Chapter 25 · Blood at the Iron Grate

The first hound hits the door before the whistle stops echoing.

It doesn't bark. That's the worst part. Just claws on stone, a wet scrape, and then the split in the oak bulges like something is breathing on the other side.

"Back," Vane rasps.

"Make me."

I don't look at him. I keep the poker up. The tip has gone from orange to white, and the heat is blistering my palm right through the rag I wrapped around the handle.

The door gives. A snout shoves through the gap, silver plate bolted over the muzzle, eyes like two cold coins lit from the inside. Spit hits the floor and hisses. The wet furs I stuffed in the crack start to smoke.

I swing.

The poker caves in the side of its face with a crunch I feel in my teeth. The thing doesn't yelp. It just keeps coming, head hanging crooked, and behind it three more are squeezing through, their ribs folding flat like they've got no bones at all.

"Seraphina!"

I hear him say my name. Not Alpha-voice, not a command. Just my name, cracked down the middle.