The Witchstone Amulet

by Mason Thomas

  There’d been an unexpected warming between them lately, a slow turn in the tide. Besides the embarrassing fact that he’d saved his life more times than Hunter wanted to admit, Dax had stuck up for him, kept him safe… even found a pair of boots for him. None of which he was required to do. Dax could be aggravating as all fuck, but in his own way, he’d accepted him into his very tight circle.

  Did that mean something?

  Hunter swatted aside the thought like a pesky gnat buzzing in his ear. He was being ridiculous. Dax broke it off with Quinnar over what happened. And now kept everyone at arm’s length, and took on crazy dangerous missions solo. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in pursuing the most basic relationships with anyone, let alone something romantic. And even if Dax was attracted in him—which was almost laughable to consider—what did it even matter? Hunter wasn’t planning on sticking around in this insane world for one second longer than he had to. First chance he got, he was snagging it. He just had to stay focused and figure out a way to get his ass home.

  All the same, Hunter couldn’t shake the memory of Dax sitting next to him, their legs touching….

  He grunted and shook his head. What the hell was he doing? Holy fuck, he was an idiot.

  Once, soon after he’d been accepted onto the Lions, he allowed himself to develop a crush on a member of the team. Trevor Hopper, the flyhalf. Everyone on the team called him Bunny. Hunter had confused kindness and acceptance for affection, and convinced himself there was something going on between them. After working continuously for months to gain acceptance among them, he very nearly ruined everything—all because he was jonesing for a tight body and an adorable smile.

  And here he was again, behaving like a horny teenager.

  When would he ever learn?

  His mood had soured, the benefits of the workout gone. He had to shake these ideas out of his head. He needed something to do.

  Fuck, he missed fidgeting with a rugby ball. Missed the soft curve of the leather against his palm. It was the sort of thing that would bring him a sense of normalcy. He wouldn’t even need to throw it around with someone, just hold it or spin it in the air. That would feel like home.

  What would it take to have someone sew one up, he wondered. Someone who worked with leather could do it. The bootmaker—what was her name? Pern something.

  He took to the passageways with a fresh purpose. He’d explore deeper into the tunnels, he thought, hoping to stumble upon the area where the workshops were located. There, he’d find someone who would make him the ball. That would take his mind off Dax and all the other bullshit that was happening around him.

  He set off to explore. The notion of getting lost in this complex network whispered to him in the back of the head, but if he stayed within the corridors that were well traveled and framed in, he’d be fine. He ventured off in the direction he thought was south, but he discovered quickly that bearings in these tunnels were meaningless. Somehow he’d looped back around and stumbled on the common area he’d passed through when he’d first arrived several days ago.

  The room was mostly quiet. A small group was seated around a round table. They leaned in on their elbows, faces close, and spoke in low conspiratorial voices. Someone else was passed out on the floor. No one seemed to notice him as he stepped in farther.

  At the far end, Uri was seated on the floor, back to the wall. He had a pack between his knees and he rummaged through it, taking out belongings one by one and arranging them around him. Corrad was on the far wall across from him. He had a chair leaned back onto two legs, his butt on the edge of the seat and his boots on a barrel top. Hunter recognized the boots. Seeing them on the greasy thug, knowing his own feet touched the inside of them, made his toes itch all over again. Next to him was an equally brutish and ugly thug, elbows on his knees and a permanent scowl on his face. He flipped a coin off his thumb and caught it on his palm.

  Slowly, some became aware of Hunter’s presence and they turned their eyes on him. His skin tingled. There was a thick energy to the room—like he’d walked into the wrong locker room. He’d violated some sanctuary and was clearly unwelcome here. He forced a casual gait as he crossed the room and headed for a different corridor. But something made him slow.

  Corrad and his goonish buddy were glaring down at Uri.

  The two looked bored. Which Hunter knew made them dangerous. For men like these, there was a thin line between boredom and aggression. Corrad had a bowl of nuts in his lap. In an almost hypnotic routine, he cracked open the shell, plucked out the insides, and popped it into his mouth—all while staring down at Uri. As if he was angry at the floor, he’d chuck the shell down and reach for the next nut from the bowl. His friend repeatedly flipped the coin and snatched it from the air.

