Page 12 of Their Wicked Cage

Achlys caws, a deep, raspy sound. I hush him as the male tries the handle. It jiggles once, twice. He swears. Hot tears burn behind my eyes. His is the first voice I’ve heard other than Avaline’s and my own in centuries.

The handle breaks and the door inches open.

He doesn’t step inside. My throat tightens. Is he hesitating because he’s cautious, or because he’s unsure of what he’ll find?

I peek at him through the crack where hinges meet wood. His brown hair is burnished with gold even without the assistance of the muted late afternoon sunlight, while his face bears the tell-tale signs of someone who has not gotten very much sleep. There is stubble along his strong jaw that does nothing to hide how tensely it’s set. My eyes sweep down his lean, muscular body to rest on his narrow hips and the dagger sheathed there. It is as sharp as his cheekbones, as pointed as his ears and boots. As deadly as the devilish grin on his full lips.

He steps inside, his shadow casting a menacing form along the floor.

Achlys is as quiet and still as the death-mist he is named after, and I will the same resolve into my trembling muscles.

“I know you’re in here, Gwyn,” he says.

After all these years of hiding, hearing my name spoken aloud hits me like a jolt.

To Avaline, I’m Winny. Never Gwyn.

If my heart races any faster, I’m afraid it might tear right through its bony cage.

He stands in the center of the room, facing the cauldron that’s now bubbling over, with his broad back to me. He crouches to touch the trail of wet splotches leading straight from the sink to where I’m hiding.

I inch out from behind the door and lift the pan.

“Don’t!” a different male shouts.

The male before me whirls around just as I swing. Iron collides with flesh and bone in a sickening metallic crack. He drops like a stone in water, crumpling across the floor without another word. Footsteps race around the cottage, and though I know I don’t have the time, I spare a single second to test his pulse—alive.

I bolt out the door.

Achlys takes to the sky. His squawking urges me to go, go, go.

I make it just around the edge of the cottage before a pair of arms, thick as tree trunks, wraps around me and hauls my back flush against a sturdy chest.

I writhe in his grip, spitting venom to no avail.

Caught.

As I struggle against my captor, the male I bludgeoned stumbles through the door and leans against the porch railing. “That wasn’t very polite, little witch.”

Chapter 4

RIVEN

Gwyn glares at me as a raven circles above, shrieking.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but you’re going to have to come with us,” I tell her, folding my arms across my chest to fight the urge to prod the tender spot along my temple where she maimed me with a skillet.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she snarls, silver eyes brightening. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

I take in her silky white hair, tied back in a woven braid, the dirt staining her plain wool dress and apron, and the socks soaked through from the wet ground—details that tell me just how long she’s been struggling. My gaze trails up her feminine frame, and she swallows, the movement emphasizing the black ribbon tied around her throat.

A ribbon meant to hide a terrible scar if that part of her story is true.

A spell gone wrong, a near beheading, a life and power granted from Death herself.

“A bit heavy on the dramatics,” Ark says.

Her cheeks are pink from exertion—or rage—and her rosy lips form a delightful scowl as she stomps her socked foot on top of his and elbows him in the gut.