“Thank you,” I whispered.

My words seemed to enrage it. It lunged for me, grabbed me by the collar of my coat, raised me in the air, and shook me like a rag doll. My teeth clacked together and my bones rattled.

Perhaps the mark wasn’t protecting me after all.

I wasn’t dying here tonight. The itinerary of my mission might have changed, but my goal had not. As I dangled, toes skimming the floor, I let my gaze go unfocused, sought my lake, and summoned my crimson runes. They’d kept the Unseelie Princes at a standoff, and the Fae princes were far more deadly and powerful than this beast.

Other things floated on the surface of my lake, but I ignored them. There would be plenty of time—more time than I wanted, I was sure—in my future to explore all that was concealed beneath those dark, still waters. I cupped my hands, scooped up what I’d come for, and snapped out of it, fast.

The beast was still shaking me. Staring into its narrowed eyes, I realized I might need to revise my earlier assessment that it wasn’t as insane as Barrons had been.

I raised my fists, dripping blood. The ebon-skinned beast shook its horned head and roared.

“Put me down,” I commanded.

It moved so fast that it had my entire hand in its mouth before I could even gasp. The word “down” hadn’t even left my lips when my hand was gone and sharp black fangs were locked around my wrist.

But it didn’t rip my hand off, as I expected. It sucked. Its tongue was wet and warm on my fingers, working delicately between them.

As suddenly as it had swallowed my hand, it dropped it. My fist was empty.

I stared blankly at it. Runes that the most deadly of the Fae feared, this thing ate? Like a succulent appetizer? It licked its lips. Was I the main course? In a blur of motion, my other fist disappeared.

Wet pressure on my skin, the silky precision of a tongue, a scrape of fangs against my wrist and that fist, too, was empty.

It dropped me. I landed unevenly on my feet, bumped into the wreck of the chesterfield, and steadied myself.

Still licking its lips, it began to back away.

When it stopped in a milky pool of moonlight, my eyes narrowed. Something was … wrong. It didn’t look right. In fact, it looked … pained.

I had a terrible thought. What if it was a simpleminded beast and I’d just fed it something deadly and it hadn’t known better than to eat anything it saw that was bloody—like a dog that couldn’t walk away from poisoned hamburger?

I didn’t want to kill another of these creatures! Like Barrons, it had saved me!

I stared at it in horror, hoping it would survive whatever I’d done to it. I’d just wanted to get away from it, to find someplace to regroup and summon my strength to forge on. I had a finite number of weapons at my disposal. I had to make good use of them.

It staggered.

Damn it! When would I learn?

It stumbled and dropped heavily to its haunches with a deep, shuddering groan. Muscles began to twitch beneath its skin. It flung its head back and bayed.

I clamped my hands to my ears but, even muffled, it was deafening. I heard answering cries in the distance, joining in mournful concert.

I hoped they weren’t loping straight for the bookstore to join their dying brother and tear me to pieces. I doubted I could trick them all into eating poison runes.

The beast was on all fours now, tossing its massive head from side to side, clearly in its death throes—jaws wide, lips peeled back, fangs bared.

It bayed and bayed, a cry of such desolation and despair that it drove a spike through my heart.

“I didn’t mean to kill you!” I cried.

Crouching on the floor, it began to change.

Oh, yes, I’d killed it. This was exactly what had happened when I’d killed Barrons.

Apparently dying forced them to transform.

I was transfixed, unable to look away. I would own this sin like I owned all my others. I would wait until he changed and would commit his face to memory so, in the new world I created with the Sinsar Dubh, I could do something special for him.

Perhaps I could save him from becoming what he was. What man breathed inside this beast’s skin? One of the other eight Barrons had brought to the abbey the day he’d broken me out? Would I recognize him from Chester’s?

Its horns melted and began to run down the sides of its face. Its head became grossly misshapen, expanded and contracted, pulsed and shrank before expanding again—as if too much mass was being compacted into too small a form and the beast was resisting. Massive shoulders collapsed inward, straightened, then collapsed again. It gouged deep splinters of wood from the floor as it bowed upon itself, shuddering.

Talons splayed on the floor, became fingers. Haunches lifted, slammed down, and became legs. But they weren’t right. The limbs were contorted, the bones didn’t bend where they were supposed to—rubbery in some places, knobbed in others.

Still it bayed, but the sound was changing. I removed my hands from my ears. The humanity in its howl chilled my blood.

Its misshapen head whipped from side to side. I caught a glimpse through matted hair of wild eyes glittering with moonlight, of black fangs and spittle as it snarled. Then the tangled locks abruptly melted, the sleek black fur began to lighten. It dropped to the floor, spasming.

Suddenly it shot up on all fours, head down. Bones crunched and cracked, settling into a new shape. Shoulders formed—strong, smooth, bunched with muscle. Hands braced wide. One leg stretched back, the other bent as it tensed in a low lunge.

A naked man crouched in the moonlight.