40. Phoebe

Our manner-mannered hostage interrupted Sawyers brooding. “Check the glove box Miss, think you’re going to need it.”

I shriek at a set of wolfsbane syringes and dart guns. I dare not even touch them. Feared by all shifters and only used by the worst traitors.

“Kills a mutt but doesn’t half bring a man to his knees too.”

“We're not mutts,” Sawyer growls before he takes the gun and l oads it. There is a moment of tension that seizes our small truck.

“Thank you,” passing the silver goblet into his still-tied hands. “I’ll cut you free when we get who we are looking for.”

“You’ll want the blade in the side door then,” he grunts. Almost annoyed he’s having to prepare us out of his own goods.

Evening beckons the time we arrive. Enchor prison is well outside the town, looking out over the foaming sea, doubling as a lighthouse from its mossy, clifftop location.

We quietly watch the man in the tower preparing the beam. The fast-paced wind resembles the screams of terrified women.

Thi