by Alexa Egan
“You won’t let me fall, Gray. I’ll not let you drown.”
He smiled as his fingers found the bud between her legs and she jolted and arched against him. He strained against his breeches, wanted her straddling him, wanted her riding him. She fumbled with the buttons on his breeches.
The first gunshot broke them apart, breathing as heavily as sprinters. The second brought them lunging to their feet. But it was the wolves erupting from the treeline that had Gray stuffing his shirttails in as he headed for the stairs. “Fuck all, they’ve found us!”
* * *
Blood leaking from her shoulder, Lady Estelle stood over the dead man, following the stealthy movements of the enormous black panther stalking her. On the ground in front of her, the severed head of the young enforcer Kelan stared up at her with sightless eyes. No way to tell what other information besides Gray’s location he might have given up before he was slaughtered.
“Run, Jamie. Get out of here now,” she hissed as the young half-breed crouched behind her, his face pale but set. His body shuddered as the power overtook him.
Meeryn stood at the edge of the garden wall. She didn’t need to touch the enforcer’s mind to discover clan or signum. The panther’s savaged right ear was identifier enough. Leave them alone, Wesh, she pathed.
The panther froze, swinging his catty green gaze her direction. Lips drew back from long white fangs, claws extended in anticipation of a fresh kill. Meeryn stepped from the shadows, sensing the shapechanger’s shock and dismay as his gaze traveled the length and breadth of her aspect. She stretched wide her mouth, allowing a glimpse of her own gleaming teeth, flicked the tip of her orange and black striped tail in pensive deliberation. A deep threatening growl rumbled up her throat. Leave them and leave Marnwood, the tiger warned. And I might let you live.
You might assume a fearsome aspect, woman, Wesh sneered. You’re still a pampered kitten where it counts.
With the enforcer’s attention on Meeryn, Lady Estelle dashed for the dubious safety of the house. Of Jamie, Meeryn saw no sign, but for the fleeting brown tail of a lynx disappearing into the shrubs. Where were the others? She’d not seen Gray since the chaos of the Ossine’s arrival. He’d charged down the stairs ahead of her, his shouts lost amid the pounding of her heart and the roaring in her ears. She’d chosen to face the threat rather than hide praying on her knees behind a locked door. A threat that sized her up from ten feet away, his long muscular body a ripple of black, ears pressed close to his head, eyes alive with hate.
You’ve not the guts to kill me, you treacherous cunt. I’ll rip your throat out then I’ll fuck your dead body, beast and man, he snarled.
Nice language. Do you eat with that—
He sprang, a move designed to throw her back on her hind legs and on the defensive. Caught off guard, she might have retreated, but prepared for such a move, she beat him off, her enormous paws enough to swat the smaller panther away. He skidded over the ground on his side with a screech of defiance.
Care to try again? she growled, uncertainty hiding behind bold-faced bravado.
Wesh came at her again, sizing her up before launching himself at her, claws reaching to rake her throat, her chest, her ribs. She knocked his blows aside, her massive size giving her an advantage when skill failed her. She might wear the temporary skin of a tiger, but the enforcer bore the true soul and the fighting ability of the panther. He drove under her guard, lunging for her throat. She scrambled to counter his attack, but only managed to deflect his blow, not avoid it. His teeth sank into her skin, his claws raking her side. She screamed her rage and her pain, as she shook him off, but circling, she knew she had only so much time before he wore her down and the advantage fell his way. He drove again, but this time she connected with a bone-crushing blow of her own, her fangs crushing down on his skull.
He struggled, but her hold was too strong. She felt him thrash as she clamped down, felt his body jerk and spasm as he sought to escape. A slamming blow dropped her to her haunches, but she refused to loose her hold. Instead she tightened her grip, feeling blood slide down her throat, the iron tang of it dancing hot and greasy on her tongue.
The panther growled and twisted, but even these movements grew less violent, death throes as his skull splintered and cracked under the monumental pressure of her tiger jaws.
Pain sizzled up her leg and into her spine. She screamed and let go, whipping around to face this new foe. The pistol’s muzzle was a black hole staring her right between the eyes. She heard the roar of the gun, saw the blinding, singeing flash, and the dark dragged her under.
* * *
It missed her. For the love of the Mother, please let it have missed her. Throwing his rifle away, Gray ran toward the hot whirl of light and wind as tiger gave way to woman. Meeryn’s skin shone white as marble against the pool of spreading scarlet beneath her. Her honey-blonde hair spilled around her, matted and sticky.
One enforcer lay half beneath her, his naked body shredded, his head a pulpy unrecognizable mess. The second lay sprawled beside her, a hole blown through his back where Gray’s shot had torn into him, his spent pistol a few feet away from his outstretched hand.
