“We can’t leave the path!” Vasilia sniveled after her, running clumsily to catch up. “We’ll get lost!”
Kali turned, her entire body tense with fury and terror. “If we stay here, we’ll get dead! If Lescoux finds us, what he did to Neesa will seem a kindness. I’m sure that he’s discovered that we’re gone—” She stopped abruptly. She could hear a strange sound coming from some place close by.
“But what if—”
“Shush!” She put a finger to her lips, turning around and peering into the darkness. She walked toward the sound slowly. It got louder, and soon she could make out the sound of a woman crying. “Hello?” Kali called. “Is someone out there?”
“Don’t talk to it! It might be dangerous!”
Suddenly, the clouds shifted and the full moon illuminated the grove where they stood. Kali took another step and nearly tumbled over Sascha, who screamed as if having her limbs torn off.
“Sssh! Sascha! It’s Kali!” She knelt down, shaking the girl gently. “I’m not going to hurt you!”
Sascha went silent, looking into Kali’s face. Slow recognition crept into her eyes, and she collapsed again in another torrent of sobs. Kali looked up, confused and helpless, at Vasilia. Had Lord Marek attacked the poor slave girl as well? Had she escaped?
“Go ahead,” Sascha whimpered. “Turn me in to your perverted master. I deserve it. Perhaps he really will kill me this time…” She trailed off into incoherent blubbering to such an extent that Kali slapped her smartly across the cheek to silence her hysterics.
“Get a hold of yourself, girl!” Kali snapped. “We’re not going to turn you in to Lescoux. We’re trying to avoid that fate ourselves.”
“What?” Sascha asked with a sniffle. “But I thought…”
“We’ve run away,” Vasilia interrupted, sitting down beside her on the ground.
Sascha shook her head. “I’m not running away. I’m trying to get home.”
“Home? To Monkshood?” Kali’s voice was laden with disbelief. “Why would you want to go back there? Marek is...is...”
“A werewolf,” Sascha answered simply, as if she were revealing that the sky was blue. “But he isn’t the evil creature that people might think.”
“But we saw him,” Vasilia began. “He attacked us.”
“No. He attacked Ioin,” Kali answered. “Neesa told me. Ioin is the beast. Marek was merely defending Sascha after Ioin tried to rape her. Just like that poor girl in Kaspar. Only she wasn’t so lucky to have a wolfen lover to defend her.” Kali winked at Sascha, and she blushed.
“Kaspar?” Sascha looked puzzled. “You’ve been in Kaspar?”
“For weeks now.” Kali began to explain the events of the last few weeks to Sascha, beginning with the slaughter of Sera and Neesa and ending with Lescoux’s incitement of the hunting party. “So we ran in all the confusion,” she finished. “I won’t wait for that bastard to do to me what he did to Neesa.”
“And they think Cianan did it?” Sascha asked, an urgent tremble edging her voice.
“They all do,” Vasilia answered. “They were headed up here to kill the wolf.”
“Then it’s all right.” Kali sighed. “From what I saw, Lord Marek is capable of changing at will. He can just stop it. No wolf.”
“Not tonight,” Sascha said. “Tonight is a full moon. The wolf will be uncontrollable.”
Kali snorted. “Perhaps he’ll kill Lescoux.”
“And everyone else!” Sascha exclaimed. “We have to stop them!”
“We? What we?” Kali snarled. “I’m not going near that castle. If the wolf didn’t kill me, Lescoux would.”
“But they’ll kill him, Kali!”
“Better him than me!”
Sascha grabbed the other woman by the shoulders, gripping tightly. “If what you say is true, then all of Kaspar is after him. And for all his strength, he can’t best them all! Do you have any idea what they’ll do? Cut out his heart, take his skin! Tear his body into pieces and burn them! That’s what they do to werewolves! I can’t let that happen! I love him, Kali!” Sascha’s eyes glistened with tears and Kali could see the desperation in them. It was so foreign to her, that look. No one had loved her so deeply, and for a moment, she was jealous. But then her heart, so long cold and unfeeling, went out to the girl. “Please, Kali. Help me, and I promise you’ll be free.”
