Assembly: The Feral Souls Trilogy - Book 2

by Woods, Erica

  “This is the pack bed,” Jason said with a tired grin. “It’s where we pile up in our wolf forms.”

  Sitting up, I gaped when I realized how much space the big bed occupied. Though the guys were huge—in both their forms—they would all be able to fit with room to spare for at least six more lycans.

  “You’re . . . you’re not planning on expanding the pack, are you?”

  “Never,” Jason promised. “Bad enough I have to share you with these mutts. No one else is coming near my little turtle dove.”

  Turtle dove?

  His teasing felt familiar. Nice. I smiled, and that felt nice too.

  “Love this.” He nipped my lip, gave me a lazy smile and stepped back. A moment later, a beautiful, gray beastie stood in his place, a wolfish grin that was distinctly Jason lighting up the amber eyes I’d come to love.

  “Are you all going wolf?”

  “I am not,” Ash said, drawing me out of the bed and into his embrace. “You will spend the night in my arms, though if your feet get cold, you are welcome to bury them in Jason’s fur.”

  I leaned into his touch, startling when Ruarc jumped on to the bed and growled, as though annoyed I didn’t immediately follow. He sprawled out near the top, watching me through narrowed, silver eyes, a half snarl curling his lip when Jason jumped up after him and tapped a paw on the bed—like a human patting the spot beside him in invitation.

  Looking between them; Ruarc’s slitted eyes, Jason’s playful ones, feeling Ash’s lip curve against my neck, I decided to let them choose how we’d sleep.

  It worked better than I’d hoped.

  With minimal snarls, they arranged me to their satisfaction, and once they were done, Ash lay on his back with my head pillowed on his broad chest while Ruarc stretched on my other side. A soft sigh filled my ears as his muzzle came to rest between my neck and shoulder, his hot breaths tickling the sensitive skin and shooting shivers up and down my arms. And when Jason wormed his way between my legs, his head resting on top of my thigh, I was officially surrounded by warm bodies and a feeling of safety so strong I could almost pretend Lucien’s absence wasn’t a twisting, stabbing knife.

  But despite missing Lucien, despite worrying about Ruarc, despite the trauma of reliving my past and the uncertainty of the future, each stroke of Ash’s hand over my hair made my eyes droop, my spine melt, my body grow heavy.

  And though I tried to stay awake, it didn’t take long before I was dead to the world.

  70

  Lucien

  If the night air was cold, I did not feel it. If the waning moon pulled at my wolf, I did not notice.

  My blood had been replaced by ice. My gut had been replaced by fire. And my mind had descended into a well of madness.

  Hope’s tearstained face dipped into that black pit bleeding wrath and vengeance and a million biting regrets, and my lungs stopped working. My throat burned.

  It was worse when . . . when I was strapped down.

  I doubled over, stomach emptying onto the grass.

  She’d been so young. So young and innocent and utterly helpless. Yet she hadn’t been spared. Youth offered no mercy, pledged no leniency, guaranteed neither grace nor compassion.

  That particular lesson had been impressed upon me early in life.

  I could still recall my first broken bone with perfect clarity. To my four-year-old self, the sound, the sensation, the burning pain of that first punishment had been grotesque. And yet, it was nothing compared to the agony that had shredded my insides when my female had spoken of her past.

  A past she believed she’d deserved.

  Once my stomach ceased it relentless cramping, I straightened, spat more of the foul flavor invading my mouth and cut across a neighboring territory with little thought to the insult I was giving. I was beyond caring.

  Flames raged in my gut. Ice stabbed cruel blades through my chest. A seething, throbbing, reckless fury boiled my blood and crumbled the remaining pieces of my sanity.

  Experiments t-to see . . . My female’s trembling voice broke in my head, and the useless organ that kept my body supplied with blood wrenched. Twisted.

  A victim. She’d been a victim.

  Torment slid down my throat, burning like thick, lethal acid.

  Violence had stalked my childhood, followed me into adolescence, attempted to grind me beneath its steel-capped boot all the way to my third Ascension . . . And Hope, my Hope, was more than familiar with its intimate touch . . .

