She broke away, uncertainly. “Quinn?”
“Aye, Blair. Quinn. Always Quinn,” I replied, though my answering smile was genuine as I squeezed her arm. “I see ye took it upon yourself to find me.”
Blair snorted indignantly. “You never knew me at all if you thought I would let something like you getting exiled stop me from finding you.” But her eyes were unsure as she drew away, hugging herself.
I took a step forward, closing the distance between us, and pressed my forehead gently against hers. “No promises from here on out,” I said, lips brushing her cheek, “but, assumin’ we make it through this in one piece, ye and I will have us a talk. A real one. Alright?”
“What’s this?” Aeron cried from above, interrupting our brief reunion. “Do the two combatants know each other?!” The crowd howled its disapproval, but the robed man waved them away as if fighting off a horde of bees. “No, citizens! This is even better than we could have hoped! A true team effort. Perhaps they might even stand a chance at defeating the beast,” he added, dubiously.
The howls became cheers once more, and I felt something brush my senses—a faint breath of magic, but wrong somehow. Tainted. Aeron spoke again, and I could see it hanging about him like a faint miasma—a diseased spell he wove over the crowd as he spoke. Like poisonous gas, it drifted into the air, swallowed by the screaming masses “Citizens of the Vale, witness the spear-bearer and the…” Aeron trailed off, eyeing my empty hands and strange clothing for perhaps the first time. “The spear-bearer and the giantess!” he finished, with a flair. “Watch as they take on the Cù-Sìth for your pleasure!”
More thunderous applause.
“Quinn…” Blair said, my name seeming to stick to the roof of her mouth. “Where’s your weapon?”
I patted the impossible duffel bag with one hand. “I have everythin’ I need right here.” She cocked her head, frowning in confusion, but I didn’t elaborate; I wasn’t sure she’d understand even if I did. Instead, I took her by the arm, whispering the plan I’d come up with the moment I’d laid eyes on the duffel—a plan which would either get all of us executed, or secure us a way out of this hellhole once and for all.
“I don’t understand,” Blair said, once I’d finished, “why are they going to let us go?”
“Well, first we’ll have to kill some of ‘em,” I admitted, sheepishly.
Blair took in the restless, bloodthirsty crowd. “How many?”
“However many it takes.”
Blair’s eyes widened, but she nodded. “Alright, I’ll follow your lead.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I teased, jabbing her in the ribs good-naturedly.
She grunted, eyes widening further, and finally grinned. “I’m looking forward to that talk.”
I rolled my eyes, though I felt a blush spreading across my cheeks. “Keep your head in the game, girl, sheesh.”
But it turned out Blair didn’t need me to tell her one way or the other; the crowd had fallen deathly silent, and as one Blair and I turned to find Cathal’s handlers had left the pit.
Which meant, while we’d been discussing our plan, the hound had been freed.
“Shit,” I cursed, a moment before Cathal struck.
Guess there went plan A.
Plan B involved scrambling madly from one side of the pit to the other—largely because doing anything else was sure to get either or both of us killed. Fortunately, Cathal didn’t seem inclined to pick us off one by one. If anything, he seemed to be operating on pure instinct, launching himself at us whenever he saw an opening, but also dancing away the second we darted in his direction. In essence, the mangy bastard was all impulse, his ears flicking about with every scream from above, no doubt struggling to process all the sights and sounds and smells.
“Can ye keep him busy for a few minutes?” I asked Blair, between breaths; even with the bit of food and water I’d consumed before heading to the pit, I was still running insanely low on energy. And playing keep-away with a possessed puppy the size of a freaking pony wasn’t helping.
Blair scoffed. “I can give you maybe thirty seconds.”
“Never could last long,” I muttered under my breath.
“One minute,” Blair snarled, slapping my ass before sprinting towards the hound, jabbing at him with her spear. She was good—maybe not as fluid as Aife had been, or as strong as Tristan—but she knew how to move, relying on her quick reaction time and those fast twitch muscle fibers which lent her body a corded, almost masculine silhouette. I shook my head, reminding myself not to get distracted, and whipped the duffel bag around.