“Meeryn, forgive me,” Gray whispered, his breath trapped in his lungs.
Time’s run out, my treasonous friend.
The hair at the back of Gray’s neck prickled and his skin crawled. He drew a knife from his waist as he swung slowly around.
There were four of them. Great shaggy wolves of the Viyachne, eyes narrowed in vicious savagery. They closed around him, mouths pulled back in grimaces of triumph. One stepped forward, eyes alight with a dark fire. The Arch Ossine will reward us well for this day’s work.
The words slithered like ice over Gray’s fevered brain. “I’m not dead yet,” he spat.
The wolf lunged at the same moment Gray flung his knife. The blade buried itself in the animal’s gut. It dropped, writhing in agony. One down . . . three to go.
He fought to reach his feet, body braced for their attack when an enormous shadow blotted out the sun and a bear tore into the pack of hunters, tossing animals aside like tavern spillikins.
Go, de Coursy. Lucan’s path scraped the inside of Gray’s head with a voice hard as nails.
“To hell with that. I can’t leave Meeryn,” he countered.
It is too late for her. Save yourself.
Gray wanted to throw up, to scream. His eyes burned. His face was tight and hot with rage and anguish. He looked to the house. None moved behind the windows. No shouts of alarm or cries for help. No way to know if anyone yet lived. Estelle, Delia, Jamie . . . they might all be dead. Would he have to face Estelle’s new husband and offer his condolences? Would he have to send word to Jamie’s grieving parents that the son he’d saved he’d then killed? How many would die because of him?
No more if he could help it. He’d too much blood on his hands, too much weight upon his conscience. Sir Dromon was the key. There would be no concessions, no conversations, no peace until the man was dead. That would be Gray’s final legacy. He might not offer the Imnada a peace. But he could offer those who survived a chance for peace.
And he would be the bait to lure the snake.
Lips curled in a tight hysterical smile, Gray scrambled in search of a weapon to replace the lost knife. Yanked at the dead enforcer’s sword that was trapped beneath him. His movements caught the attention of an enormous black wolf, its muzzle tipped in white. Blood dripped from its jaws and spattered its thick fur. It approached slowly, warily, cutting Gray clear of Lucan’s protection, stalking him toward the garden wall where he would have nowhere to run.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” Gray slid a hand along the edge of the sword.
Your death or ours, Fey lover, the wolf growled deep in its throat.
“These people are not your enemies.”
But you are, fucking whoreson bastard.
An explosion sounded from the house. He lost his sword as a slashing burn spun Gr
ay to the ground just as the wolf lunged. Who the hell was firing at him? Had he miscounted? Was there another enforcer on the loose? Shit all!
He threw up his throbbing bloody arm in the last moment before the animal fell on him, driving him into the ground. Branches snapped under the crush of weight, jagged broken pieces of dead wood scraping along his ribs and digging into his shoulders. The wolf snarled and struck, teeth inches from Gray’s throat. A claw raked his chest. Another slashed at his stomach.
The beast within him bore up under the onslaught. The cool killer instinct of the predator focused his mind and controlled his muscles. For every move the wolf made, he was there ahead of him. For every slice of his claws or close of his jaws on Gray’s body, he was able to grapple himself free. Lungs filled and emptied, blood pushed through his arteries and veins, his movements as natural and effortless as a heartbeat. But neither his otherworldly strength nor his battle-hardened body would sustain him for much longer.
Gray reached for the sword, his fingers just grazing the pommel before it was knocked from his grasp. Instead his hand fell on a short splintered branch, which he gripped in a tight shaking fist. The wolf evaded his weakening grip and sank his teeth into Gray’s forearm. He screamed and with strength born now of desperation, he drove the branch up into the wolf’s belly.
The animal yelped, blood spilling hot over Gray’s face and chest. He drove it in deeper, turning the makeshift weapon, forcing the animal off him. It collapsed in a chaos of death throes, Gray barely dodging the maddened animal’s final spasms.
Muscles shaking and stomach churning, he sucked in gasping lungfuls of air, afraid to return from the cold empty place where he felt nothing and cared for no one. Where anguish fled and sorrow was a memory. Blood leaked from a half dozen wounds, but he was unaware of any sensation even close to pain. Tears burned his eyes and his throat closed around a tight knot.
As the hot charring wind of shifter magic engulfed the dead wolf, Gray rose stumbling to his feet. He was back at Deepings on the day when his world had been stripped from him in fire and agony. Once again searching for a face he both desired and feared to find.