Chapter 18
Chaos hung heavy in the air as Sascha and the Syban arrived at the broken gates of Monkshood Castle. The air stank of fire and blood. Smoke billowed from the northernmost tower, encasing the entire fortress in an eerie haze. Marauding townspeople were everywhere, running in all directions. Some screamed with fear, others with anger. Torches lay strewn across the gardens, still lit and catching the shrubbery on fire as the wind blew their flames. Everywhere Sascha looked she could see the bodies of men lying motionless and bloody. Bile rose in her throat, but she steeled herself to keep moving forward. She had to find Cianan. She knew he wasn’t a killer. If only she could get to him, she could talk him down. She knew she could. She had to. It would be her only hope of survival.
“Did Lord Marek do all of this?” Vasilia asked fearfully, staring wide-eyed at the corpse-laden ground.
Sascha followed her eyes to the body of a man lying at her feet. His limbs were tossed at grotesquely impossible angles. The man’s eyes were wide, and an expression of abject terror had been frozen upon his features. His skin looked ashen save for the four red streaks across his face and the huge red blossom at the base of his throat. Sascha knelt down, turning the man’s face toward hers to examine him more closely. He looked so familiar, she thought, yet she couldn’t quite place him. Not with all of the gore that obscured his face.
“Do you know him?” Kali demanded, looking around them erratically.
“I’m not sure,” Sascha replied. “Something about him…” She used the edge of her skirt to mop away some of the blood that obscured the man’s face.
“We don’t have time for this,” Vasilia hissed.
Sascha paid her no mind and went about finishing her grisly task. A few times she was nearly sick from the bittersweet odor of the blood and the sight of the man’s collarbone, pearly white, peeking out from the open wound. Slowly, she was able to clear the blood away until the face was recognizable. And then she wished she hadn’t.
“Who is it? Did Marek kill him?” Kali urged.
“Of course he did,” Vasilia said. “Look at him. And that is exactly why we need to get the hell out of here!”
Kali ignored her. “Who is it, Sascha?”
“Thaddeus Longwillow.”
****
Lescoux pulled the dagger from his boot with an audible sigh of exhilaration. It had been far too long since he’d last held this blade. The curved blade and heavily jeweled hilt was like an extension of his arm, the weight barely noticeable. It had been a gift, ironically enough, from Cianan himself. How fitting that he should put him down with it. He remembered the day he’d received it. It was during the Outland Wars and their legion had been staying in the small border town of Khadar. The night before, they’d raided one of the enemy camps, taking the scalps of at least fifty Outland raiders. He’d nearly gotten himself killed that night saving Cianan’s ass. To repay him, Cianan had gifted him with this silver dagger from an old gypsy woman at the marketplace. Lescoux turned the blade over in his hand, tracing the intricate markings with a single fingertip. She told them that the words etched into the blade could calm the werewolf long enough to move in for the kill. Such weapons were common in those Outland border towns where werewolves hunted freely. Most weapons were layered in silver, steel, and gold, but not this one. The purity of the silver was poison to the beast. It would spill his blood quickly, not letting it coagulate, not letting the wound heal up and undermining the cursed eternal life. Ioin was a calculating bastard. There was always a plan. And oh, did he have plans for his old friend.
He looked around the courtyard surrounding the castle. Th
e men of Kaspar ran in terror as they fell over the bodies of ones who had found themselves in the path of the wolf. Yes, he’d done well to bide his time and wait for the full moon. Cianan was digging his own grave and he didn’t even know it. Now that he had mindlessly killed all these innocents, it would be effortless to pin the tavern wench and Neesa on him as well. When he returned to Kaspar with the heart of the werewolf clutched in his fist, he’d be a hero. Marek would be dead and King Sebastian would be all too willing to appoint him Lord Governor. But first things first—to find Cianan’s little whore.
He made his way through the ruins of the garden toward the doors of the castle. A splash of red caught his eye and he started with a gasp, thinking that perhaps Cianan would surprise him. He nearly laughed at himself when he saw the wild red rosebush standing alone amongst the rubble.
