Soren releases his grip, hands dropping woodenly to his sides. He is frozen, incapable of speech, incapable of comforting the man who is falling apart in front of him. Not while he himself is doing everything in his power to keep from doing the same.
It is Vaughn who moves close, his thick arms that wrap around Alaric’s quaking frame, his deep voice that speaks assurances I fear none of us, standing there watching, truly believe.
“We will get her back, Alaric. We will get Arwen back.”
“How?” Alaric whispers, a strangled plea. “We do not even know where they have taken her.”
Soren flinches, just once, then starts moving, his long strides carrying him across the ruined feast so fast I have to run to catch him. I do not understand where he is going until I see the sets of bloody footprints that lead away from the dance floor, smudging the flagstones. Signs of a struggle; signs of an unwilling captive being dragged away into the dark.
A lump of nerves turns my stomach to lead as we follow the trail down the path, deeper into the lush gardens, passing broken palm fronds and another dead enemy with a throwing star embedded in his eye socket, pausing only when we reach the narrow bridge to the bathhouse.
“You do not have to go in there,” I tell Soren quietly.
But he is beyond hearing. He steps onto the bridge, heedless of my words.
“Soren…”
Still, he does not stop. Perhaps he needs to see for himself. With no other choice, I follow after him.
Inside the bathhouse, the evidence of struggle is even more apparent. Two more bodies, one with Alaric’s gold-hilted dagger still protruding from his gut, lie on the white floor. Their blood seeps into the crystal, staining its luster. There was not much furniture to wreck, but the little that was inside is in pieces—the teak footstool fractured to splinters, the mirror smashed into sharp fragments, the delicate vanity tipped over on its side, sending myriad bottles of bath oil and scented petals across the floor.
Arwen put up quite a fight.
Smears of fresh blood—hers, I think—color the base of the wall. Not a deadly amount, but definitely enough to activate a portal. It is no longer aglow, already dormant after their ruthless departure. By now she could be anywhere in Anwyvn. There are no clues about where she’s been taken, no handy maps left behind by the perpetrators with locations circled in red ink.
Soren’s face is pale, almost gaunt. I want desperately to comfort him, to make him the same promise Vaughn made Alaric: that we will get his sister back. But I cannot bring myself to lie to him.
Before I can summon a single word of consolation, a gasp sounds from among the bodies across the bathhouse. One of them is still alive. In a blink, Soren is looming over him, one hand around his throat, squeezing so hard I think he will crush the man’s windpipe.
“Where is she?”
A wheeze rattles from between the man’s teeth.
“Where have they taken her?”
“Soren!” Dropping to his side, I yank his arm. It does not budge. “Soren, he cannot tell you anything if he is dead!”
His chokehold only tightens.
The blood-crusted face of our enemy is contorted in pain, whether from the grip at his throat or the blade in his gut. But his eyes are alert as they glare up at us through narrow slivers. He wheezes again as his life force flickers under Soren’s unwavering strength.
I try again to pull him back, without success. No amount of tugging makes impact. He is too angry. Reaching inward for my maegic, I send razor-thin tendrils of wind swirling around his arm, twining around his fingers. One by one, I peel them back until he has no choice but to release.
The moment his hold breaks, his eyes snap to mine. I watch clarity wash back in, reason replacing the revenge that very nearly swamped him. He looks startled by his own slip.
“I will handle this,”I tell him, mind to mind.“Trust me.”
He gives a shallow nod and, with great effort, backs off enough for me to take over. My shoulders stiffen as I lean forward, aligning my face with the dying man’s.
“You will die soon,” I tell him, voice surprisingly steady. “Whether that death is quick and painless or long and drawn out remains to be seen.”
Understanding flickers beneath the haze of pain in his eyes.
“Where did they take Arwen?”
He does not answer except to grin at me. His teeth are red; his mouth is full of blood. He does not have long to live.
I grab the handle of the dagger that protrudes from his stomach and begin to twist it slowly. His grin vanishes instantly, replaced by an agonized grimace. His shrieks reverberate across the round walls of the bathhouse.