  Hunter knew he should leave. He’d be a convenient trigger if he pulled their attention somehow. Corrad had been gunning for an altercation since they’d met. Instead, he drifted toward a heavy wooden bookshelf and slipped a leather-covered volume from the shelf. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, flipping through the yellowed pages, pretending to read, but watching from the corner of his eye.

  The book was filled with a delicate but strange handwritten script, unreadable to Hunter. Spoken language was somehow the same here, but the written text was nothing like the alphabet he knew.

  Uri made a sharp little cry. Hunter looked up to see him rubbing the side of his head. Uri glowered at the two men, his mouth in a tight line, before he returned his attention to the leather sack between his legs. Corrad and his friend snickered, exchanging glances.

  “Why aren’t you manning the door, skeg?” Corrad asked.

  “My shift’s over,” Uri grumbled. He kept his chin low, staring down into the sack.

  “Time off?” The man chucked another shelled nut at him. Uri ducked, and it ricocheted off the stone wall. “You got to earn your keep here, skeg. Who said you get time off?”

  “Master Quinnar.” His voice had dropped to barely a whisper.

  Corrad made a face at the mention of Quinnar, and he exchanged a look with the brute next to him. It was clear they didn’t care for him much. “Ask me, you should be chained to that door. Like a dog.”

  Uri hunched his shoulders, shrinking into himself. He started to gather up his belongings and dump them back into the sack. The situation was escalating, and he had the instinct to know it was time to bug out.

  “Will never understand why that kug’ra fucker lets you stay here,” Corrad said. “You’ll never be one of us, skeg.” The goon next to him rewarded Corrad with a grin of four yellow teeth.

  Uri’s cheeks darkened to a purple. He rose to his feet, clutching the pack to his chest.

  Hunter snapped the book shut and set it horizontally on the shelf atop the others.

  Another nut rifled through the air. Uri tried to lift the pack to deflect it, but he was a fraction of a second too slow. The nut struck the edge of his brow, missing his eye by an inch. Uri winced and shut his eyes, clearly in pain, but he didn’t make a sound.

  The goon chuckled and flipped the coin into the air again.

  “If it were up to me,” Corrad said, pulling his legs off the barrel and dropping his chair back onto all four legs, “you’d be on the street where you belong. Beggin’ for scraps.”

  Uri stared back at him, his breathing coming in short bursts.

  Corrad rose. “Nothing to say, skeg?”

  Uri shook his head. He’d waited too long, and the window to escape had closed and nothing was going to derail Corrad from this path.

  “I asked you a question,” Corrad hissed as he reached over and set the bowl of nuts on the barrel. His fingers were twitching. “Seems you need a lesson in how to respond to your betters.”

  It was at the cusp of getting ugly. Hunter had to act. He stepped closer into Corrad’s line of sight.

  “Betters? That’s rich. Coming from you.”

  Corrad’s eyes, dark with malice, shifted toward Hunter and narrowed. Hunter had inter
rupted his sport and he wasn’t happy. The edge of Corrad’s lip curled into a snarl. “You.”

  Hunter kept his gaze locked onto Corrad’s. “Yup. Me.”

  Corrad lifted a thick finger and jabbed the air. “Stay out of our business, outsider. You don’t belong here either.”

  Hunter put himself in between the two thugs and Uri.

  Uri was instantly behind him, grabbing at his sleeve. “No, no, no. They were only playing.” He tried to force a laugh.

  Corrad stared at Hunter with narrow eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a satisfied smirk.

  “Sit your fat ass back down,” Hunter said. “And leave him alone.”

  Corrad chuckled down at his toady as if Hunter was a charming distraction. “You defending this skeg?” The goon took his cue and stood, taking his position at Corrad’s shoulder. Both men were thick and formidable, massive arms flexing at their sides.

  This would not end well for him. But he kept his eyes firmly locked onto them and didn’t respond.

