Ethan was frowning. “Hang on.”

“What?” Connor asked.

“The blood thing is going to be a problem.” Ethan turned to me. “How the hell are you going to kill any of the others?”

My brow knit together. “What are you talking about?”

“If you wolves take bites out of each other, won’t you just heal up anytime you swallow?”

I had to work hard not to punch him in the face.

“That’s not how it works,” Monroe said.

I glanced at him, startled, though given his connection to an attempted Guardian revolt, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d already uncovered the secrets of pack healing.

With my hands on my hips, I glared at Ethan. “It’s not just drinking Guardian blood that heals wounds. The blood has to be gifted; otherwise it’s just blood.”

“Gifted?” Ethan stared at me.

Mason had been watching the exchange. He shifted into human form.

“She’s right,” he said. “It can’t be taken. The blood must be offered to invoke its healing power.” The bruises on his face weren’t gone, but they’d faded considerably.

“That’s much, much better.” He smiled, holding his arms out to me. I flung myself into his embrace.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said. “I pretty much thought you were dead.”

“Gifted,” Ethan murmured again, his expression fixed somewhere between puzzlement and wonder.

Nev remained a wolf, standing at Mason’s side protectively, but when I smiled at him, he wagged his tail.

I pointed to the Searchers. “Connor and Ethan, meet Mason and Nev. Monroe is in charge. He’s helped Guardians before.”

Mason’s eyebrows went up.

I shook my head. “Like I said, I’ll explain later. Where are the others?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “They moved us around a lot. Kept separating us, rearranging us. We’ve always been in pairs.”

He paused, swallowing. “They must’ve thought we’d break faster if we had to watch another packmate being taken by a wraith. Nev and I have been in the same room for a while now, but I haven’t been able to keep clear track of the days. I don’t know how long it’s been since I saw any of the others.”

“Do you think they’re still alive?” Monroe asked.

“Yeah.” Mason sighed. “The Keepers don’t have quiet executions. If they killed another wolf for what happened, we’d have been dragged out to watch it.”

He turned sad eyes on me. “Your mom, Calla. I . . . I’m sorry—”

“I know,” I murmured, cutting him off as a lump rose in my throat. “Ansel told me. He foundus.”

“Is he okay?” Mason paled. “What they did to him . . .”

“He’s in rough shape,” I said. “But he’s safe.”

“You said they moved you around,” Monroe interrupted. “Where?”

“There are four cell blocks down here,” Mason said. “Each is set off of the Chamber.”

“What’s the Chamber?” Ethan asked.

“Where violence becomes a spectacle,” Mason said, smiling grimly. “I’ve been writing a song about it in my head. You know, to pass the time. It’s where they killed Naomi.”

Mason took my hand when I cringed. “And where they punished Ansel . . . and Ren.”

When he said Ren’s name, his eyes met mine, full of questions. My blood ran hot, pulse racing with the need to find him.

“We need to check those other blocks,” Monroe said, his voice tinged with the same urgency I felt. “Let’s go.”

Connor checked the last cell in that block, finding it empty. Mason and Nev were the only prisoners here.

“I guess it’s door number five, then,” Connor said, moving to the door at the opposite end of the hall from where we’d entered.

The wolf at Mason’s side, his coat a mixture of copper and steel gray, began to snarl.

“What’s the matter with your guard dog?” Ethan asked.

Monroe threw him a stern look.

“No offense intended,” Ethan added quickly.

“That leads to the Chamber,” Mason said, his hands beginning to shake.

“Is there another way to access the other cell blocks?” Monroe asked.

Mason shook his head.

“Open the door, Connor,” Monroe said.

TWENTY

NO FLUORESCENT CEILING panels hummed in the Chamber. Instead tiny lights bobbed and hiccupped, circling the room, the multitude of oil lanterns signaling us like a somber warning. Bathed in that wavering, dusky yellow, the broad space yawned like a hungry maw. I felt as though a jackhammer was at work against my ribs.

“Did we go through a time portal or something?” Connor asked.

“Either that or this is the site of the world’s most depressing Renaissance festival,” Ethan said, stalking into the room, crossbow at the ready.

As I glanced around the space, I tried to swallow my stomach, which wanted to climb out of my throat. They were right. Unlike the sterile, modern cell blocks, this room had been constructed from flagstones, piled one atop the next, like mounds of slugs, a dark slimy gray that looked perpetually sodden. The dimly lit space was empty save a dais, a gothic mockery of a stage that jutted out from one wall. Words had been carved in the stone facing behind the platform.