The Witchstone Amulet

by Mason Thomas

  Release came for both of them at the same time. As Hunter’s cock erupted inside Dax, sending exquisite convulsions through him, Hunter felt sudden pulsating warmth coat the hand around Dax. Their cocks surged in unison. Wave after wave of quaking pleasure. Hunter surrendered to the power of it. It was like nothing he’d experienced before. Each pulsation made every muscle seize in an almost violent onslaught on his body. Dax thrashed under him.

  When it was over, Hunter was light-headed and drained. He removed himself from Dax, whose legs dropped to the mattress like a ragdoll’s. Hunter lowered onto his side next to Dax, his hand drifting from Dax’s still hard cock to cup the tight scrotum. Hunter’s chest was varnished in Dax’s seed. He used two fingers to scrape up some of the creamy fluid from his skin and slid the fingers into his mouth. He closed his eyes to savor the sweet taste of Dax’s ejaculate on his tongue.

  Dax was already asleep. The sound of his gentle snores made Hunter’s heart ache for a reason he couldn’t explain. A part of him still couldn’t believe any of this had happened.

  His breathing and heart rate were returning to normal now, and his cock had started to reduce. He thought about wiping up before he drifted off too, but he didn’t want to peel himself from Dax, and besides, he liked the idea of Dax’s sweat and cum coating his skin. He enveloped Dax in one of his thick arms and snuggled in close. The heady smell of sex filled him with each breath. Spent, he too was asleep in moments.

  When he woke up later, Dax was gone.

  25

  HUNTER SAT on the edge of the bed and rubbed the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand.

  Of course he was gone.

  Dax had gotten what he’d wanted from him and moved on. Hunter had allowed himself to believe that perhaps it had meant there was more between them. But he knew all along exactly what it was—a hookup. Netflix and chill. Hunter chose to ignore the warning signs.

  And he was right about one thing. His heart was going to punish him for a long time.

  With a certainty he couldn’t explain, he knew that Dax had lied to him. He’d already agreed to take up the mission. Because that’s what he did. He followed orders. And this time, Dax didn’t think he’d be coming back.

  Hunter was Dax’s steak dinner before he walked the long mile to his execution.

  His sleep-clogged brain, still fuzzy from the strong liquor, was slow to realize that something other than Dax’s absence had woken him up.

  Noises. Shouting.

  Something was happening.

  He sprang up. Crusty remnants from earlier pinched and tugged the skin of his abdomen as he moved. A bittersweet reminder of what he’d experienced only hours before. He pulled on his tunic and pants. The memory of Dax’s warm body against him lingered on his skin, but he shoved the sensation aside.

  He’d be angry about it later.

  He dashed out into the corridor, barefoot, still tying the drawstring at his waist. The shouts were growing louder. And closer. He headed toward them, rushing back toward the areas of the hideout he knew. The kitchens. The common area. As he drew closer to the sound, he heard the clash of steel.

  He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. A figure stomped toward him. Dressed in a familiar uniform. A guard’s uniform.

  His brain fought to make sense of it. What was a city guardsman doing here? The man had his sword drawn, and Hunter’s blood went cold. The hideout was under attack.

  The guard charged him, sword arm back, preparing a thrust. There was not enough room to swing the sword in the narrow corridor. Muscle memory seized control of Hunter’s body. He twisted, throwing his back against the wall. The sword’s point caught the front of Hunter’s tunic and ripped through it but made no contact with Hunter’s skin. He snatched the guardsman’s wrist and slammed his gauntleted hand against the opposite wall, pinning it. The guardsman squawked in surprise and tried to pull free, but he was no match for Hunter’s strength. Hunter kneed him in the groin. The attacker lost all the air in his lungs in a sudden whoosh and doubled over. Hunter grabbed him by the neck and bashed his head against the wall. Protected by a helm, the head took three impacts before the guardsman fell limp and slumped to the floor.

  Hunter snatched the sword from the man’s loose hand.

  Where to go now was the question. By the sounds around him, the hideout was overrun. He’d been right—the resistance had been betrayed by a mole. Cold consolation considering he’d likely be killed along with the rest of them. Finding the nearest way out was the smart thing to do. But where? The main entrance was being watched, surely. The only other way to the surface that he knew of was the enclosed training yard.

