Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 42

I was falling. 

Tumbling. Flailing. Hurtling towards the ground so fast, watching the world grow and swell beneath me, seeing every terrible minute detail coming into focus with each agonising second.

Lucius' face, usually so devoid of fear, always accepting of every nightmare that crossed his path, yet now with wide terror-filled eyes, as if suddenly, at the end of it all, he had finally realised what his fate really entailed. Drachmann, his twisted wrinkled face, looking so utterly inhuman that I wondered how he could ever pass for anything but the monster he really was. And Brandon, whose rage seemed so palpable, it was as if Vánagandr had already burst free from the human flesh that bound it and was now filling every inch of space with malevolent intent.

Awareness had come too late. I'd been so lost. So consumed by a power I couldn't control that not once did I realise just how much that power was in control of me. I'd blindly followed a path rooted in my need to protect Lucius at all costs and that path had taken me so far away that by the time I saw I'd strayed off course, it was too late to turn back. Too late to do anything but stare into the faces of those around me as I fell, knowing that this time, there was no parachute, no safety net, nothing but the cold, unforgiving truth to break my fall.

"Give me the boy." Drachmann beckoned to Brandon with long, bony fingers. Flecks of my blood stained his long, yellowing nails and he made a grasping motion as Brandon dragged Lucius towards him, slicking his tongue across dry, cracked lips as if being served the tastiest of morsels.

He clutched Lucius to his chest. Seeing Lucius in his arms made me want to vomit. I could feel the bile forcing its way up into my throat and I fought to suppress it, instead locking eyes with the boy, wishing with everything I had that I could be the one to hold him now, wishing that I could stroke his hair back from his forehead and tell him that I was sorry, that I was so very sorry.

"I'll take the child now." Drachmann sneered as he looked at Brandon. "Can I trust you to bring the vampire when it's time or do you need assistance with that too, Vánagandr?"

He'd insulted us both in one sentence; but whereas I could more than cope with being referred to as just a vampire, I knew his rebuking of Brandon in front of his own clan cut far deeper than any knife could. Brandon's already amber-brimmed eyes flashed dangerously and a low warning growl emanated from his throat, but the demon just laughed shrilly, unfazed by the imminent threat.

"You'd do better to unleash your disappointment in yourself upon one whose bite isn't quite so poisonous, Varúlfur. Judge not a man by his size, but by his soul. You'll find mine more than a match for the mere tooth and claw of the Great Wolf. A vampire in chains, on the other hand ..."

And with one last triumphant look at me, he swept out of the cell, dragging Lucius alongside him by the collar.

"No," I gasped as I watched them leave, struggling to roll over onto my side, so that I could try to push myself up into a sitting position.

I hadn't got far in my efforts, however, when a howl of rage echoed around the cell and Brandon flew at me, the rush of air hitting me before he did and he picked me up like I was nothing, slamming my back against the wall. I cried out as the chains jarred against my spine, but my voice was cut away as his hand found my already injured throat, his grasp tightening, constricting. My feet, which were a couple of inches off the floor, kicked out frantically but had little effect as he pushed his lower body against mine, pinning me there.

The anger radiated off him in forceful waves, so much wild, untameable fury that if he wasn't already crushing the air out of me, I might have choked to see it. And there, feeding it all – the humiliation, the burning shame, the rage – was a world of hurt in his eyes as he glared at me.