They had fought and failed.
There were four bullets in either of Soren's shoulders. Three in Jericho's spine, and it took four guards to drag his unconscious body back into the dungeons of the Council of Wolves three hours ago. They had aimed for Mercer's legs, because they somehow knew that so long as he was standing, they wouldn't survive him. And for Quinlan, they had placed a muzzle made of silver over his head.
Because even if they had emptied as many bullets as they could into his body, he'd just used his fangs to tear out their throats.
They were bound to the ground with chains of silver and ash around their ankles and their wrists.
But they weren't the only ones who had been taken. Two cells over, Kisten and Ryder were in just as terrible shapes, snarling at every guard who passed by. Bastian, though, hadn't moved an inch, staring intently at their mutual silver cages.
