The glass sphere shattered against the stone floor.
It didn't just break; it detonated. A cloud of glittering, corrosive grey dust exploded outward, engulfing the massive form of the White Wolf. The acrid smell of burning chemicals filled the Great Hall instantly. It was the scent of death—concentrated silver nitrate, a substance designed to liquefy the insides of any shifter foolish enough to touch it.
"PHOEBE!"
Perry's scream was not human. It was the sound of a soul being ripped in half. The sound tore through his throat, raw and bloody, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg, ignoring the Davorian soldiers who watched in stunned silence.
He had just found her. He had just gotten her back. The universe could not be this cruel. It could not give him a miracle only to snatch it away in a cloud of poison.
