Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Demon’s Legacy

  Paddington dropped to his knees. Beck’s body tumbled out of his arms and nearly fell off the bridge, which wouldn’t have been a fitting end for the poor lad. A moment later, Paddington toppled forward and lay still.

  Not that Mitchell was taking any chances. He ejected his pistol’s magazine, emptied the bullet in the chamber, then pulled the silver bullet out of his pocket. He’d made it after his demotion, to remind him of Archi, of what he’d lost and who it had been for. Who it had really served: the werewolf who wouldn’t grant the fallen a real burial; who had won his men’s loyalty out from under him then discarded him.

  Now Mitchell loaded the bullet into the top of the magazine, slapped it back in place, and worked the slide to chamber the round. The motions were mechanical, almost instinct by now, leaving his mind free to watch what he was doing without being part of it.

  He raised his arm, pointed at Paddington’s back, and fired four more times. Just to be sure.

  That done, he holstered the pistol, picked up one of Paddington’s legs and one of Beck’s, and dragged them toward the castle. His back ached before the end, and their heads and arms made grinding and bumping noises against the rough stones, but he didn’t let that ruin the moment. The air was crisp and cold, keeping him clear-headed despite the fatigue. It might even snow soon, just in time for Christmas. That would be nice.

  Mitchell passed through the remnants of the inner portcullis, over bloodied stones in the courtyard, and brought his cargo to the doors of the keep. He only had to knock once before the young Andraste boy yanked the door open and shoved a gun in his face. He didn’t seem to expect that Mitchell would clamp one hand on his wrist and the other around his neck, though. The look of shock was priceless but fleeting, because Mitchell kept moving forward and brought the boy to the ground and twisted the pistol out of his hand.

  Mitchell put the boot in to ensure the boy didn’t develop any funny ideas about getting up. The vampires were quick, but they weren’t fighters and they didn’t have combat muscle like Mitchell.

  The rest of the Andrastes – Adonis, his wife Lilith, and two of the daughters – sat at a long wooden table in the centre of the room, between the crackling fire and a series of figures covered with white sheets.

  “Room for one more?” Mitchell said, dropping Paddington beside the other corpses.