Then the man screamed.

Bishop’s jaws clamped down on his wrist with a sickening crunch.

The pistol clattered into the wet ferns below.

The second man swung the crowbar down toward Bishop’s head.

“No!” I screamed.

I lunged forward, grabbing a heavy, fallen branch from the ground.

I swung it with both hands, striking the second man hard across his knee.

He groaned, his leg buckling beneath him.

His swing missed Bishop, the iron bar sinking harmlessly into the soft mud instead.

Bishop dragged the first man to the ground, thrashing his heavy head back and forth.

The man was crying out in agony, trying to beat the dog off with his free hand.

“Call him off!” the second man yelled, clutching his knee and crawling backward. “Call him off, Vale!”

I froze, the heavy branch still trembling in my hands.

He knew my name.

“Who sent you?” I demanded, taking a step toward him.

“Your mother was a traitor,” the man on the ground gasped, his face pale with pain in the flashlight beam.

I stared at him, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.