Something dripped onto his shoulder. An ear bleed. He wiped it away with his free hand. But it was not blood on his cloak. Rowan and Aedion went rigid as a low growling filled the passage. Something on the ceiling moved, then. Seven somethings. Aedion dropped the spool and drew his sword. A piece of fabric—gray, small, worn—dropped from the maw of the creature clinging to the stone ceiling. His cloak—the missing corner of his cloak. Lorcan had lied. He hadn’t killed the remaining Wyrdhounds. He’d just given them Rowan’s scent.
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