But no, not simply the duffel bag, I amended.
My duffel bag.
Improbably, perhaps miraculously, I’d spotted the black nylon duffel tucked away amongst the remains of inferior weapons—a bag I’d packed and subsequently lost above the island of Neverland during my last visit to Fae. Honestly, I had no idea how it had ended up here, other than the possibility that all discarded things eventually did. It would make sense, given how rundown everything—and everyone—was. But the why hadn’t interested me nearly as much as its contents; I’d already donned the emergency stash of clothes within and made use the First Aid kit, but that was mere icing on the proverbial cake, considering what the bag had been designed to carry.
I hurriedly unzipped the duffel and reached inside, feeling about until I had the stock and barrel of a familiar weapon beneath my hands. I withdrew the subcompact machine gun, cradling the MP5 to my chest like it was a sleeping babe, and rocked slightly from side to side.
“Hush now, I’ve got ye,” I whispered. Then I flipped the gun around, tucked the extended stock into the crook of my shoulder, and leveled the barrel at the crowd. I sighted until I found Aeron’s blue robes, then drew a bead on the man’s face—he was grinning, bloodshot eyes locked on Blair and Cathal’s battle, ignoring me completely. His mistake.
I pulled the trigger.
38
Everyone ducked—as people tend to do whenever live ammunition is fired repeatedly in the air. Aeron, meanwhile, had fallen to his knees, hands clasped over his ears, staring at me as if I’d called down thunder and bolts of lightning. Of course, in the eyes of these primitive people, I may as well have done precisely that. I raised my rifle to my shoulder and turned it on Cathal, who shied away from the boom stick like any dog would, dancing backwards, barking savagely at me.
“Good boy,” I muttered. “Now,” I shouted, ignoring Blair’s stupefied expression for the time being, “ye all have a choice!” I did my best to imitate Aeron’s showmanship as I turned in a slow circle, making sure everyone in attendance could see my resolve. “Either ye let the three of us walk out of here, never to bother ye again. Or…I use this,” I touted my rifle, “to kill every single one of ye where ye stand.”
A tense hush fell over the crowd, so silent I expected to hear crickets. But apparently even crickets knew better than to live in this godsforsaken shithole, because it wasn’t until Aeron rose to his feet, his face a mask of self-assurance, wearing his arrogance like a cloak, that I finally had my answer. “Citizens of the Vale, do not listen to—” he began.
“Wrong answer,” I said, with a sigh. This time, when I fired in his direction, I made sure not to let the barrel rise; the spray of bullets took the Master in the chest and throat. Blood blossomed, barely distinguishable from the man’s scarlet robes, as he toppled. As we watched, he grasped at his injured body, only to fall flat on his face.
Silence. Then one long, ragged scream split the air.
Dozens turned to flee, tripping over themselves and trampling each other to get away from the line of fire. I let them, less than eager to mow down a bunch of civilians, even if they were despicable human beings. “In case I wasn’t clear, I’ll say it again!” I bellowed, swinging the rifle around until I spotted the man known as the Handler—an aged gentleman in rough leathers, his body absolutely smothered in scars and bite marks—among those who remained. “We would like to leave. So tel
l me, old man, what d’ye give me friend?” I asked, jerking my chin towards Cathal.
The Handler shook his head, eyes downcast, and opened his mouth to speak…but he couldn’t, I realized, because the man had no tongue. Indeed, even his teeth were missing, and I knew in that instant that I was looking at another slave. A master of beasts, perhaps, but still a slave. I cursed, swiveling my rifle, looking for my only other target—the only other person I’d seen with any authority.
But I was too late.
“Get her!” The man in blue robes screamed, ducking behind a cluster of bandits. “Kill them all!”
I watched the bandits guarding the perimeter exchange concerned glances, clearly wary of both my rifle and the megaton canine still prowling the edges of the pit. For a moment, I actually thought we might be able to bluff our way out of this mess. Hell, I might not even have to kill anyone else, for once. That is until a wretchedly familiar face fought his way to the fore, glaring down at us, bloody teeth bared.
“You heard him, men!” Rhys roared. “Let’s kill the bitch!”