Ioin pushed the heavy oaken door open with his shoulder and slipped inside the castle. He peeked around slowly, seeing that the front room appeared to be deserted. Furniture had been overturned along with other signs of a struggle, but otherwise, the place was empty.
“Sascha!” he called out sweetly. “Come out, little one. I’m here to save you.”
Nothing. No noise or movement, save for the shadows cast by the torchlight coming through the windows. Far away he could still hear the cries of his marauders, but they were quieter now. Even injured, Ioin moved through the room stealthily, searching for any signs of life. He took to the stairs, thinking that perhaps the girl had taken shelter in one of the bedchambers. The thought sent a rush of blood to his loins and he grinned toothily. Perhaps there would be time to finish what he’d started before dragging her into the courtyard as bait. To defend the girl so recklessly before had told him that he had marked her as his mate. In the Outlands, they had learned to defeat the werewolves, always kill the females first. The howls of their mates would draw out the males, making them clumsy and reckless. Cianan would smell her blood. He was already weakened, given the scale of destruction he’d seen, and when he came for her, Ioin would be ready.
He turned at the top of the stairs, looking in both directions for any movement. Seeing none, he moved to the first door. He clutched his dagger tighter, feeling needles of pain shoot up his ruined arm. It only served to make him more determined. He tried the knob and found it locked. He smiled his serpentine smile again.
“Sascha! Come out, my dear. I’m sorry I scared you before. You were just such a vision that I couldn’t help myself. But you’re in danger here, child. I can protect you!” He paused, waiting to see if she would open the door. His entreaties were met with silence that made his anger flare. “Open the Goddamned door, wench!” he shouted as he began kicking at it. Finally, a solid blow to the knob broke the hinge and the door swung open. He heard a small sound and whipped around to see nothing. “Come out, little one.” He chuckled. “Your prince has come to save you. Time to live happily ever after…”
“Not so fast, Lescoux.”
Ioin turned to see Anya standing in front of him, Cianan’s sword brandished clumsily. “Put down the dagger.”
Ioin laughed and lowered his arm. Did the old woman really think she could take him on? “Anya. How wonderful to see you again.”
“Leave the horseshit for the stables, Ioin,” she replied with a cold stare. “Put down the dagger.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I’ll gut you like a spring lamb.” She thrust the sword forward in warning and nearly fell over with its weight.
He laughed again, watching the woman struggle to regain her balance. “Gut me? You can barely hold that thing up.” He stepped forward and Anya jerked the sword. Ioin was faster, grabbing the blade with his other hand, uncaring that it sliced into his palm clear to the bone. She gasped as he used the sword to pull her up close. “Why don’t you just die,” he growled against her ear as he plugged the dagger deep into her belly. There was only a gasp and gurgle as she fell limply against him. He smiled, a look of ecstasy clouding his gaze as he smelled the coppery sweetness of the blood on his hands. He laid her down, almost gently, on the floor before kicking Cianan’s sword aside.
“Come out, Marek!” he shouted to no one. “Lest I kill all your women!” He wandered through the doors beside the bed and onto the balcony. He could smell the burning all around him, underlying the scent of death. It was exhilarating and he inhaled the chaotic air, taking it deeply into his lungs. He leaned over the balcony, basking in all that he had created. The townspeople were scattering like a swarm of bees. “Cowards!” he shouted down to them. “Go then! Run away, little lambs! Back to your hovels!” He laughed again, drunk on his own power. He looked down at his hands, stained with Anya’s blood and that idiot tavern keep. If only people would just learn to stay out of his way. Lescoux smiled, admiring the sparkle of the thick, black blood on his fingertips. How it glowed in the moonlight. It was beautiful. He stared up at the moon, full to bursting overhead. Leaning back, he howled in a haze of his own lunacy, then cackled with the absurdity.
After a few moments, his laughter died, and he looked around for any signs of Sascha. The little whore had to be here somewhere. She was like a frightened doe, afraid to run, but more afraid to stay put. He was considering his options as he gazed up at the tower behind him when he heard the low growling. Ioin whipped around, trying to find the source of the noise, but saw nothing. He closed his eyes, telling himself it was his own paranoia making him hear things. The wolf would, of course, be in hiding, waiting for the crowd to disperse.
