by RS McCoy
The one in the middle, the tallest, the one she guessed was Barsten, replied, “I don’t know. Probably will.” A slick, salacious smile crept across his face. “Might have a go first.”
It was Trean that defended her. “He’ll gut you clean for it. Don’t you remember last time? If we’re taking her to the Milton, no one touches her.”
“Who put it up to you?” asked the red-haired one, and when he stepped forward, Blossom knew her time had come.
Unwilling to go without a fight, she cocked back her elbow and brought it down hard, slamming it straight into Trean’s middle. He doubled over in pain and surprise, clutching at his already-bruised belly before he crashed to the dirt-covered floor.
Then, Blossom ran. With nothing more than the scant light from the clouded windows, she could only hope she was running toward the exit. Behind her, she could hear the scuff of boots in the dirt farther back than she expected.
She might have a chance after all.
Halfway down the row, a square of light shone on the stacked blades. When she looked up, she saw a single, clean pane of glass amidst the dirty ones. It was just clear enough to let in a dim beam of volcanic glow.
Where the light shone on the knife rack, she selected a pair of blades. As Trean had said, they were curved and looked impossibly sharp with a sturdy grip wrapped in leather.
Blossom tested the weight of them in her hands and shoved her bag under the bottom rack. She would have to come back for it later. Right now, she had to defend herself.
In a heartbeat, Blossom scurried under the rack of knives behind her and waited. She listened for the sound of footfalls, but there was only her own racing pulse, her stupid loud breath. The more she tried to quiet her desperate nerves, the louder they seemed. She could hear nothing.
Then she saw a shadow cross the beam of light. No longer in human form, the prowling totem was some sort of cat, smaller than any she’d ever seen. The top of its back didn’t even reach her knee, but it had large ears that swiveled around and sharp teeth that were already bared.
Blossom held her breath, afraid to make the smallest of sounds.
But the cat moved on, skulking down the row, searching for her.
“Blossom? There’s no need to hide. We’re going to take you to the Milton!” Trean shouted from somewhere down the row. “He’s the leader of our security program. He’ll give you a job.” Trean’s voice echoed through the warehouse, bouncing off each metal surface until it sounded like there were ten of him.
Blossom would have liked to believe him, but she was done trusting strangers.
She was going to get out of here.
If only she could figure out how to do it without making a sound.
When two full minutes had passed and she’d neither seen nor heard her attackers, Blossom pulled herself from her hiding spot and took a single step toward the door.
Something crashed above her. Blossom only saw the silhouette of pointed cat ears in the gloom, standing on top of the knife rack not two steps away from her. She lunged back but found her back pressed to the cold metal wall of the warehouse.
She was trapped.
A nauseating smirk occupied the cat’s face, and she knew at once it was the one they called Barsten. His cat ears twitched and rotated as he walked along the top of the knife rack, his paws carefully navigating between each exposed blade.
Blossom turned her wrist to hide her knife behind her hip, though he might have already seen it. Pinned in place, her heart pounded and her mind raced, desperate to think of something, but her time was up.
The cat lunged.
Its claws shimmered as it descended, fangs bared in a toothy smile. Blossom had less than a second to bring up the knife and hold it steady as the cat impaled itself. When the blood-tipped knife emerged from the cat’s spine, she knew she’d done it.
Blossom heaved the cat onto the floor but couldn’t get the knife free, stuck on a bone. She heaved several times, and when she got it loose, a thick, grubby hand grabbed her shoulder.
The curve of her knife made it all too easy to slice across his wrist. When she turned she was chest to chest with the red-haired one, gripping his injured hand and cursing her.
Another arm grabbed her from behind, this time around the waist strong enough to lift her off the ground. Blossom kicked her feet through the air, fruitless but for the single blow she delivered to the injured red-head.
The man hardened his grip around her midsection and slammed her onto the ground. Both knives fell from her grip and skittered off into the darkness, but she couldn’t even tell where through all the commotion.
Blossom scurried off the grimy floor and ran for the nearest rack. If she could get her hands on another blade, she could fight them off. She’d already killed one and injured another. She could do this.
But in her haste she only managed to slam her palm against the exposed edge of a blade, slicing so deep she was sure she hit bone. Blossom could do nothing but squeeze her hand into a fist and grit her teeth against the pain.
With her left hand she felt for a knife—this time with more care—only mildly cutting her finger in two places before she had the leather hilt gripped safely in her palm.
Now properly armed, Blossom turned toward the door and ran. She could hear them behind her—yelling, cursing, stomping—trailing only seconds behind. Every step she took sent a painful throb into her hand, and blood dripped between her fingers squeezed tight, but still she wouldn’t stop. She was a fast runner. She could make the door. She could get outside, into the trees, and lose them.
It would be easy if she could get to the door.
But when she was only fifty steps away, the door burst open from the outside. A huge, hulking figure stood silhouetted against the low orange light of the distant volcanoes. Blossom could see its shoulders, as tall as she was despite how it stood on all fours. Its face was angular, its nose pointing into a snout like a dog or a wolf, maybe, and its body was rigid with solid muscle, poised for attack.