As one, the bandits turned, their momentary indecision giving way to a shared resolve as they brandished their weapons. I felt something inside me break as I aimed my rifle at Rhys, prepared to end the miserable shit if it was the last thing I did.
Except suddenly there was Blair, thrusting my rifle aside, screaming, “No!”
“What the hell are ye doin’?” I shouted.
She grabbed my shoulder. “He saved me,” Blair insisted, adamantly. “He found me and kept me safe.”
I shrugged her off, but didn’t have time to argue, to tell her the truth about the man she’d just saved. Instead, I grabbed her wrist. “We need to get Cathal!”
“The hound?” Blair spun around to find Cathal still foaming at the mouth, hackles up, looking even more dangerous now that he’d been forced into a corner. “How?!”
It was a good question.
I sighed, looking around for inspiration, but already a few of the bolder bandits were scrambling down the steep slope of the pit, using their blades as climbing tools, while still others had doubled back to enter through the tunnels that I’d used. I shook my head, wishing I’d thought of this sooner. That I’d found something, anything, to bring Cathal to his senses.
But that’s when I noted a certain tongueless man had also entered the arena and was beckoning to me frantically, gesturing meaningfully at the snarling hound. I gritted my teeth and shoved the gun into Blair’s hands. “Take this.” I thrust her hand over the stock, slid her finger over the trigger gingerly, and pointed her in the right direction. “Just make this motion,” I crooked my finger, “and point it at the ones ye want to die.”
Blair looked like she was about to throw up. “Is that all?”
I wished I had about three days to walk her through basic gun etiquette and safety protocols, but we simply didn’t have the time. “It will jump on ye, a lot, at first. Just try to keep it steady, and don’t point it at anyone ye want to stay alive. Try to shoot in quick bursts.” I made the motion with my finger again. “Pull, release. Pull, release. Alright?”
Blair’s chin bobbed.
“Oh, and if ye see Rhys? Kill him,” I insisted.
“But—”
“Blair,” I said, gripping the back of her neck, the gun pressed horizontally between us, “trust me. Kill. Him.” Then, without waiting for a response, I stole a kiss, pressing my lips firmly against hers for one long, juicy moment before ducking down to retrieve the other two lovelies from my duffel bag—a pair of sawed-off shotguns with enough staying power to put down a horse at close range. Or a hound the size of a horse, if it came to that.
Though I was really hoping it wouldn’t.
39
The staccato sound of rifle fire made me want to turn and make sure Blair was alright, but I knew I couldn’t afford to; I was too busy working my way across the pit, warily trailing the Handler as he approached Cathal. The man moved like a bobbing snake, hands splayed and held non-threateningly in front of him, making cooing noises. I mimicked the motions and gestures, my shotguns dangling off my thumbs by their trigger guards, but that was about it; for all I knew my version of baby talk would translate into something extremely counterproductive, like “get ‘em boy,” or “sic balls, Chopper!”
Still, despite our creeping pace, Cathal snapped and lunged wildly, barking so loudly it practically harmonized with the sound of gunfire, his snout bunched to reveal rows of savage teeth. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what the Handler had in mind that could calm the bastard down, but I did know time was running out; if the bandits managed to circle around Blair or she ran out of bullets, we’d be done for. Granted, my shotguns were damn lethal in close quarters, but they definitely weren’t going to be enough to mow down a small army of black-clad bastards.
Before I could dwell on our fate should it come to that, the Handler grabbed me by the arm, drawing me forward until we both stood only a few feet outside the hound’s radius. I cringed, eyes drawn to those slobber-coated lips and Cathal’s startlingly white teeth. Dear Lord, I thought, I hoped the Handler’s plan didn’t involve us getting gnawed on…
But, apparently, it did.
Because the elderly bastard turned to me, raised my arm, and made to bite it.
“Oy!” I hissed.
Cathal growled a warning, hackles rising.
The Handler shook me a little, imploring me to relax with his eyes. I stopped fighting him, easing the tension in my arm, realizing I was being ridiculous. So what if he tried to bite me? The man had no teeth; at best he’d drool all over my arm. Gross, but not exactly lethal. But the Handler didn’t go that route. Instead, he mimed the bite, gesturing from my arm to Cathal. Then again. Fake bite. Me. Cathal.
