It took her a moment to take in the scene before her. Only three people occupied the open space, and all of them stood near a long wooden table. She noted Quinn first . . . but he was wearing a black tabard over his armor. Next, she saw a middle-aged woman with long silver-blond hair. Her face showed signs of fading beauty. She wore rings on all her fingers and was dressed in a robe of purple silk.
At the sight of the third person, Amelie tensed inside the memory. He looked to be about twenty-five or twenty-six, handsome and slender. His hair was long and dark. His skin was pale to the point of being white, and he wore a sleeveless embroidered tunic. He looked like Anton—only with darker, longer hair. But his eyes were cruel as he gazed downward at the table.
Prince Damek.
Strangely, Amelie had never seen him in person, but she’d seen him in another memory and knew his face.
Then . . . her own gaze moved down to the tabletop, and the scene took on an unreal quality. A dead, naked man lay there. He had a mass of black hair, dusky skin, and a silver ring in one ear. His head lay at an odd angle, and his right arm hung down off the side of the table. His wrist had been cut open, and his blood was draining into a bowl.
At his feet, also on the table, lay the body of a dead wolf with a crossbow quarrel still protruding from its rib cage. The wolf was brown with a white chest and one white paw.
Amelie couldn’t imagine what any of this meant.
Damek paced, appearing almost anxious. “Lieutenant,” he said, “you swear he was in wolf form when you killed him?”
“Yes,” Quinn answered impassively. “I broke his neck, and he changed back.”
Damek touched the side of the table. “No one else has been able to do this for me,” he whispered. “No one.”
“I told you I could.”
Amelie wanted to gasp as several facts hit her at once. First, Quinn was not a corporal. He was an officer in Damek’s forces. Second, Quinn had hunted down and murdered a Móndyalítko shape-shifter.
To what possible end?
Amelie lowered her gaze back to the bowl on the floor, as it was now half-filled with the shape-shifter’s blood. The woman picked up the bowl.
“Now I’ll need blood from the wolf,” she said, “and its fangs, its eyes, and two of its claws.”
Damek nodded at Quinn, who pulled a dagger from his belt and started toward the dead wolf.
Fighting nausea, Amelie looked away and saw a burning hearth—large enough to stand in—at the other end of the vast room. An iron hook had been set over the flames, and a small metal cauldron with symbols etched around the outside hung from the hook.
Damek reached out one hand toward the woman. “Lady Saorise, let me carry that for you.”
She handed him the bowl with an imperious nod. Amelie had no idea who this woman was, but she focused harder on trying not to look at Quinn as he obtained the requested parts from the body of the dead wolf.
A few moments later, all three of them walked toward the blazing hearth.
Upon reaching it, Lady Saorise stood in front of the cauldron. Damek stood on one side of her and Quinn on the other. Amelie saw a cup with a lip and handle and a metal flask on the floor.
Without hesitation, Lady Saorise took the bowl of blood from Damek and poured it into the cauldron. The liquid hissed as it hit the bottom.
“Now the wolf’s blood,” she said, “and its teeth, eyes, and claws.”
Amelie allowed herself to look at Quinn now. His face was utterly emotionless, but he was holding a bowl of his own. Carefully, he reached out and poured the contents into the cauldron. These additions made less sound.
Lady Saorise pulled at a chain around her neck and lifted a small bottle from the neckline of her robe. She opened the stopper and poured the contents of the bottle into the cauldron.
“Thrice-purified water,” she told Damek, “to help the elixir to be absorbed.”
He said nothing, but his eyes glittered as he watched in fascination.
Lady Saorise began to chant softly. She placed her hands in the air on each side of the cauldron as her voice gradually grew louder. Amelie couldn’t understand a word.
Then Lady Saorise cried out one final, loud, unintelligible phrase, and she swept inward with her hands, holding the sides of the cauldron. Amelie could only imagine how hot the metal must be and the damage it was doing to her palms.
“Rage,” Saorise whispered softly. “Madness.”
She slumped in exhaustion, and her hands fell away from the cauldron.
“My lady,” Damek cried in what sounded like genuine alarm, and he caught her, holding her up. Was it possible he cared for this woman?
A moment later, she stood on her own power. “I am well. The spell is powerful . . . and draining.”
“Is it done?” Damek breathed.
Reaching down, she picked up the cup and the flask, and as she did, Amelie saw that her hands weren’t burned. They weren’t even reddened. Dipping the cup into the cauldron, she poured a now black fluid into the metal flask—without spilling a drop.
“We must test it,” she said. “You have a subject?”
Nodding, Damek turned and strode across the room to a side door. Quinn and Lady Saorise followed him. Amelie was drawn after them, but she was flooded with a terrible feeling that the worst of this was not over.
Opening the door, Damek turned to Quinn. “You brought the leather gloves, as I asked?”
“Yes.”
Quinn drew a pair of thick gloves from the pocket of his pants, and he put them on.
Upon hearing a rattling sound, Amelie peered around him into a narrow room. A filthy man in rags was manacled by one wrist to the back wall. He looked out in terror at the open doorway.
Lady Saorise handed Quinn the flask. “You only need to place a small amount on his bare skin,” she said. “Just wet your gloved finger and touch his skin. The elixir will absorb instantly. But do not get the smallest amount on your own skin. You must never be careless. It will affect you as it would affect him.”
Taking the flask from her, Quinn wet his gloved right pointer finger with a few drops of the black liquid. Then he entered the narrow room, going straight to the panicked man and smearing the substance on his cheek.
“No!” the man cried, trying to pull back against the wall. “What are you doing?”
Quinn stepped away and looked back toward the door. “How long?”
Amelie almost didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded so cold.
“Unknown,” Lady Saorise answered. “We will have to wait.”
All three of them fell silent, and the only sound Amelie heard was the manacled man whimpering in fear. Inside the memory, it was difficult to judge how much time had passed, but she thought it was less than an hour when the man in the narrow room began gagging.
Though it was difficult to watch, Amelie knew that she was being shown only what was most important, so she looked through a space between Damek’s and Quinn’s shoulders as they stood in the doorway.
The poor man inside began retching . . . and then his hands began turning into claws and his body began to expand. His jaw elongated and fur sprouted from his skin. Amelie watched, numb, as he transformed into a massive wolf with red eyes, and he lunged, roaring, against the chain on his front leg.
The manacle was tight against his fur, but it held.
“By the gods,” Damek whispered in wonder, staring at the mad creature snarling and snapping at the end of its chain. Saliva spattered the floor from its fangs. “Saorise, you’ve done it.” His expression altered to one of someone who suddenly wished to get down to business, and he turned to Quinn. “Kill that thing. We know the elixir works.”