  But people were dying down here. Maybe in their beds.

  Could he just leave?

  Sword in hand, he took off in the direction of the noise.

  He pounded on each door he passed, calling out “attack, attack” and waiting only long enough to hear if anyone responded. Some doors flew opened, and a few resistance members stumbled out into the corridor half-dressed and bleary eyed.

  “Get out, get out,” he shouted at them.

  Another city guardsman barreled around a corner. Hunter sprang and tackled him to the floor before the man could lift his weapon. He wedged his knee to the man’s chest, pressing his full weight on him, then punched his temple until the man was out cold.

  A small group of resistance fighters, swords in hand, rounded the corner. The mess hall cook led the charge. They skidded to halt as Hunter rose to his feet.

  “You!” one of them cried, pointing. “You’re behind this.”

  He lunged for Hunter, but the cook shoved him back into the wall.

  “Dolt!” the cook shouted at him. “That’s a city guard he just took down.”

  The others froze, eyes lowering to take in the body on the floor.

  “Corrad said—”

  “You going to believe what that hood tells you or your own eyes?” The cook didn’t wait for a response, but stepped closer to Hunter, lowering the blade. “Where are they?”

  “Not sure. But the hideout’s overrun. You need to get out.”

  Someone cried out from somewhere, their anguish reverberating against the wall, and the sound cut off abruptly. Hunter’s stomach wanted to empty. The faces of the men hardened into anger and bloodlust as they adjusted their grips on their weapons. They were going to run into the fray, ready to defend the hideout.

  Hunter grabbed the cook by the bicep as he tried to push past him. “It’s too late,” he growled at him. “Warn as many as you can. Fight another day.”

  After several sharp breaths, the cook nodded, and the group dashed off down the other corridor.

  Hunter knew he should heed his own advice and head toward the exit. But someone needed to fend off the attackers to gain time for others to escape. Someone had to draw their attention. Might as well be him. Get to the action. Hold the line. Protect the others. Wasn’t that his role in life?

  He sprinted down other passages toward the cries. More bodies. Brutally slain. Hunter tried to divert his eyes from the carnage, but his bare feet slipped on blood pooled on the stone.

  A man dragged himself across the floor toward Hunter, a long streak of red behind him. Hunter darted to him, but the man collapsed facedown at his feet and went limp. Hunter gently turned him over, but the man’s eyes stared up at nothing. He was dead.

  Rage flashed through him and made his vision blacken. This killing was pointless. The victims didn’t even have weapons to defend themselves.

  Hunter pounded on any door that was closed, but the deeper he went into the tunnels, the more doors were left open. In some of the rooms he saw motionless bodies. Others were empty. The attackers had already swept through these passages, and Hunter was coming up behind them. He could hear the shouts and cries of agony coming from up ahead.

  Maybe he could take them by surprise—put an end to their massacre.

  Then Hunter heard another sound. Closer. Quieter.

  So
bbing.

  A door near him was ajar. The sound came from there. Hunter pushed the door open, allowing the soft yellow light from the sconces in the corridor to reach inside. A figure was hidden in the back, huddled in a ball.

  Uri.

  His face was in his knees and his shoulders quaked as he tried to muffle his cries. Hunter reached into the room, grabbed him under the arm, and hauled him to his feet. Uri called out and thrashed out in sudden terror.

  “It’s me,” Hunter told him as he dragged him behind him. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  “No, no, no,” Uri barked between sobs, and tried to squirm himself free. “Leave me alone.”

  Hunter ignored him.

  Another figure whipped around the corner. Hunter nearly let go of Uri, ready to fight. He stopped short. Zinnuvial.

  “Hunter,” she said. She looked him over, and then Uri. “You are unharmed?”

  Hunter nodded. “I was about to head to the training yard.”

  “Blocked,” Zinnuvial said. “It is how they got in.”

  Someone had to have removed the bar from the gate. It was an inside job. Hunter wondered how many others had thought to exit that way and run right into an awaiting force.

  “Follow me,” she ordered, and took off at a jog. Hunter followed without question, Uri’s wrist still in his grip.

