Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

13.

The paper crumpled in Azryle's fist.

His head, his chest pounded.

Vendrik. Vendrik—

Dungeons.

Tormented.

Ghostly burns gnawed at his back as images dug their talons in his mind. One by one.

A head. Rotting away—

Whips. Blood. Crumpled flesh—

Dark. Utter dark swelling—

Shackles. Dresteen—

Needles. Touches of foreign mejest. Electricity. Experiments—

Azryle's feet were moving before his mind registered.

Out of his room.

Down the hall.

Ferouzeh's door—

His hand halted before it could touch the knob as voices floated over to him.

"Old lovers? Didn't expect that." Fairdust.

"Shut it." Not Ferouzeh. He couldn't place the scent, but the familiar voice gave it away. Faolin Wisflave. His jaw clenched. "Is anyone else with her?"

"Yeah, the ripper— Ow! Are you unbinding these or tightening them?"

"Azryle Wintershade?"

"Is there any other ripper you happen to know?"

A pause.

"Do you?"

"No," Wisflave snapped. "Can't keep your mouth shut, can you?"

"You wouldn't either if you had a voice like mine."

Longer pause.

"What are you going to do with her? I'm guessing you're not leaving her here—"

Fairdust began choking.

"Listen." Wisflave's voice was a lethal calm. "I don't give a shit if you once helped me. One more word and I'll gut you right here. Understand?"

"Oh it's killing you." Fairdust sounded amused, teasing, but Azryle felt Wisflave's stillness. "The thing inside you. It's growing every passing day, isn't it, feeding on your irritation—"

A strike. A grunt.

Then Fairdust was giggling like a madwoman.

All Azryle had gathered was Ferouzeh was inside. Possibly knocked out. What he didn't know was whether he would be able to stand a sorceress that powerful and a shapeshifter at once.

Vendrik.

His name came as an alarm, and Azryle stopped thinking whether he would be able to stand them, all he knew was he had to. He had to move fast.

He opened the door.

Both their gazes snapped to him, alert.

Blood ran down Fairdust's mouth; Wisflave's hand was fisted and poised inches from Fairdust's jaw for another punch. The shapeshifter was still roped to the chair. And the sorceress ... her confinement required no ropes. Azryle could scent it—the helplessness, and utter despair, so fierce that it seemed to gnaw at him.

His gaze went to Ferouzeh's supple form unconscious on the floor behind them, blood ran down her temple. Azryle's blood thrummed with rage.

"Am I interrupting something?" he greeted, his face neutral, unfeeling.