  Uri was tugging on him harder. “It didn’t hurt. Honest.” Hunter could hear the panic in his voice. “It was all in fun.”

  Hunter knew what Uri was afraid of—that he’d be blamed for whatever happened and punished later. He looked over his shoulder at him and tried to give him a reassuring smile. “It’ll be okay. Leave the room. Quickly.”

  Uri didn’t respond right away. He stared back at Hunter with wide, terrified eyes.

  “Go,” Hunter said in a calm and quiet voice. Uri let go of his sleeve and scurried away.

  Hunter was aware the room had fallen into a prestorm hush. The group huddled around the table stood. Hunter understood what was happening. It was the catalyst they’d all wanted from the beginning. He was an outsider, untrusted, his presence here dubious. And their tribal thinking dictated that a threat against one was a threat to all. If this turned physical, it would quickly spiral into him against everyone else.

  “He’s done nothing to deserve this,” Hunter said in a low and calm voice.

  “His presence offends me.”

  “Get over it,” Hunter replied.

  Corrad took a step forward. “You tellin’ me what to do, outsider?”

  “Leave him alone, and we don’t have a problem.”

  “Oh, you see, we already have a problem, outsider. You put your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  The second man started to make a move, but Corrad, the clear alpha of the two, held out his arm and put him to an immediate halt. His face fell, looking like a child’s denied an opportunity to impress his father.

  Corrad stomped closer like a bull squaring off against a threat. A move meant to intimidate, but Hunter held himself perfectly still. He wasn’t going to let him see anything that might be interpreted as fear.

  In the back of his mind, he knew what to expect. He’d been in brawls and could handle himself well enough. But this ogre had trained his whole life for combat. Plus, the man was likely armed with a sharp and pointy object that could do him real damage.

  There was only one possible way this could end.

  He came at Hunter with a sudden lurch and an angry shout. His fist circled around toward Hunter’s head—all power and no grace.

  Years of rugby had given Hunter quick reflexes. He twisted, putting himself out the path of the swing. Instinct told him another swing would follow immediately, and he readied himself. The other fist came up at him in a hard jab toward his abdomen. Hunter used his forearm to guide it to the side, then thrust his own fist straight out.

  Pain exploded in his hand and shockwaves reverberated up his arms as his fist connected with the hard side of Corrad’s head. It was a lucky hit, and Hunter knew it. Corrad expected an easy takedown and left himself open. It wouldn’t happen again.

  The punch hit hard bone and probably did more damage to Hunter’s hand than to the skull. Corrad staggered a moment, looking a little rattled and surprised. The side of his head was red, but the impact hadn’t broken the skin. He shook it off and turned his attention back toward Hunter.

  His eyes flared with rage.

  He reached down and extracted something from his belt. Dim lamplight glinted off the metal blade.

  Four days of training with a longsword hadn’t prepared him for a knife fight. Especially when Hunter was unarmed. He was going to be gutted like a trout. So he did the one thing he could do. He charged.

  As Corrad lifted the weapon, Hunter kicked off and flung up his forearms. His only prayer was to knock the weapon out of Corrad’s hand before he had a chance to use it. He barreled into Corrad, sending him backward into the tapestry-covered wall. It was solid stone behind it, and Corrad felt it. He grunted as his back slammed against it, air exploding from his lungs. He was stunned a moment. Hunter tried to grapple for the wrist that held the dagger, hoping to pin it to the wall, but Corrad evaded the grasp. Corrad, recovering quickly, shoved Hunter back and lunged, the dagger raised.

  His rugby reflexes served him yet again. He knew how to move his big body quickly.

  He rotated his trunk, throwing one shoulder back, and the blade just missed his collarbone. Corrad came at him again with a thrust straight for the gut. Hunter swept his forearm out and guided the arm to the side. Some of Zinnuvial’s training had sunk in.

  But Corrad was fast too. Hunter saw his left fist as a blur at the edge of his vision just before it clouted him in the temple. Lights flashed behind his eyes, and the room tilted. Hunter knew Corrad would take advantage of him being stunned. A blade strike was next. Desperate, he jabbed out with his elbow and struck something hard. Corrad’s jaw.

