Chapter 20 · Blood on the Chalice

The spikes bite before I even get my fingers around the cup.

Inquisitor Moren shoves it into my hands, and the silver stem is covered in tiny barbs. My palm splits open like he planned it. Blood runs down into the bowl and spreads across the black draught in slow red threads.

"Drink," Moren says. "Or hang at dawn. Your choice, rogue."

I don't answer. I'm too busy not throwing up.

The Pack Hall of Claws stinks of wolfsbane. The iron censer swings from its chain beside Moren's elbow, pouring out gray smoke that makes my eyes water and my skin crawl. Ancestor bones hang on the walls in rows. Silver blades gleam between them. Twelve elders sit on the stone benches like they paid for front-row seats.

Garrick stands at the back with his hands folded. He gives me a small, sorry little frown.

Liar.

Vane is on the dais. He hasn't sat down once. Sweat runs down the side of his face, and his jaw is locked so hard I can see the muscle jump.