Blood Lands (Savage Lands #5)(57)

My gaze lifted to his in doubt.

“No.” Final. No question. “Don’t fall for it. They will not be any better off if you give yourself over to Istvan. He will kill you after he kills them in front of you.” Giving me no time to respond, Warwick threaded his hand in mine and yanked me to follow.

Covered in blood, wounded, and weak, we slipped into the night and ran straight from Istvan’s evil lab to the seedy world of the Savage Lands.





We cut through the seediest section of the Savage Lands, using the darkness as protection. It wasn’t Istvan I feared hunting us through these parts; it was the trouble walking these streets waiting for an opportunity. I worried Markos would have spies through here. Webs of people working and living among the destitute, relaying any information back to him for a coin.

“This way,” Warwick said quietly, his hand still in mine, leading us down an alley past a butcher shop. One that probably stuffed the sausage with things other than animal meat.

Stopping at a back door, he peered over his shoulder, glancing around before he did a double knock and three taps on the alley door.

“A butcher shop?”

“During the day, it is,” Warwick replied, hinting at something more.

After a few moments, a slot opened up by the peephole, two eyes peering out. “Fuck.” A growly voice snarled on the other side, the view hole slamming shut as quickly as it opened.

Bolts unlocked before a massive bald man wearing a blood-stained apron opened the door.

“Get the fuck in here,” he snapped, waving us in. He peered out the door before he slammed and locked it behind us.

“Te geci.” You bastard. “What the fuck, Warwick. You just show up here?” the guy huffed out in a Polish accent. He wasn’t as tall or as big as Warwick, but he still held his own. His bearded face, heavy frame, and severe attitude made him quite intimidating. By his looks, he wasn’t full fae, but something about him told me he wasn’t full human either. A half-breed like Warwick.

“Good to see you too, Gawel.”

The guy crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at Warwick.

“Where the fuck have you been? I thought you were dead.” He narrowed his gaze at the blue prison uniform Warwick still wore, though it was ripped, worn, and covered in blood.

“Probably should be,” Warwick replied, nodding to me. “Need your help.”

Gawel blinked, his jaw rolling, his gaze going over both of us, taking in our injuries.

“Nothing’s changed, I see.” He huffed. “Come on.” Turning away, he lumbered down a dark hallway full of meat hooks crusted in blood and gore.

I swallowed. “What are we doing here?”

“Told you, Kovacs. I know more than one place that takes in vagabonds and the depraved.” His hand pressed into my back, urging me forward. “Gawel is an asshole, but I’ve known him a long time. I trust him.”

“You?” I peered up at him. “Trust?”

A slight reflex twitched his mouth.

With every step I took, I could feel energy leaking from me. My arm and leg throbbed, my stomach rolling with bile. You’d think my body would be used to being shot by now.

Gawel stepped into a room, flicking on a light. A gasp bubbled in my throat, my legs automatically stepping back, knocking into Warwick.

The room was cold, with white tile walls and floor. A large drain was in the middle, collecting blood that dripped from the tables. Slabs of indescribable meat, bones, intestines, and other animal parts were strewn across butcher tables or hung from hooks. Cleavers, knives, and saws hung from racks spread around the room, while one table held a giant meat grinder. The smell of it caused my stomach to churn.

Gawel turned back, noticing I hesitated at the door. “Don’t worry, girl. I’d gut him first... giving you time to run before I came after you.”

“Gennyla’da.” Shitbag. Warwick huffed with humor, his hands clasping my arms and walking me farther into the room.

I grew up privileged; I never had to see where my food came from, how the meat on my plate had to be slaughtered and diced before it was beautifully presented with sauces and garnish.

“Hop up, girl.” Gawel tapped on the only clean table, nodding at me.

I looked at Warwick.

“Can’t find a doctor, you go to a butcher.” Warwick led me over. Twisting me around, his hands grabbed my hips, and I hissed in pain as he set me on the table. His body was between my legs, his hands brushing dirty strands of hair away from my face. “They know how to dig out bullets, sew up flesh, and marinate the meat.”

“Marinate the meat?”

Gawel let out a short chortle, pulling a flask from his apron and handing it to Warwick. Warwick took a long pull, his eyes watering. “Damn, I always forget you Polish fuckers know how to drink.”

Gawel almost looked as if he might smile. Then it was gone.

“You have to undress,” Gawel ordered, grabbing a pair of pliers and wiping them off with rubbing alcohol. “I need to check out and clean the wounds.”

Warwick’s eyes were heavy on me as he set down the flask, his fingers gliding down to my hips. “Take a deep breath.”

I did as he carefully tugged at my gray pants, crusted with dirt and fluids. Biting my lip, I lifted my hips, the pain in my thigh causing sweat to trail down my temple. He pulled the disgusting prison pants down my legs, dropping them to the floor. His eyes held mine for a moment before stripping off the filthy, blood-soaked top, leaving me in my underwear and sports bra.