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The shrieks get louder as we move down the palace hallways, heading ever closer to the main entrance.

And then we turn down a corridor that’s not abandoned.

Several fairies are fleeing our way, their eyes wild and their clothes bloody.

One of them has the wherewithal to stop when he sees the king. “Your Majesty,” he pants, “please don’t go that way … They’re slaughtering everyone in their path.”

The Bargainer’s gaze slides from the man to the hall.

“Get yourself to safety,” is all Des says, and then he’s striding forward once more.

The man spares me a hasty glance, and then he takes off like a jackrabbit.

Des and I head down another hall, towards a staircase. More fairies flee past us, and the screams are getting louder. Closer.

I tighten my grip on my daggers, my tense wings hiking up behind me, my skin glittering under the sparking wall sconces.

As we descend the staircase, the scene below us slowly unveils itself. My blood chills at the sight. There are bloody bodies scattered across the floor, their eyes glassy. Across the landing, a female soldier closes in on a palace aide, her battle axe raised above her head. She’s going to cleave the man in two—just as it appears she has these other unfortunate souls.

In front of me, Des disappears. He materializes between the two fairies just as the soldier brings the axe down.

I swallow my scream as he catches the weapon by its handle. The aide ducks out from behind Des and runs off.

The Night King clucks his tongue, looking completely at ease as the soldier yanks the axe against his grip.

“Didn’t anyone tell you that it’s poor taste to kill a man indoors?” The soldier growls in frustration as she tries to dislodge the axe from Des’s hold. When that doesn’t work, she swings at him with her free arm, her fist closed. Des shimmers out of existence just long enough for the blow to pass through him and the soldier to stumble off-balance.

He reappears, kicking the soldier square in the chest, the blow throwing her off her feet. She hits the ground hard, and I can hear the audiblewhooshas her breath is knocked from her lungs. Her axe slips out of her grip, skidding several feet behind her.

“It’s all that blood,” Des continues, prowling towards her. “Easy enough to get it out of the floor with a little magic, but spirits love to cling to the last of their lifeblood. No one wants a ghost haunting their house.”

The soldier bares her teeth at the Night King, scuttling back to grab her axe. She snatches it up just as Des closes in on her. Casually, the Bargainer steps on her wrist, the bone breaking with a sickening snap. The soldier screams, the sound more an animalistic cry of frustration than actual pain. That’s the spookiest part of it all; she’s so hell bent on carnage that her pain takes a backseat to it.

Another fairy—a nobleman by the looks of his attire—sprints onto the landing from another flight of stairs, a soldier at his back. She pauses, lifting her bow and nocking in an arrow.

I don’t fucking think so.

I cock my arm back and throw one of my daggers. It flips hilt over point. With a wet thump, it lodges itself into the soldier’s throat.

Holy shit, I wasn’t expecting my aim to bethatgood.

And oh God, I just mortally wounded someone. The thought sits like a stone in the pit of my stomach.

The woman stumbles backwards, her hand going to her bloody throat. With every beat of her heart, more and more crimson liquid spills from the wound. It reminds me of my stepfather, of the penchant I have for nicking that particular artery.

I expect to hear the soldier let out a pained cry, or to see fear in her eyes—any indication that there’s a person residing in that body—but when her gaze finds mine, there’s nothing behind those eyes except cold, calm detachment.

Grabbing the hilt of my embedded dagger, the soldier rips it out of her throat.

Goddamn. That is way too hardcore for me.

Before my eyes, her wound begins to close.

Are you fuckingserious? I mean, I know that only seconds ago I was horrified at her death, but now, the broad just needs to go.

She begins stalking forward, my weapon in her hand. I tighten my fist around my remaining dagger, adrenaline pounding between my ears.

Halfway to me, she hesitates, and her hand goes back to her neck wound. As I follow her movements, I realize that beneath all the blood, the wound is still open. I don’t know why, but it stopped healing.