The stench of silver. Surrounded by a miasma of fear. Seth clenched his jaw, felt his teeth grinding against each other.
“It’s not so bad,” Seth lied. He had to lie. Dex’s expression was of a man driven near to madness. “The cloth helps.” It didn’t. Not a single bit. Silver lightning bit into his arms and legs, pinning him in place with agony. He couldn’t have broken free, couldn’t possibly have twitched. Pain lanced him, gruesome and ancient as a warlock’s incantation. “Hurry it up, though. I don’t think—I don’t think it will get better with time.”
“Right.” Dex swallowed, turning to the tools he’d laid out in precise, even lines: silver knife, metal emesis basin to catch the blood, bandages, and his gun. Loaded again with the silver shot, the barrel peeked at Seth like a lidless, mercil
