and stop us."

"They're not going to succeed, though, are they?" I say, slapping my palm on his shoulder. "We weren't the two best dueling players for nothing."

He chuckles. "Ready?"

"Yes," I say and Jacob growls his agreement.

He waves his right hand, brow crinkling and slowly the lock slides open. I hold my breath as the door creaks open and blink into the light.

As expected there's twenty guards waiting for us. Several faces I recognize as the men who've punched, kicked and spat at me over the last few days.

I don't even draw breath, I blast them with magic, springing forward, my body transforming as I do. They scatter, too afraid to hold their ground, but I'm on them anyway, ripping at flesh and snapping my jaw through bone, not feeling a single blow of their magic or their fists.