Blossom couldn’t get away fast enough. Her legs tangled beneath her, and she fell on her hip and skidded through the dirt, scrambling her feet to take her the other direction. Fighting three men with weak totems didn’t seem so bad when faced with such a monster.
The creature’s breath blew hot and heavy from its nostrils, and it bared its teeth a moment before it leapt into the air, flying straight over her. Blossom heard its paws land in the dark, some dozen steps behind her.
Too terrified to move or run, she backed against the knife rack and felt a sharp blade pierce her shoulder, but she didn’t move. In the distance, the creature made quick work of one of the men, earning murderous screams within seconds.
Then another.
This was her only chance. The creature hunted the men on the far side of the warehouse. She’d never get a better shot.
Blossom pushed to her feet and sprinted toward the exit. With the door wide open, she could see her way out and knew how far and how long it would take her to reach it.
But she never did.
The monstrous, wolf-like creature intercepted her ten steps from the door.
The Beast
IN THE LIGHT of the doorway, the creature stood with hair raised and lips slickened with blood. Its coat was grey and flecked with black. Beneath it, she could see sculpted muscles rippling with tension, moments from striking.
But it didn’t move.
Blossom steeled herself against an attack, spreading her feet wide and bracing for impact. She held her knife out so she could pierce its belly should it try to attack her from above.
But still, it didn’t move.
Instead, it stood up. Like bear-Hale had done so many times, it pushed onto its back paws and shook the grey hairs from its body, a thick cloud in the dark warehouse.
And when the mass of hair cleared enough for her to see, Blossom gasped.
“You?” she shrieked.
There, amidst the remnants of his totem, with eyes
wide and frantic, stood the Vice Syndicate, holding up his hands as if to defend himself against her. His mouth and bearded chin were smeared in fresh blood, but once he realized, he wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face.
Blossom dropped the knife and ran toward him, throwing her arms around his neck. Never had she been so happy or angry to see anyone.
The Vice Syndicate’s arms squeezed her hard against his chest before she wriggled free.
“Did you follow me here?” She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.
“I followed your scent. I’m sorry it took me so long, I didn’t realize you’d left—” His words came out rapid-fire, so different than his usual, carefully-composed way. It was possible to believe she’d rattled him.
“I was fine. I could have handled it.” She didn’t mention that she’d been scared so bad she might never stop shaking, or that she could still feel the cat’s blood dripping down her arm.
The Vice Syndicate’s lip curled as he tried to bite back his anger. “This doesn’t look fine.” He reached out for her hand, still oozing blood faster than she would have liked, and held it up to the light.
Blossom yanked her arm free from his grasp as she spun away from him. She back-tracked down the row, counting her steps until she arrived at the spot. Then, she leaned under the rack and pulled out the pillowcase of her belongings—a book, a coin, and a pair of boots—all she had to her name.
“I’m not going back,” she told him as she stomped toward the warehouse door. “I’m not your prisoner, and I’m not going to sit and rot in your house until you decide you’re done with me. I’m going home.” Blossom pushed past him and out into the late-night dark of Pyrona, more than a little relieved to be back in the volcanic glow.
“You don’t have to go back,” he called out from the doorway behind her. His boots struck the paved road as he jogged to catch up. “You don’t have to live in my house or marry me or do anything else. I’ll take you home if that’s your wish.”
Blossom stopped short, glaring as she turned to face him.
“It’s not a trick,” he said as he guessed her reservations. “I’d feel much better if I knew you were safe during your journey home. I’ll take you on horseback if you want to avoid the portal. We can go whichever way you like, but please let me deliver you there safely.”
“Why?” It didn’t make any sense. He’d worked so hard to get her to Pyrona and keep her here, and now he was willing to take her home. In her frustration, Blossom squeezed her sliced hand and felt a renewed surge of pain, proof she wasn’t dreaming.
The Vice Syndicate looked her in the eye so intently she struggled not to look away. She could barely hear him as he asked, “Is it so hard to see that I care about you?”
Blossom didn’t know what to say. She stood in the middle of the street in the middle of the night and stared at him, wide-eyed and at a complete loss for words.
“Let me take you to the manor, get you cleaned up. Tomorrow we can make plans to take you back to the Alderwood.”
“You would do that? You’d really take me home?” Blossom didn’t bother hiding her surprise.
Closing what little distance was left between them, he gripped her shoulders in his massive hands. “Given the choice between worrying if you’ve run off and getting killed, or taking you back to your family, I choose the latter.”
Blossom swallowed hard and averted his eyes. She hadn’t realized how serious he was. About her. And now, she’d tried to leave, to go home. That wound was written all across his face. She couldn’t bear to look.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. This is my fault.” With that, he released her shoulders and switched his focus to her hand, so covered with blood she couldn’t see the injury.
He pulled at the sleeve of his shirt until it came loose at the elbow. After a few more fervent rips, he produced a strip of black fabric to tie around her hand, a little too tight for comfort.
“Thank you,” she managed despite the pain.
Without warning, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out the loudest whistle Blossom had ever heard. Standing so close, the sound reverberated through her and rattled her head, but a moment later, a cougar loped toward them from the nearby tree line.
