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The third’s face grew dark. “Well, thanks for that, then.
I’ll have to make sure the boys work you especially hard
tonight. That way, even if you do somehow escape, you’ll be
in no shape to avenge yourself or anyone else.” Despite the
bravado, I knew my words had done their job. I could see
fear in the triplets, which I hoped would prove a valuable
ally later on.
My muscles were already proving stronger than the
chains that coiled about me, but I had remitted my efforts at
the approach of the thin men, disallowing the straining iron
a voice. Soon, I would be free.
A short time later, seven mercenaries entered the airy
room into which I had been painfully reposed. They drew up
to me with their hammers and blades, their fire and laughter.
I took the pain they inflicted and smiled until I had no more
teeth with which to do so—a wise precaution on their part,
given what I had done the night before. I timed my efforts
against my bonds with the laughter of my tormenters.
Suddenly, I smelled a terrible sweetness in the air. It rose
upon a plume of screams that blossomed into the contrived
castle. The seven men turned to face the threat. The other
killer had come, and I determined to send back my own
greeting of screams.
My arms, filled with the coldest fire I’d ever cultivated,
moved beyond their bonds. At that very moment, my chains
exploded, a noise like thick ice shattering beneath the fury
of a sledgehammer. I was free.
The seven men came at me, seeking the death I gave
them. I crushed the screams from their throats, creating a
song far sweeter than the fragrance of the newest Wolf. I
supped upon the silence of the dead men, and I could feel
my wounds knitting and the shattered studs of my teeth
pushing up from my ruined gums.
I could hear the fiery munitions of the small army
discharging wildly, desperately—sounds I had coaxed from
the very same group only a short time ago. I kicked the tall
242 | Mark Anzalone