8. Ghoul

Chapter 8

Ghoul

T he naked female leopard spits in the face of one of the three Clawson tigers holding her against the rough stone wall of the dungeon.

"Let me go, you cunt-eyed bastards!" she screams before the gag they'd just removed gets roughly tugged back into place.

I watch curiously, from my spot against the wall, fingers hooked into my belt loops and deep in thought.

Why does my little snakelet love this aggressive leopard so much? What deserves the kind of devotion that led to Aurelia breaking both her arms over Sabrina Panthera?

The leopard is shoved into the cell, obsidian shackles clanking against the wall as she slams into it. Her clothes were torn when she initially shifted back at the academy, so when she shifted back into her human form, they'd fallen off her small frame. The obsidian chains cover most of her body, hiding her from sight.

"Careful with the goods," I snap.

The idiot brutes flinch and mutter apologies to me, hurrying out the door. Probably running off to check on their big kitty cat leader with the missing jaw. I snort at the memory of the Clawson healer trying to fit Titus' jaw back into place. They'd brought it back in someone's beanie—a little lesson for detaining my snakelet in his jowls. A mistake he won't be able to make again. They now feed him liquid meat through a tube that goes down his nose into his stomach, all the while rage and hatred shine in his black eyes.

It was the funniest thing I'd seen all week.

I step forward to examine the leopard. In her brown eyes shine a similar rage to Titus, except hers bear a healthy dose of terror.

She grunts something through her gag. Probably cursing me to a cruel death.

"Comply, leopard, and you will not be hurt," I say lightly.

She makes a disgusted sound, angry tears slipping down her cheeks. The scent of her panic still perfumes the air, luring me closer. We've moved her twice now, and to my delight, her fear has only heightened.

I reach into my pocket and take out a pouch of worn, buttoned fabric, holding it out to show her in my palm. "You're good with little manoeuvres," I say, undoing the button and opening it up to reveal her set of professional steel lock picks. "Do as you're told," I say again for emphasis, "and maybe you'll survive this." I pocket the picks.

Her eyes move wildly about the small enclosure before she squeezes them shut and proceeds to slide down the stone wall dramatically. The shriek of the metal chains on stone is almost grating, but then she lands on her ass and begins to cry.

I turn on my heel and walk out, humming a little tune.