Rrrrrrrip . . .

Almost. One more tug, and everything would be perfect. Kershov just needed to adjust the grip of his teeth, the angle of his head, place his paw just so, and then his latest work of art would be ready for display. This particular piece had taken longer than some of the others the King had created not only because of sheer size, but also due to the new level of complexity he’d interwoven into the piece. As in—literally interwoven. The long-dead body of a doe served as the frame of a beautifully detailed centerpiece: a bouquet of wings stolen from vultures, crows, sparrows, and the occasional unlucky songbird hopping too close to the Pharaoh’s fatal jaws. These feathery appendages—frozen in lovely outstretched poses thanks to rigor mortis, looking as if they’d soar away at breath—flared from the doe’s entire midsection. Feathers peeked between her exposed ribs and filled the empty cavity of her chest; they curled out of her split abdomen like a forest growing up from the dirt; a few tiny scarlet-hued cardinal wings even bloomed from the doe’s mouth, where her unhinged jaw dropped absurdly open in order to make room for the vivid appendages. And keeping these glimmering decorations inside the doe and in their proper place? Why, the corpse’s innards of course, torn from their original binding and stretched taut as the strings of a corset to and fro between the wings.

That’s what required most of Kershov’s focus . . . and what explained the ungodly tearing noise emanating from the dark hollow where the King stored most of his artwork before it was time to show it off.

With a final tug, the pallid poltergeist finished tying off the last loop of intestine that secured a bundle of raven wings bursting from the doe’s fractured pelvis. After a few days in the sun, the lacework of guts would dry out and help hold their cargo even better. Kershov’s lonely obsidian eye roamed over his hard work, wondering how best his project should be displayed. Propped against a tree, perhaps? It might take more than one wolf to drag it to the border . . . he hadn’t required the help of his soldiers to “decorate” recently, but now might be the time to include them on his most recent attempt at stress relief. A third wolf might even make it possible to drag the desecrated carcass up into a tree and hang it from some branches. Wouldn’t that be delightfully terrifying to any filthy intruders!

Humming pleasantly to himself—this was the best mood Kershov had been in for AGES—the ivory warrior slipped away toward the border to stake out a spot. He already had one in mind: somewhere on the northern border, where his artwork was still quite sparse. This was not to say that his pieces heaped themselves all over the other sides of the fence; on the contrary, Kershov made sure to display his decorations sparingly, with only a few successful ones in plain sight. Wolves could grow used to just about anything if it shocked them too often . . . and even the most weak-stomached fool might eventually stop caring about a dismembered animal if he’s seen too many before. Then I’ll ask if Grey Wind or Marx will help me to drag it out . . .

Hmm? The deadly yet alluring perfume of Aerten met Kershov’s nares, causing him to pause mid-stride. The somber red assassin hadn’t lingered in Abendrot much since she came here; Ker often captured her scent only to lose it as she crossed out of the territory, undoubtedly on one mission or another. He decided to follow her trail and at least say hello—his mood was so wonderfully delightful compared to the murderous thirst for destruction torturing him underneath. After a few moments of carefully weaving through Abendrot’s mysteriously shaded hallways, Kershov came to the end of his trusted mercenary’s path. His onyx window noticed the bloody sheila and another unknown girl simultaneously.

Aerten introduced herself so seriously that Kershov had to grin, kingly banner curling up high over his back. That’s my girl. Rather than outwardly praising Aerten for handling the situation as expected of Abendrot elite—which would have surely offended the deadly lass—Kershov merely nodded professionally in her direction, giving silent thanks for her dedication to the pack. Afterward he turned toward the little female waiting outside the fence. He noticed the darkness in her otherwise sweet demeanor instantly—because Kershov housed a great deal of darkness himself, and knew a fellow twisted soul when he saw one.

“After you state your name and purpose as Lady Aerten has asked, be a good dear and submit, would you?”