If hell had a scoreboard, Guinevere Lunaris was speedrunning the final boss level with zero lives left.
ALPHA COMMAND: Crushing her skeleton.
SILVER: Cooking her blood.
WOLF: Somewhere between electrocution and extinction.
RUNES: Doing gods-knows-what.
The clock on Nicholas Shadowfell's life had run out and the only person in the corridor still arguing with that fact had her teeth in his neck.
He had been dead for eleven minutes. No heartbeat.
Minute twelve arrived with a baseball bat and, outside of a Beta on his knees, every wolf was about to be caught with their pants down.
CRACK.
White light detonated everywhere.
Nicholas's back arched off the stone.
The last cuff rattled like it had just been force-fed a lightning bolt with a full charge up the ass and the surplus was now crackling out as voltage.
Then it stopped all at once.
Silence dropped over the hall.