  Hope’s lip splitting beneath knuckles. Hope’s ribs bruising beneath booted feet. Hope’s naked body displayed for the twisted amusement of others.

  Had she begged as I’d once begged? Wept as I’d once wept? Pleaded for mercy in a place where mercy did not exist?

  Red sprayed across my vision. Blackness shrouded the edges.

  Something hot and wet dripped from my palms.

  This. This was the reason I’d built my blasted armor in the first place. The reason I’d tried to keep the too-tempting female at a distance. This pain. This all-encompassing agony that threatened to rend me apart at the seams. This burning, unbridled rage I’d inherited from my sire.

  It had nearly destroyed my female.

  I had nearly destroyed my female.

  I hissed at an owl nestled in a tree, its big, unblinking eyes filled with stabbing accusation.

  Regret cut into my flesh. Bitter, bruising, blistering regret.

  Winning my female’s trust and affection had taken time. Destroying it had happened in an instant. The way she’d looked at me as I left; raw and pained and unsure . . . I’d rather have spent a night as the entertainment in one of my sire’s depraved gatherings than be the cause of such a look.

  Regret persisted its relentless cutting. Slicing through flesh and bone, carving off pieces of my sanity until the loss of all reason was inevitable.

  Halfway through the forest that would spit me out near Bennett’s cabin, I halted. Clawed at my chest. Wanting to pry the aching, bleeding, hurt out of its center and stomp it into the ground.

  My female was tortured.

  A hiss forced its way past my clenched teeth, the fury raging in my gut stoking flames that burned too hot, too swiftly; devouring logic and reason, igniting wrath and vengeance, until I was fire, I was ice, I was hunger and thirst and famine and starvation. And my appetite would only be slaked once every single Hunter had been exterminated.

  A sheet of ice pressed against my chest. Numbing. Hardening. Severing dead flesh and filling the empty space with treacherous frost.

  I will rid the world of their kind.

  I will hunt them down, one by one.

  I will see them suffer for the atrocities they dared inflict upon my female.

  I did not care that they were many. I did not care about weapons or spells or traps with silver teeth. I would trade, barter, extort and demand until the Hunter scourge was forever wiped off this world.

  But first, I would find the lithbhár who’d betrayed my female and ensure he lived to regret it.

  * * *

  By the time Bennett’s cabin rose before me, ice had encased the flames roaring through my skull and my blood ran cold once more.

  As it should.

  If I spoke with Bennett while succumbing to heated emotions, he would not survive the encounter, and I needed the bastard alive. Alive . . . Not something I’d ever imagined would apply to the foul male who had once been my sire’s most trusted confidant, but Matthew was still out there, his head filled with secrets that would see my Hope slain should he be fool enough to let them spill.

  A hiss of air snuck past my clenched jaw, and there it was, the burning fury I could not afford to indulge. It moved beneath my skin, carving lethal tracks through flesh and bones, stabbing at the frost that kept it contained.

  Stabbing, but not breaching.

  Not until I had what I came for.

  If only stealing it and maiming its keeper were a viable option.

  Skin crawling, I wa
lked up to the lone cabin far removed from the two others housing Bennett’s pack, and rapped my knuckles across the thick black wood.

  Though I would rather cut off my own arm than speak to the vile male, he was the only lycan besides the Council in possession of a witch-tracker.

  After the expected wait, the door opened to reveal a male I loathed with every fiber of my being. The sight of him had a cold, unnatural stillness descend. I heard nothing but his quick, indrawn breath; saw nothing but the brief yet rapid dilation of his pupils; felt nothing but the way he momentarily froze—and the temptation to end his wretched life.

  The desire to do just that grew when Bennett quickly recovered his equilibrium, kicking one condescending heel behind the other while leaning against the door as though his very life wasn’t a deadly affront.

  “My, my,” he drawled, emboldened by our shared past and the rules that kept me chained. “If it isn’t His Grace.”

