Nixon’s POV
"Scrape the wood until the floor bleeds," I snarled, slamming my palm against the doorframe of the cottage.
The wood groaned under my weight. Inside, three sentinels dropped to their knees, their tactical knives already clawing at the dark, wet stains on the floorboards. Glass jars clinked and shattered into heavy canvas sacks. The air tasted of iron and charred hair. My throat burned with every breath.
"What do you want to do with all this garbage?" Christopher asked from right behind my shoulder.
His boots shifted on the dirt path. His jaw muscle ticked, a hard knot under his tanned skin. He was staring at the red fabric bunched in my right fist.
I pulled the white cloth away from my nose. It was heavy, dripping fat lines of dark blood onto my boots. "The witch did not m