Blossom’s first instinct was to recoil from the cat—to step back so the Vice Syndicate stood between her and this new predator. But before she could react, the cat transitioned mid-stride into the human form of Druma.
“Fetch a transport.”
Druma never slowed. As soon as he was close enough to hear the Vice Syndicate’s instruction, he started back toward the tree line.
“I don’t need a transport. I can walk just fine,” she argued.
In response, the Vice Syndicate leaned down and put a hand under her knees, lifting her into his arms and cupping her body against his chest. “You’re losing too much blood. In a few minutes, you’ll lose consciousness and fall. If you don’t mind, I’d rather get you to the manor where I can patch you up properly. Before you suffer any other injuries on my account.”
“I’m not a child,” she protested, pushing against his shoulder with her uninjured hand. “I don’t need you to carry me around like a sack of grain. Put me down!”
But the more she fought, the tighter he held her.
“You may be difficult and obstinate all you like, but in this case, I will not bend. So kindly stop wriggling.”
Blossom smacked him hard across the jaw, sure that would be enough to get him to release her, but his lips turned up with the beginnings of a smile.
“What’s so funny?” she fumed, furious her plan had backfired.
“I’m not sure you would continue this if you knew how much I liked it.”
Blossom froze. Who would like being hit in the face? It wasn’t as if she were some limp-wristed maiden. Blossom grew up in a bear clan. She knew how to fight.
At a loss, Blossom sat still and bristled while the Vice Syndicate carried her through the city. They remained on the edge of the road, only steps from the tree line, as his long legs marched up the slope.
Blossom felt like a baby bird. Always delicate in everyone else’s eyes. The little sister. The fragile young bride. She hated being so watched over. Why couldn’t anyone leave her be?
When she looked up at him—at the square jaw so close to her face—she noticed blood there for the first time. “You’re bleeding,” she told him, skimming her fingertips alongside the narrow slice spanning the width of his neck.
“It’s nothing. I’ve had much worse.” He didn’t look down as he asked, “Were you very frightened?”
Blossom was tempted to spit at him. What kind of question was that? “Of course I was frightened. I’m not stupid. There were four of them and one of me, and I had no idea where I was, and I couldn’t see anything—”
“I mean, were you frightened of me? Of my totem?”
“Yes,” she answered. She wasn’t a liar and she wasn’t going to be one now, even though she knew her answer was cruel. “I thought you were with them. They said they were going to give me to someone else, so when you showed up, I thought you were him.”
The Vice Syndicate sighed and she could see the way his jaw stiffened. “Who?”
“Um, Milton, I think?”
He nodded as if he expected the name, but he didn’t ask her anything else.
Pressed against his chest, Blossom heard his breaths change from even to ragged as he tired from carrying her up the incline. She, too, was tired, but she could walk well enough. “Will you put me down now?” Surely with his legs growing more tired with each step, he would concede.
“No, I told you. You could fall.” That cocky air of his was gone. He almost sounded worried.
Blossom resigned herself to her fate of being carried up a mountain despite her ability to walk. When she grew sleepy, she leaned her cheek against his shoulder and cupped her injured hand to her chest.
Streets and buildings, restaurants and mountains passed them by, bu
t Blossom could scarcely keep her eyes open. It had to be close to dawn.
“Blossom?” His voice was a whisper above her.
“Hmm?” she asked, refusing to open her eyes.
“Stay with me, Blossom. I see the transport.”
“I’m awake,” she protested, though she felt anything but.
The Vice Syndicate’s motions turned from smooth and calm to frantic and jostling. Desperate shouts erupted all around her, a confusing chaos she couldn’t decipher. She was too tired.
The last thing she remembered was the bright lights.
Druma landed the transport in the middle of the public avenue. Damn, he was slow. Had he taken any longer, Kaide could have walked her home. As it was, the transport would only take them another ten blocks before the turnoff toward the manor.
“Get the kit,” Kaide snapped. He laid Blossom across the bench inside the transport, her body limp and her injured hand still dripping blood where it had soaked through the useless bandage.
Druma appeared and handed him the metal box of medical supplies before returning to the nav controls to get them home. Kaide couldn’t help but note the irony of the situation. Druma or Olin had come to collect him from an outing more times than he could count, plucking him off the streets and using this same kit to hold him together until they could get him home.
Now he was doing same for Blossom, pressing a handful of gauze into her palm and wrapping it firmly to hold it in place. The wound was deep—far deeper than he would have thought at first glance. He could only hope Norsa could work her usual magic.
The transport shot into the sky and hovered over the trees. Druma’s mediocre piloting left him crouching beside Blossom to keep her on the bench, ensuring her head didn’t bounce for the few minutes they were airborne. It wasn’t long before Druma set the transport down with a lurch a few hundred steps from the manor’s front door—as close as he could get with the surrounding trees.
As soon as they were steady on the ground, Kaide lifted her back into his arms. She was so much heavier this way, lifeless and limp. Such a little thing. It nearly killed him to see her that way, she who had so much life and fire.
