Pack of Wolves by Maggie Claire (read along books .TXT) 📕

untried woman. She will be easy to conquer. Strategy is not her strong suit.” Antero’s voice grows small as he whispers, “Remember, Father, that out of all your other children, I’m the one who gave you this gift. I’m the one who brought you to war.” Flames lick through Antero’s face, distorting his features as his spirit crumbles. Another blinding flash erupts as Antero fades, leaving a scorch mark on the marble floor as a permanent reminder of his passing.

Voices erupt from the terrified court as they grasp the gravity of this loss. Women’s cries grow shrill as they swoon, clinging to their lovers for support. Only the king remains silent, calculating the best means of attacking his enemy.

“What will we do, sire?” Emeric wonders, his voice wobbling as he clenches his hands into fists to hide their shaking.

“Summon my magicians and Windwalker generals,” the king commands, a giddy lightness gleaming in his eyes as he springs from his throne. Where the rest of his high court may fear, the threat of war only makes Alaric’s heart beat faster with delight. Violence is the only real thrill he ever feels anymore. “Emeric! Bring them to me in my private chambers. We must prepare to attack Cassé once more!”

Chapter 3

A freezing splash startles Cyrus awake, water filling his nose and dribbling down his chin. Sputtering and snorting to clear his airways, Cyrus thrashes against leather bindings that secure his hands and feet to a long wooden table. I’m inside the House of Vultures, Cyrus realizes, carefully turning his head to inspect the fire ravaged remains of the building’s interior. The stairway is gone, and the walls are charred and black where dirty, flaming fingers have scraped along their surfaces. We’re in the living area; it appears to be the only part of the house that remains relatively unharmed. How long have I been asleep?

“Ironic, isn’t it? This house is the place where you killed our father. It’s a pity I cannot take you back to your old room to recreate the scene; only Iris won’t be here to slit your throat! You look surprised that I know Hawk died in your room, little brother,” Wolf taunts as he paces in the shadows around Cyrus’s head. “Iris told me all about how she hid while you allowed Falcon to tear him apart. She explained every detail, right down to the moment when you lifted your mask to show our father your miserable face.” Wolf’s voice echoes through the empty corners of the room, his words growing hollow as they ricochet off the walls. “But I still don’t understand why you killed him.” Falcon’s old whip whistles through the air as it slices across Cyrus’s belly.

“Lift my shirt, and you’ll see a long scar over my heart.” Cyrus wheezes as the sudden pain subsides. “After you’d marked my face and left me to die, our father came looking for me.” The memory of Hawk’s sorrow burns Cyrus’s eyes. “He cradled my body and wept. ‘Did your brother do this?’ he kept asking me, but my face was too broken to answer. There was so much blood that my wounds looked more life threatening than they really were.”

Another slap of the whip crackles across Cyrus’s left shin. The pain tears through him like glass shards raking over his bones. “Father always did take it easier on you.”

“He told me that he knew you hated me. He was just too weak to stop you.” Cyrus whimpers as Wolf cracks the whip overhead simply to strike fear in his brother’s heart. “Then, once the sun faded from the sky, Father drew a knife. ‘I’m sorry, my son,’ he wailed as he slashed open my chest. ‘I cannot save you, but I can speed your death.’ However, Father’s blows weren’t deep enough to kill me any more than yours were. I managed to cling to life throughout the night, holding thick leaves over the deepest parts of the wounds to slow the bleeding.”

“Who found you? Who helped you survive?” Wolf asks as he slices the whip over Cyrus’s other leg, relishing the sound of his brother’s groaning.

“It hardly matters, does it? The point is that I survived. The rest of the story is already known to you.” Cyrus’s eyes clench as Wolf unleashes his fury. Four. Cyrus counts the lashes, attempting to quell the staggering shock as the whip bites through the skin on his forearm. Five. He quivers, watching detachedly as blood oozes along his chest. Six. Cyrus gasps, fever sweat beading on his forehead while his leg slowly splits across his thigh. Seven, eight, nine. He chokes as each stroke comes faster, each new cut slices a little deeper, and each area of virgin flesh breaks open in the attack. “Please,” Cyrus moans as the whip chews into his shins. “Stop,” he gurgles when the tiniest shard of bone gleams from his wrist.

“I should mark your other cheek,” Wolf wheezes as he heaves, sweat dripping down his back from the effort behind the blows. “A matching set of scars for your face!” Wolf pauses, his eyes glittering with malice. “Or maybe I’ll aim lower and give you something to remember me by every time you have to piss!”

Wolf’s threats fall on deaf ears. Cyrus’s conscious mind shuts down, burrowing deep inside his body as he attempts to shield himself from the agony of his injuries. Only the occasional moan escapes Cyrus’s lips, an automatic response as air brushes over the exposed bone. The pain of this injury is far worse than a knife to the chest.

Wolf paces closer, checking for a pulse from his brother’s bloody arm. “Pathetic little weakling! Not even twenty stripes on your skin and you’re passed out on the table. I’m surprised you’ve made it this long as a leader. Surely Mynah or one of the others thought about killing you over the years. I bet they fantasized over who would be the one to draw the blade across your throat.”

Wolf