Page 41 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

It rolls slowly toward the forest’s edge, with mask-wrapped figures trailing behind. The men disappear along the horizon.

Carriages of bait—pig carcasses stuffed with Daphne petals, heavy as doom. They creak past us, past the rows of men who glance once, then avert their eyes. I smell it as it passes.

Rotting meat.

A trap that if consumed, will kill them. Because either I kill them, I will have to make them eat it—or risk them eating me.

We stop .

Men move into position. Everything is ready. I take one more look, heart hammering.

Katherine meets my gaze.

One glance is all we have.

The forest waits.

And it is into the jaws.

∞∞∞

The barn rises in the distance, its rafters sagging under centuries of wind and neglect. The perfect place for a massacre.

We spent an hour stripping it of hay, removing loose boards, and rigging traps. Gabriel’s men have strung thick netting across the rafters, reinforced with metal hooks and pulley systems. Tripwires line the floor. Oil barrels are stacked in each corner, ready to ignite.

I crouch beside the entry point, tracing the map again in the dirt — the route the giant will take, the chokepoint where we’ll hit. I walk it step by step, noting every loose nail, every creaking board. No margin for error.

Snipers load silver rounds into their rifles. Rope teams stand by with torches. I give the signal and they all fade back into the trees. Silence blooms.

Katherine hasn’t spoken in some time. She stands outside the barn, her gloved hands tight around the hilt of a dagger. It’s the same one she stabbed me with. The same blade that nearly killed me.

I step toward her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I must,” she says. “You’ll go in alone.”

“They’ll lock me in with it.” I pause. “And you, Katherine, if Wexmoore fails, — you’ll stab me again, won’t you? If it comes to that.”

“Of course. You are my husband, and I…”

My confession dies.

And I cannot tell you that I love you, Dorian Storm. I peer down at my gold-threaded slippers, now caked with dirt.

“I’m not afraid to die,” he whispers. “Do not fear.” When I look up again, there is pain in his eyes. “You know what I am, Katherine, do not tremble for me. Do not cry for a beast.”

From a distance, the men of the Bow Street Runners await with loaded wagons. Katherine smiles and places a kiss on my cheek.

“I will stab you through the heart, as many times as necessary. But please, Your Grace, not another waistcoat.”

I grin and take off my coat and unfasten the buttons of my shirt.

My pulse quickens as the growls and rustling shadows signal the giants’ approach. This is the moment of no return.

They are coming and I will intercept them.

If I fail, the runners shall poison them.

I watch them vanish down the road, toward the treeline where the forest yawns wide and black. The poison glimmers under the setting sun. A final prayer, wrapped in meat.

Something monstrous ends tonight.

KATHERINE

The moon is sharp above us as the bait begins to spoil. I crouch beside Gabriel, in the brush. He holds a rifle, and the men spread out in a horseshoe formation around the barn. The forest creaks and wind slices through pine. One of the scouts whispers — “Movement.”

The trees part.

God save us.

It limps, hunched and massive, half its chest torn open and leaking some viscous black sap. It smells of decay. The bait works. It sniffs the pig carcasses, jaws flexing. Eyes blank.

Dorian is already inside. I see his silhouette move in the rafters. The trap is set.

The beast steps over the threshold.

“Now!” Gabriel hisses.

The nets drop from above. Ropes launch forward, tangling around legs. Hooks snap shut. It screeches — a sound that shakes my ribcage. It thrashes and the runners pull hard.

“Hold!” a man screams.

The thing wavers.

Then comes Dorian.

He falls from the ceiling, and mid-transformation, his claws sink into the beast’s side.

He’s faster, sharper — not yet fully gone.

He slashes across the giant’s belly, spilling black blood across the floor.

It moves slower, Dorian climbs onto its back and with another slash, he cleaves its head off its shoulders.

The giant lets out a final roar and then crumbles — as if the life’s been pulled from the marrow of its bones. Ash pours through its skin, before that too, floats away in the breeze.

It’s working.

We can win this.

But then Dorian turns.

The beast inside him sees us.

Uh oh.

The Duke lunges.

The runners hesitate and another screams.

Wexmoore steps forward.

“Ashwood!” he calls loudly.

Unannounced, his face is calm, his hands are steady and he does not run He raises the blade as Dorian tears through the air.

One minute Wexmoore is not there and then next, he parries to the right, moving so quickly I cannot see. And through the trap like a ghost, the blade gleams —diamond-tipped— as he drives it through Dorian’s back.

The tip appears on the other side, through his chest.

I have no questions as to who forged it.

Dorian screams as the blade is wrenched free. Blood spurts outwards before disintegrating before our eyes. Within seconds he is returned to nothing but flesh and bone.

The men lower their weapons and breathe.

“We won,” someone whispers.

Dorian drops to his knees and I run from the doorway of that ruined barn, understanding something with absolute clarity.

This plan can work, but at what cost?

Behind me, Wexmoore smiles.

“Well then,” he mutters and wipes the blade on his coat, “that was a rare delight. Who’s up for the next monster? I’ll go first.”