Chapter 29 #2
But tonight, in this cell, stripped of everything familiar, the ritual felt different.
The words seemed to resonate against the walls, humming at a frequency just below hearing.
The air warmed—barely, almost imperceptibly, but Duff had spent his life calibrating his senses to detect the faintest signals, and the change was real.
The cold that had been seeping through the floor into his bones receded slightly.
The oppressive weight of the magical dampening eased a fraction, as if something inside him had pushed back against it.
They’re not prayers. They’re protective spells. It’s magic you’re using.
Gregor’s words, delivered with the flat certainty of a man who had recognized something Duff couldn’t see.
Because Gregor had been a Murphy. Gregor had grown up surrounded by dragon magic.
And Gregor had listened to Duff recite those “prayers” and had gone pale because he’d heard them for what they actually were.
Duff opened his eyes and looked at his hands.
The same hands that had strung tripwires and cleaned guns and carried his father’s hunting knife.
Were these the hands of a dragon slayer?
Or were they something else, something his father hadn’t known, or hadn’t wanted to know, or had known and kept secret behind the same wall of certainty that Duff was only now learning to see through?
The question was too big for tonight. He filed it away and focused on what he could control.
They would come for him. The Murphys would want to know why he’d been there in the first place, why he’d followed Fergal, whether anyone in the pack knew where they were, and whether Duff was a threat or merely an inconvenience.
And when they came, Duff would give them exactly what they expected to see—the blunt instrument, the useful idiot, the simpleminded slayer too angry and too stupid to be dangerous.
He’d learned performance from the best. He’d spent years playing the role of the righteous hunter, the sacred warrior, the last of a noble line. How hard could it be to play one more part?
The footsteps came three hours later.
Heavy boots in the corridor, multiple sets, moving with the unhurried confidence of men who owned the building and everyone in it. A key in the lock. The door swung open, and light from the corridor flooded in, harsh enough to make Duff squint.
Two men. Duff recognized both—Kerry, the strategist, sleek and sharp-featured with the kind of smile that never reached his eyes, and Alistair, the commander, built like a wall with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite by someone who didn’t like granite very much.
“Mr. Bás.” Kerry’s voice was pleasant in the way that a snake’s coloring was pleasant—designed to make you forget what was underneath. “We have some questions.”
Duff stayed on the floor, his back against the wall, and looked up at them with an expression he’d calibrated to convey sullen hostility barely masking fear. The look of a cornered animal—dangerous but contained. Exactly what they’d expect from a dragon slayer caught by dragons.
“Fuck off,” he said because that was also what they’d expect.
Kerry’s smile didn’t waver. He pulled a chair from somewhere in the corridor and sat down, crossing one leg over the other with the casualness of a man conducting a job interview rather than an interrogation.
Alistair stayed standing, arms crossed, blocking the door.
Classic good cop, bad cop setup—one talks, one intimidates.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” Kerry said. “Why were you there?”
“Define ‘there.’” Hell if he was going to make this easy for them.
“Where we found King Fergal.”
“You have an interesting definition of ‘finding,’ but we’ll let that slide for now. I have been staying with the Doyle clan for the last few weeks.”
He’d expected this obvious issue to come up, and since he wasn’t sure how much info they had, he’d opted for the truth.
“Why?”
“Keep your enemies closer and all that.”
Kerry quirked an eyebrow. “You had Rhene Hightower captive in Sweden. Why did you let him go?”
“An opportunity presented itself.”
“What opportunity?”
“He’s a wolf. I’m not interested in him or his pack per se, but when he offered me access to not only his mate but the whole Doyle clan, I couldn’t say no.”
“So you were there to…?” Kerry made a vague gesture.
“To do reconnaissance, yes.”
“So why were you following King Fergal?”
Duff shrugged, keeping his posture casual. “I thought it was suspicious he was walking off pack lands, so I wanted to know what he was up to… And maybe see if I could get him alone and kill him.”
“So it was opportunistic. Not planned.”
“I’m a hunter. I take my shots when they come.”
Kerry studied him for several beats, his dark eyes assessing.
Duff held the gaze with the flat hostility of a man too proud to look away and too angry to cooperate.
Inside, his mind was running at full speed, registering every detail.
Kerry’s posture—relaxed but coiled, a man comfortable with violence but preferring manipulation.
Alistair’s positioning—blocking the only exit, weight on his front foot, ready to move.
“Does anyone in the pack know where you went?” Kerry asked.
“No. I left on my own.”
“No one saw you leave?”
“I’m good at not being seen. It’s kind of my thing.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Kerry’s face—condescending, the way you’d smile at a kid that had performed a clumsy magic trick. “And does anyone in the pack know about this location?”
“What location? I was blindfolded and teleported, remember? I have no idea where we are.”