  A shout came from behind. “Halt!”

  A guardsman. With a crossbow. Hunter tackled Uri to the floor, landing on top of him. Hunter heard the bolt whiz overhead and chink against the wall. Chips of stone fell on top of him.

  He jumped up and sprinted for the attacker. Before he could load another bolt, he ripped the crossbow from his grip and tossed it behind him; then he punched the man hard enough to throw him clear off his feet. The guardsman hit the ground and didn’t move.

  Hunter grabbed Uri’s wrist again as the boy tried to regain his feet. He took off again, steps behind Zinnuvial.

  They rushed through the corridors and ducked into another room. A storage closet, filled nearly to capacity with stacked crates. The three of them crammed inside made for a tight squeeze.

  “Zinn, hiding is pointless,” Hunter said. “We need to get out of here.” He had been willing to stay and fight the attackers until more got out—until he found Uri. Now, getting him to safety was his sole priority.

  Zinnuvial lifted a crate from one corner of the closet and handed it over to Hunter. “Stack that over there.”

  What was the point of this? But Hunter obeyed, setting the crate on the other. “How’d they find the hideout?”

  “No one knows.” She climbed up on the crate and reached up toward the ceiling. Her fingers fumbled around in the dark. “Doesn’t matter anymore. It’s done.”

  “So, what now?”

  She punched up at the ceiling with the heel of her hand. Hunter heard a wooden thump and a squeak of a hinge. Pale light spilled down into the small room from a line that appeared in the ceiling. “We go to one of the safe houses.”

  She shoved the trap door open, then hoisted herself up through it. A moment later, her face appeared, and she reached down.

  “Come on,” Hunter told Uri. “You’re next.”

  Uri hesitated, looking anxious. He looked like he might bolt out the door instead. With a whimper and a sound somewhere between a sob and hiccup, he climbed up onto the crate. Hunter gently lifted him by the waist as Zinnuvial grabbed his forearm and heaved him upward.

  Hunter followed. He pulled himself up and rolled onto a wood-planked floor. Zinnuvial slammed the trap door closed again. The room was lined with shelving loaded with wooden crates and sacks. They were in the backroom of a shop.

  “How many of these little secret exits are there?”

  “Hopefully enough,” she said. “We aren’t safe yet, Hunter. Guards are going to be searching for those that reach the streets.”

  A flight of stairs brought them to street level, into a shop of some kind, dark and closed up tight for the night. Faint bluish light filtered through the thick warped glass of the paned window. They were still an hour before dawn.

  Hunter drifted to the window to scope out the street. It seemed empty, so he moved for the door.

  “Don’t be daft, Hunter,” Zinnuvial growled. She was climbing up the thick wooden shelves like a ladder. “We can’t stroll out the front.”

  Once again, she punched up upward at the ceiling and a section popped out. Zinnuvial climbed up into the rafters. Hunter prompted Uri to follow her, then trailed behind. A quick hunched scurry through the attic and through one more hatch overhead, and the three of them were on the roof of the building.

  In the predawn light, Zinnuvial led them at a crouch from rooftop to rooftop. Some flat, some with dizzyingly steep angles. Gusts of morning wind threatened to dislodge Hunter and send him sliding down to plummet to the street. Cresting the peak of a high roof, Hunter risked a look down. Night and shadow still governed the bottom of the human-made caverns between buildings, but Hunter could see figures drifting through the streets with purpose. Too many for this time in the morning. Zinnuvial was right. City guards were hounding down the fleeing rats that escaped to the surface.

  A whistle blew, and the dark shapes sprinted off. They’d spotted someone.

  The pounding of his heart reached his ears. If not for Zinnuvial, that might have been him.

  On the way down the other side, Uri slipped on the dew-covered cedar shingles. He gasped with sudden fear, his eyes wide as his body started to slide. He kicked his feet to stop the descent, but they couldn’t find purchase. Hunter snatched his flailing wrist with one hand and gripped a cast-iron pipe protruding from the roof. Uri jolted to a stop.

  But with the sudden lunge for Uri, he was forced let go of the sword. It slid over the slick shingles with a metallic hiss, down the length of the roof. Hunter locked air into his lungs as he watched it skate toward the edge. If it fell to the street, it’d alert all the guards below to their presence.