  “Bennett,” I replied, tone cool and even despite the desire to rip his head off. Having this particular male at my mercy while he stank of fear, begging and pleading for a life that was mine to take had long since become one of my main objectives. But the vile creature before me exuded no fear, no unease. He knew I would not intrude on his territory to exact my vengeance. Breaking Assembly law would forfeit my life and put my pack at risk—not the satisfying vengeance I craved—which was why the craven bastard retreated each year before challenge could be issued. And why he still drew breath.

  If only he’d dare to venture outside his own territory.

  Unfortunately, ever since my last Ascension, the spineless toad had been careful, and the pleasure I took from having restricted his movements for the last two hundred years paled in comparison to what I was owed.

  “It’s Lord Talbot, actually. But you knew that, Lucien, I have no doubt you remember me well.” A twist of hard lips, a smile held back while he waited to see if the old knife would wound.

  “I am not here to play games, Bennett.” I allowed no emotion to ruin the cold exterior I’d spent decades perfecting. “You’re in possession of an object I may wish to acquire, but if you’re not inclined to barter, I will take my leave.”

  Something flared in his eyes, something that made my skin crawl as it dragged over my face. “Very well.” He stepped back and made a flourishing bow. One deep enough to have satisfied my sire. “Come in.”

  I did not hesitate. Opting for a leisurely stroll, I moved past him and into his temporary home. The stench of him permeated the walls, the floor, each molecule of the air, yet I turned, arched an indolent brow, and drawled, “This is . . . quaint.”

  Bennett’s mouth tightened. “It’s temporary.”

  “Hmm.”

  ‘Your father—”

  “Is dead,” I interrupted. “How very unfortunate for you.”

  Bennett watched me, saying nothing while I stared back; contemplating murder.

  It would be so easy. So . . . satisfying. If only for a moment.

  A slow, hungry smile captured the other male’s lips, as though he took great pleasure in the denial of my desire. “Your need must be great if you’re here to beg a favor.”

  “If anyone will beg, Bennett, it’s you.”

  “History suggests otherwise, Your Grace.”

  My teeth ground together, but my composure held. “Stay for the challenge,” I said, and now there were no more flames, no more fire. Only a familiar, pleasant cold. “I would like nothing more than to put the past to the test.”

  His mouth became a taut line, and his voice turned clipped, “I have other matters to attend.”

  “Ah . . .” I crossed to the small fireplace, slid one finger across a gilded clock sitting above the mantel. “It seems you’ve had matters to attend for the last two hundred years or so.” I inspected the speck of dust now attached to my skin. “Careful lest your cowardice become common gossip.”

  A heated, furious silence followed. I inspected the ticking arm of Bennett’s gold clock, listened to the heavy clomp of booted feet—feet that could move without the slightest sound, feet that chose to be loud, had always chosen to be loud. And then Bennett was behind me, stood so close his breath touched my nape.

  If not for Hope, that would have been the moment I slayed him. But instead, I slowly turned and allowed my lips to curl in a cool, mocking smile. “Alas, I’m afraid I cannot provide you with the recipe.”

  Bennett frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “The sniffing? Not befitting of any of the peerage, especially not an earl, but though your manners leave much to be desired, I will take pity on you. My scent”—I swept a hand down my body while Bennett’s skin darkened in an angry flush—“is eau de natural.”

  “Insolent pup!” Claws flashed, but before they could lay my cheek open to the bone, I seized his wrist and spun behind him. Then my claws prickled at his throat, my teeth hovered inches above his neck, my free hand captured his arm and wrenched it behind him, trapping it between rigid shoulder blades.

  “There is a reason you’ve avoided me for all these centuries,” I whispered, allowing a single drop of his blood to spill beneath my claws. His struggles ceased, and he held very, very still. “I am no longer a helpless child, but you are the same gutless toad that encouraged your friend’s rage and paranoia while gorging on the only thing that leaves you satisfied.”

  “Which is?” he asked, speaking so softly his throat barely moved beneath my claws.