“It’s no good!” he shouted, more to reassure himself than anything else. “I’m not afraid!”
As if in answer, a roar so loud Lescoux could feel it in his chest cut the heavy air. He shied away, wanting to cover his ears against the noise, but not wanting to show any fear. Turning this way and that, he searched for the wolf. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he focused, it was gone. He took a step back and felt something brush against his back. Whirling around, he brought down the silver blade, slashing into nothingness. Another growl, this one sounding like throaty laughter. It was everywhere, coming from all around and confusing his senses. The beast was toying with him. If he panicked, he was doomed, and Cianan knew that. If he was nothing else, he was most certainly a master of strategy. “Think you can scare me, do you?” Ioin shouted into the stormy wind. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, old friend. I’ve met your kind before. Remember what we used to say? Like killing dogs in the street!”
His words echoed off the stone walls, pounding in his ears. He could feel his heart flutter as he took a deep breath, holding the dagger out in front of him like a holy symbol. Slowly, he stepped around the corner of the balcony. He wanted to run, but he knew he’d never get away. No, the only thing to be done was to stand and fight. He glanced at the carvings on the hilt of the dagger. He’d never used the damn thing before in the way in which it had been intended. He prayed that he could remember the words. The strange tongue of the gypsies did not trip easily from his lips. And he only had one chance to get it right.
“Bhesh!” he chanted, hoping he’d pronounced it correctly. Perhaps it would calm the wolf just long enough.
The attack came so quickly Ioin didn’t have time to raise his precious blade. The wolf leapt at him from behind, coming down from his perch at the corner of the ledge. He felt the bones in his shoulder crushed under the weight of the heavy creature. Giant paws with razor-sharp claws bit into his skin as they dug in. Lescoux screamed in agony, trying to squirm from under the beast as it leaned down, snapping its jaws at the back of his hand. Ioin thrashed and fought, avoiding the teeth by a hair’s breadth. The wolf roared in frustration and shifted back, trying to get a better hold on him. It was enough of a distraction to let Lescoux gain leverage and struggle to his knees. As it attacked again, he rolled sideways, slashing blindly with the dagger and opening a wound in the creature’s side. It howled with pain, but it only served to anger it farther. With a vicious snarl, the beast came at Lesc
oux again, but he dodged, managing to get in another slice of the blade, this time lower at the wolf’s flanks.
“You’ll have to be much faster than that, old friend.” Lescoux chuckled darkly. “But then again, I was always faster.”
Cianan obliged him with another charge. Lescoux raised the dagger, ready to bring it down again, but this time, the wolf was prepared, grabbing his arm with the brutal vise of his teeth. Lescoux shrieked, desperately trying to free himself, but only making the beast hold tighter. It shook its head from side to side, tearing flesh away from bone with animalistic violence. Ioin was able to kick the beast hard enough in the belly to throw it off, but it was too late. There was no hand left to hold the dagger and it fell limply to the side. Lescoux crawled to his knees, cradling the remains of his arm to his chest. He looked around desperately for escape, realizing he’d underestimated his enemy and his plans had been irrevocably foiled. Unfortunately, the wolf was between him and any possible route of escape.
“Cianan,” he whimpered weakly. “We were friends…please…” The wolf snarled, pacing back and forth, staring at him. It was as if he was waiting for something. After a few seconds, he realized what. Pain came on quick and sure. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It seemed to burn from the bite on his wrist clear up his arm and into his neck. Venom. What they had always been warned about during the wars. What his friend had succumbed to. It ran in an acidic river through his veins, setting him on fire from the inside out. He began to convulse, screaming with the agony that seemed to grow in intensity with every passing second. He looked up, losing focus, seeing the wolf’s eyes boring into his. The snarl at its lips looked like a sinister smile. There was intelligence there, and Ioin knew. It wanted him to suffer. To feel his own pain before putting him down like, as he’d said before, a dog in the street. He tried to get to his feet, but kept falling down. His mind struggled against the prison of his body, now nearly paralyzed with the pain. This wasn’t how he’d planned it. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
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