  The sword caught on something and spun, slowing it down. It reached a raised lip at the base of the roof, and the blade protruded out over the open air. But the hilt remained on the shingles. It dangled precariously, teetering. The slightest wind might upset the balance and send it tumbling downward to the street. But for now, it remained.

  Uri reached up and clung to Hunter’s arm, panting. He buried his face in Hunter’s sleeve, and Hunter could hear the boy’s quiet sobs.

  “Be careful,” Zinnuvial snapped back at them in a whisper.

  Hunter allowed himself to exhale. “It’s okay,” Hunter whispered to Uri. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Stay close to me.”

  Uri, eyes still buried in his sleeve, nodded.

  The sky was turning a brighter blue, and the morning light reached down to the cobbles. They scurried over a few more rooftops before Zinnuvial dropped down to a balcony and crawled through a window.

  Hunter lowered Uri down first, then followed. He reached his foot through the window and ducked his head under the frame. He felt the presence of others in the room already as he came in. Several others. He lifted his head.

  “Fuck.”

  The first two faces he saw as he straightened his back were Quinnar and Corrad.

  26

  ON INSTINCT, Hunter’s hand dropped to where a sword would have been—only to remember that it was lost on the roof. Inwardly, it amazed him how quickly that response had been now programmed into his brain, how quickly he relied on having a deadly weapon with him. An unsettling reality of this world he was in, and how even in the short time he was here, he was already changing to fit into it.

  Corrad, unsheathing his sword, took a heavy stomp closer.

  Uri shrunk back along the wall to squeeze himself into the corner. Zinnuvial moved to put herself in front of Hunter, her hand at her waist, circling a hilt.

  Hunter gripped Zinnuvial’s forearm at the same time to stop her unsheathing the weapon. Enough bloodshed had already happened—he wasn’t going
to be the cause of more of it. At the same time, Quinnar thrust a palm to Corrad’s chest.

  “Enough,” Quinnar growled through his teeth, giving Corrad a hard glare. “I told you the matter’s done.” His tone had more force and authority than Hunter would have thought possible from him.

  To Hunter’s surprise, Corrad stood against Quinnar’s hand but did not push past it. His eyes narrowed at Hunter, his wide jaw clenched tight. “Not to me. He’s likely the one who betrayed us.”

  “Witless ox,” Quinnar replied. “He’s proven himself more trustworthy than you. And with twice the sense.”

  “Agreed,” Zinnuvial said flatly.

  The sudden and unexpected votes of confidence from both Quinnar and Zinnuvial stunned Hunter a moment. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more.

  Corrad’s cheeks turned crimson in anger, and his nose flared outward. He looked dangerously close to ignoring Quinnar’s hand and lunging for Hunter. But with Zinnuvial and Quinnar between him and Hunter, he had to know it would only end in more humiliation for him. Instead, he spit on the floor.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Hunter said, lifting his eyes. “Give it up.” He knew he was poking the bear, prodding Corrad into a rematch. He didn’t care.

  Quinnar’s hard gaze refused to veer from Corrad’s, as if it was his eyes that somehow held him back. “Leave,” Quinnar told him. The single word was dropped like a sledgehammer striking stone with a firmness and certainty that it would be obeyed.

  Corrad’s eyes widened as he turned to Quinnar, and his expression turned to rage. His fists opened and closed. For a moment, Hunter wondered if Corrad would dare attack Quinnar. But to his amazement, Corrad took a step backward, then stomped away. He shouldered his way through a door and was gone. This wasn’t over. The brute would try to get his revenge at some point.

  Hunter puffed out his cheeks. “That dude is unstable and dangerous.”

  Quinnar, too, seemed to relax once Corrad was gone. “You are not wrong. Made more dangerous by the fact that his power here has diminished.” In the midst of the confrontation, Hunter hadn’t noticed the gash just over his ear at the hairline only beginning to harden over. A swath of crusty brown-red covered his temple and clung in the recesses of his ear. He’d seen some action too. “His support was already declining, but it appears many of his toadies either died or fled during the attack. Seems they were involved here more to stir up trouble than stand for something.”