  “Fear.” I tapped a claw against his jugular. “You enjoy the taste of it on others, perhaps you even crave it. Though I do not believe you find the emotion agreeable when you’re the one in its grasp.” Standing this close to him, touching him, was that first broken bone all over again; grotesque. “So hear me and hear me well . . .” I swallowed my contempt, my disgust, my loathing, and whispered, “Your life has long been forfeit, and one day I will collect.”

  I opened my hand and watched the vile creature stagger away. He rubbed at this throat, stared at the red smears as though never having seen his blood outside his own body, before slowly meeting my gaze.

  “Get out.”

  “Do you still have your witch-tracker?”

  “I said, get—” His mouth clapped shut and a splash of color returned to his face. “My witch-tracker? I might.”

  “Unused?”

  “Why would I keep a used one? They’re worthless.”

  “I’m aware.” I waited a beat, considered my words. If he knew the lengths I’d go to acquire his amulet, the price he’d demand would not bear considering. “I might be interested in procuring one.”

  “Is that so?”

  I inclined my head. “Do you wish to barter?”

  “I might,” he mocked, but his eyes were shrewd. “Come back tomorrow and we may discuss it.”

  Devil take the loathsome cur, he was testing me. I could not afford to wait a day; once activated, the tracker would only last a couple of hours, and if my prey was too far away by then, I wouldn’t reach him before the magic perished. “Allowing you to continue drawing breath is wearing on my restraint, Bennett. By tomorrow, I doubt I’ll have any left. Are you certain you wish to risk death simply to annoy me?”

  Bennett smiled, slow and wide and hungry. “You need it today.” A statement, not a question. “Since you haven’t left the Assembly in days, and you need it now . . . either you’re tracking someone who’s managed to wipe away all traces of their scent from every inch of this territory, or some poor sod got their hands on a pinch of faebane and decided the cost was worth escaping your wrath. I’m guessing the latter, and your wrath must be great indeed if your prey voluntarily ingested such poison.”

  Bennett had always been clever—he would not have survived his friendship with the former Duke of Westmorland had he not been—but never before had that fact grated the way it did now.

  “My patience is waning,” I said. “You are not the only one in possession of a witch-tracker.”

  “If you mean the Coun
cil, they would never give theirs up. Not when they have so few and the cost of acquiring one is so great.”

  If I ever got my hands on a pair of witches, I’d wring their greedy, little necks. “Marissa could be convinced,” I drawled.

  Having known my sire, Bennett would draw the wrong conclusion and weaken his own position. Once he believed I had other options, negotiations would—

  “But then what would your precious little human say?”

  Fire. My world became hissing, spitting, sizzling fire.

  I wasn’t aware of moving, I wasn’t aware of my hands, my claws, the strength needed to squeeze the life from a lycan’s powerful body. Yet, my hands were wrapped around his throat, my claws pierced his skin, my knee pressed into his stomach while a snapping, snarling, savage rage isolated me from the pain of his claws gouging bloody furrows beneath my ribs. “You do not speak of her,” I hissed. “You do not think of her.” His claws dug deeper into my sides, shredding flesh and piercing muscle. “You do not look, you do not approach, you never, ever touch.” Blood poured from my wounds, but Bennett was done. One as old as he could not die from lack of oxygen—not permanently—but it would leave him vulnerable long enough for anyone to finish the job. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Eyes red from burst vessels, lips blue from lack of oxygen, Bennett managed the smallest jerk of his chin, and one by one, I pried my fingers off his throat and stepped back.

  My wolf howled. My blackened soul raged.

  Bennett dragged himself off the floor, rubbing his neck, then flushed at the revealing gesture and glared at the blood slowly seeping through the tears in my suit. His lips peeled back in a wordless snarl.

  My leverage was lost. Only the highest price, the steepest sacrifice, would satisfy the male whose pride I’d shredded.

  “I will grant you a favor,” I forced through clenched teeth, the words burning like liquid silver. I never gave favors. I never put myself in anyone’s debt. It was unbearable, unthinkable, untenable. And owing Bennett . . .