Page 116 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

“The fuck do you want? We don’t do deals with fae.”

His words are clipped, and my ear has trained to various human accents in this country over the years. This place may not scream of money, but his voice does. It would explain his lack of fear—that and being a necromancer would give him little opportunity to experience it.

But we need him. We need him and any other witches who may reside within.

Rook speaks before I can, and his voice is just as curt. “We require assistance.”

The necromancer peers around me, and when I step aside, his face falls. “Fuck. Tell me you didn’t kill him.”

The fury that rises within me at the mere thought ricochets down Rook’s and my bond. His own rage is a tsunami that might level this street in an instant. If the witch realises it, he does not care. He is still looking at Jamal’s broken body with a sympathy in his eyes I am not expecting.

It is all that has me coming to my senses. “We did not. We would never.”

His eyes snap to my face. They narrow in distrust, but I fear he can read me better than I would like because after a moment, his shoulders soften. “Look, as much as I like to boast about just how powerful I am… He’s dead. Already dead. And we can’t just—”

“Felix.” Another voice comes from behind the witch, another man walking down the hall. If Felix is in his early thirties, then this man is a little older, with an affable, open face. He wears shorts and a T-shirt, despite the chill air of the night, and when he gets close, he reaches up and ruffles the back of his own blond hair. “How long has he been dead then?”

“You can’t—” Felix begins, but the blond shrugs and he falls silent with a scowl.

“Three hours at most,” Rook says. “If you cannot help us—”

Then we have nowhere else to turn. Fae are not found in the company of necromancers; it is mere chance we had heard of this coven at all. Necromancers are often shunned by other witches. They make themselves hard to find.

“I can try,” the man says.

Felix all but growls, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’ll kill yourself trying.”

“Nah, probably not.”

“I’m going to tell Sora.”

“Get him,” the man says, and now his tone is firm. “I’ll see them down to the cellar.”

The cellar? I look at Rook, but he is not looking at me. His eyes are on Jamal’s face, and perhaps the witches cannot see the grief in his features, but I can. Even if I did not feel for Jamal as he does, I would do whatever is necessary to end that suffering for him.

Felix turns on his heel and pushes back down the hall. The other man steps back, beckoning us to enter.

I step inside before Rook does because that is safer for both of us. My hands are free, and I am often faster with my magic, even if my senses dull the moment I cross the threshold. The death magic in this house is so heavy I can taste it, and the answering death magic inside of me rears and begs for escape.

No. No. We are as safe as we can be here. We can escape, even if all the witches in this house turn on us.

I do not believe they mean to. The blond witch leads us agreeably down into the cellar, which is a large, open room with cabinets around the walls and an empty table in its centre. He gestures, and Rook hesitates.

“If you’re touching him when I try to bring him back, it’ll kill you,” the man says, almost absently. He is rummaging in a cupboard, looking for something. “Hold him if you want, I guess.”

Rook looks at me, and I nod. Slowly, reluctantly, he lays Jamal’s body upon the table.

Blood still streaks his clothes. His side has been torn open, and his throat… It hurts to look at him, even if his face is peaceful. I do not know if Moreau closed his eyes before we arrived.

Moreau was there first, of course. I bite back a growl. If Rook and I had never joined the Hunt, then finding Jamal would have been far more difficult and we would have had little opportunity to spend time with him.

That does not mean I am not furious. If this does not work…

“Can you do it?” Rook asks. Can the man hear the desperation in his voice? He does not turn around. “Can you bring him back?”

He finally steps away from the cupboard, carrying a bowl and a candle over to the table. He sets the candle next to Jamal’s right hand and his eyes flick over him as though he is completely unconcerned that there is a body in his cellar.