  A sharp groan burst from deep in his throat and he staggered backward.

  With the room still spinning, Hunter bounded forward, shouldering him in the midsection, and he tackled him to the floor.

  The two collapsed with a hard crash as a wood chair shattered beneath them. A shard jabbed into Hunter, and white pain exploded in his side. Corrad moaned and twisted with most of the destroyed chair under him. He flung his arm, attempting to stab Hunter’s back, but his arm was partially pinned under Hunter. So he punched with his free hand, and the fist grazed the side of Hunter’s head. More stars swam around his vision. He tried to push him off and roll away, but Corrad gripped him by the throat and shoved Hunter to the floor. Corrad was strong. And in his dazed state, Hunter was no match for him. Corrad sprang up and dropped a knee onto Hunter’s sternum.

  Hunter looked up, his vision a swirling confusion. Corrad glared down at him with wild rage in his eyes and a satisfied smirk on his lips. His rancid breath blasted hot into Hunter’s face. With one hand still on Hunter’s throat, Corrad lifted the dagger high, ready to plunge it into his chest.

  Before he could thrust the weapon downward, another knife materialized at his throat. Dax’s face came into view over the Corrad’s shoulder.

  “Drop it,” Dax said.

  Corrad hesitated.

  “Drop it or I will slice your throat.”

  “You sidin’ with him?” the man hissed through his teeth. Scowling, he pulled his neck back away from the sharp edge.

  “Put it down.”

  Corrad complied by tossing the dagger across the room. It hit the wall and tolled like a broken bell. Dax relieved the pressure against his neck and pulled the blade away. He stood and allowed Corrad to do the same. Glowering down at Hunter, the ox rose to his feet.

  “Take a walk,” Dax told him. “Outside.”

  “Fuck off,” the man said. “I belong here, not this—”

  Dax stepped closer. “Walk.” His voice was low and dangerous.

  Hunter made a slow climb to his feet. Each heartbeat felt like a detonation, again and again, pounding with staggering and worrisome force. His entire side was in pain. He laid his palm against it, then looked at it. The palm was dry. No blood. The wood piece hadn’t skewered him at least, but he’d have a magnificent bruise there tomorrow to show for this fight. Once again, he’d come within a hair’s breadth of losi
ng his life. It certainly settled the question of whether he should carry a weapon around. He was going to find one as soon as possible.

  Was this the fourth time Dax had saved his life? Or the fifth? He was losing count. It was embarrassing.

  Corrad spit onto the floor. “This isn’t over.” A dark stain splattered on the gray wood of the plank floor. One of Hunter’s blows had done some actual damage.

  Dax looked to be half his size. Yet something about his stance made him seem the bigger threat. “It is. I just ended it.”

  To Hunter’s surprise, the man complied and stomped off. His henchman looked a bit confused as to what to do but ended up following in his wake.

  So much for making more friends today.

  Dax wouldn’t look at Hunter. “Follow me.”

  HUNTER FOLLOWED Dax into an unoccupied storeroom. Shelves with crates lined the walls, leaving enough space in the center for Hunter and Dax to stand and face each other. The room was dark, but enough light pushed in through the open doorway to illuminate Dax’s face. His lips, pressed into a tight line, had disappeared. With hands on his hips, Dax looked at the ceiling. He still wouldn’t look at Hunter.

  He took several full breaths and spoke in a low growl. “What part of keep low was unclear?” He was furious and fighting to maintain control.

  Hunter could sympathize. Adrenaline from the fight was still pumping through his system. His hands shook, and his heart pummeled against his rib cage. He didn’t trust himself to not shout back at him, so he forced himself to stay quiet.

  A hard, ugly silence filled the space between them.

  “You have no idea the harm this will cause,” Dax finally said.

  “I don’t care,” Hunter answered.

  Dax’s eyes shot up to meet his for the first time. “Use your head. This threatens everything. Corrad has influence.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “An asshole with a devoted following. He could undermine what we are trying to achieve.”