He…wanted the freaking hound to bite me.
“No fuckin’ way,” I said, adamantly.
He let my arm drop, shrugging as if to say, “this is the only way I can think of.” Somehow, I doubted this was the only way…but maybe the hoary bastard knew something I didn’t. Maybe Cathal’s instability was tied to his bloodlust, somehow? I had no idea. But—while getting chomped on definitely wasn’t my idea of a good time—I owed Cathal. He’d saved me, risked himself for me, so many times, and I couldn’t leave him here to die.
Not if there was some way to save him.
I jerked my chin in a curt nod and shuffled forward, switching my second shotgun awkwardly to my other hand in the process. I held out my arm like an offering, beads of sweat sliding down my brow as I inched closer. The sounds of rifle fire faded as I stared into Cathal’s eyes, willing that spark—his spark—to return. “C’mon, Cathy, I know you’ve thought about it,” I muttered.
And that’s when Cathal pounced, snapping his maw shut over my forearm.
Cathal drew back almost immediately, my blood dripping from the tips of his fangs, shaking his shaggy head back and forth as if I’d slapped him on the nose. I, meanwhile, clutched my wounded arm to my chest, staring down at the neat imprint he’d left behind—the indentations from his teeth quickly filling up with blood. I hissed through my teeth at the pain, but honestly, I was simply glad to still have an arm at all.
“What…” Cathal said, blinking rapidly, nose twitching.
I smiled.
But then a sound—one I’d been dreading since I’d handed Blair the assault rifle—brought me back around as the MP5 clicked empty. I saw a cluster of bandits working their way towards her, murder in their eyes, as she continued to pull the trigger, clearly panicked.
Not good.
“Get out of here!” I shouted at the Handler, only to find him scurrying away as fast as his old feet could carry him. I grunted, spared the bewildered hound a brief glance, and then whirled to race towards Blair, transferring the shotgun back to my other hand in the process, though I found it was all I could do to grip it under the circumstances.
“Down!” I screamed. Blair ducked as I closed the space between us, revealing the cutthr
oats who’d come to claim our lives. I wasn’t sure how many of their number Blair had taken out, but the instant they saw me hoisting the shotgun with my good arm, they froze, eyes wide with fear—and it was this immediate skittishness, this inability to act, which cost them their lives.
I unloaded both barrels. Three of the men tumbled, taken out by the blast. Two others fell, screaming in agony, caught in the blast radius. The others scrambled, fleeing, tripping over themselves in their rush to escape. But not just themselves, I realized as I stared out at the carnage. Bodies littered the floor of the pit. Bandits, but also citizens. So many I wondered how Blair hadn’t run out of bullets sooner. I turned my head to the side and spat, disgusted.
“Blair, it’s time to go,” I insisted, turning to the woman, hoping to return to Cathal and get the hell out of here before we were forced to kill anyone else.
But she wasn’t there.
“Blair isn’t going anywhere with you,” Rhys said, dragging Blair back with one hand latched over her mouth, the other holding his crude knife, the blade nestled in the hollow of her throat.
I switched my remaining shotgun to my uninjured side and pointed it at Rhys’ head, but the man ducked behind Blair, peeking out like a child hiding behind his mother’s skirt. Not that it mattered; I couldn’t risk firing a sawed-off without taking Blair out in the process.
Shotguns were messy like that.
“Let her go, ye rat bastard,” I snarled.
Blair struggled, eyes wide, screaming words into the man’s hand. But he didn’t remove it. Instead, he shook her, viciously. “That’s enough,” he chided. “You two…” Rhys let the words hang in the air as he flicked his eyes from one dead body to the next. “You’ve ruined everything.”
“Oh, sure, because we were the ones who started this,” I replied, rolling my eyes.
“You started this!” Rhys screamed, spit spewing from his lips, his grip on Blair’s mouth tightening so much I could see tears in her eyes. “You!”
Salty Dog Page 20
