Page 4 of The Howling (Monsters of the Yeavering #2)

I am back in Lord Guyzance’s dungeon once again.

It was not my aim to end up here, although the soul which distracted me gave the Redcaps an opportunity to temporarily subdue me. Not enough, but then I was coming back to Guyzance in any event.

I want information. Information about my family, about who ordered their deaths. Once I know, I can take my revenge.

The souls I would take on behalf of the Reaper will still be there when I get out. In the meantime, I can find souls here too. There’s plenty of the damned at the Faerie lord’s disposal, should the Reaper so desire them.

I pace back and forth at the bars, shaking my great shaggy head. The stench of the dungeons filters in, but it’s tempered by a new scent. One which fills every single part of my being.

It’s the scent which distracted me earlier. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like running until I drop, until I find this thing which calls to me like I’ve never felt before.

I don’t know what it is, but I do know it is mine .

Lifting my head, I do my best to pinpoint the smell. It’s not only in Lord Guyzance’s castle but it’s here, in the dungeons.

I grasp at the bars of the cage, iron of course, but poorly maintained because the Faerie can’t stand iron, and as a result, they don’t understand it. Further, the idiotic Redcaps they employ are inherently lazy and won’t do anything unless they are ordered.

Redcaps which managed to recapture me. But only because I was distracted.

That scent…

I wrench at the bars, and they give a little. Maybe enough to put my head through. I shove as more of the scent fills my nostrils and get my shoulders through. My flesh rips but I don’t give a damn.

I’ll heal. I always do. The Reaper doesn’t want me yet.

I pull myself further through the bars, twisting and wrenching until I get free. My shoulder is out of its socket, my arm hanging loosely by my side as pain screeches through me, but it doesn’t matter as I swing my head and catch the scent once again, stronger than ever.

I will find it, limping forwards until I reach a blank wall. The scent I crave is mixed with that of magic.

It causes me to growl. I don’t want magic involved. I don’t want it polluting what is so pure and right. I slam my working hand against the wall and dig in my claws. They sink into the stone as easily as if it was wood.

This is an enchanted door, not a wall.

My claws go deeper. Deep enough I can wrench at the thing. It should open. If iron bars are no match for me, then a door made of wood should be simplicity itself.

Nothing keeps out a Barghest. The Yeavering knows it.

Even as I wrench at it, as it cracks and splinters under my touch, the scent grows greater. Until the door opens and I see it.

I see her . The tiny creature, her hair glowing in the light, part dark, part a deep blue which is both unnatural and perfect. Her eyes are huge for her face. They glare up at me as if she has no fear.

I can only think of one word. I can only say one word. It’s a word I’ve never used before.

“ Mine.”

This female belongs to me. I want her more than anything I’ve ever wanted. Not so I can help the Reaper take her soul. That is hers until she surrenders it.

I reach out, my hand and claw looking like they’re from hell itself as I grasp at her. For one instant, I think she’s going to stay where she is, to let me take her, to let me have her.

But instead, she moves to one side, away from my terrible, grasping claws, away from my form which has shifted easily, far too easily, into that of my were-hound.

One more step and I will be the black dog completely.

He pulls at my insides, wanting to be out, to press his nose against this female and to lick at her skin, sink his teeth into her…

“I want to eat you.” The words rasp out.

“Not a chance,” she responds, her hand grasping at something long and wooden.

I am fast. I am faster than death itself, but I do not expect what hits me in the side of my head.

I do not expect what pokes me hard in the chest, sending me reeling back.

And I do not expect to fall into the oubliette in the floor.