Lucan stood at the portico steps. He wore the shape of a man, nude, blood-soaked, but whole. Two men lay dead upon the gravel; one almost ripped in half, the second pulsing blood from a gaping wound in his side.
Delia was at the front door, a musket in her arms.
Then his eye fell upon Estelle laying a blanket over the naked body of a woman.
“Don’t,” he croaked, his voice hoarse and cracking as he stumbled, half ran toward them. “Don’t . . . please . . . don’t cover her up,” he begged.
He collapsed onto his knees, hands and fingernails caked, chest heaving. His fingers shook as he took the blanket from her. Pushed the heavy fall of hair from her face.
“She’s not dead, Gray.”
He blinked at her, not understanding her words around the pounding in his chest,
“She’s alive. Some ugly bruises and the blade caught her in the leg, but the bullet missed her. A crease on her cheek that might leave a nasty scar but otherwise she’s fine.”
He shook his head, his hands shaking. His body twitching with nerves shattered and unglued.
“Look for yourself,” she said gently.
He bent close enough he felt the soft sough of her breath against his cheek, the warmth of her skin under his caress. “Meeryn, bereth n’hai. My heart,” he said, kissing her. “I’ll not let you fall.”
A smile curved the very edge of her mouth. “I’ll not let you drown,” she whispered.
His eyes stung as he blinked back tears. His shoulders shook with the sobs that ached up his chest and into his throat. And for the first in a very long time, he wept.
13
He sat on the edge of his bed, his krythos lying in the flat of his scarred palm. He’d not used the far-sending disk since before his exile, not even drawn it from his pocket in over a year, but he’d carried it always, unable to smash this last connection to his race. The smoky obsidian of the glass caught and refracted the light from his candle. The power locked within the krythos tingled up his arm into his brain. It would do as he asked . . . if he dared use it. Sir Dromon might sense his amplifying draw upon the disk to increase the reach of his pathing. If he were paying attention, the Arch Ossine would feel it like the plucking of one thread among a web of such. He might even follow the tentative vibrations to their source and know what Gray planned.
That was all to the better.
Gray loosed the fetters on his mind, his thoughts unfurling with the strength and speed of a stooping hawk. The world dropped away as he sought out those who would answer his call. They might question him but they would do as he asked, knowing it might be their last chance.
Mac’s Irish lilt was gruff and gravel-coated with sleep. I’ve sent Bianca away to safety. She understands what’s coming and is prepared.
Are you? Gray asked, thinking of Mac’s child. Declan was barely a month old; should Dromon win this war, the boy would be lucky to survive the purge of half-breeds that would follow. There would be no mercy shown. No pity offered. Dromon’s version of safety for the Imnada would wreak a trail of death and destruction as vast as the Fealla Mhòr itself.
Mac’s thoughts were as grim as his words. It’s a fight we’ve been preparing for since the Fey-blood cast his black magic.
And if it fails?
Then we meet our end in battle, as soldiers should. I prefer that over an illness that takes me slowly until I can’t leave my bed.
David responded with his usual brand of irritating sarcasm. So Dromon hasn’t used your guts for garters yet? Guess I owe Mac fifty quid.
You can refuse if you choose, David. I’d not hold it against you. Callista’s magic and your courage have won you your freedom from the curse. What I ask is more than a risk.
And leave the two of you to face Dromon and his hordes alone? Not on your life. Do you know how many hours I’ve spent imagining his messy and painful demise? I want to be there to shove a sword up the bastard’s ass, blow a hole through his prissy face, and dance on his dead body.
Gray could almost see the steely gray of David’s wicked eyes light with murderous glee. St. Leger could try the patience of a saint and play the scoundrel better than anyone, but a wolf’s heart beat beneath his polished exterior and a wolf’s strength would be needed if they had any hope of victory.
Messages delivered, Gray fell back into himself with a lurching drop as if he’d taken to the skies without wings. His stomach rose into his chest, his throat closed on a rush of breath, and the power of the krythos sizzled in his head like a burst of cannon fire.
He opened his palm to find that a jagged crack like a lightning strike had sliced the face of the far-sending disk; its dark surface roiled with a storm cloud’s dying ferocity. Blood welled from a cut on his hand where the serrated edge of the disk had cut into the flesh beneath his lifeline. A voice seemed to echo from within his head; a last cynical comment from David or had someone else usurped the dying power of his broken krythos to speak to him?
It’s in the blood.
* * *
She woke during the night, feeling the presence of another in the room with her. A black shape against the dim shadows. He leaned back in a chair, neck tilted at an awkward angle against a pillow shoved behind his head. His arms were folded over his chest, and his long legs stretched in front of him. She smiled, wincing only slightly at the pain in her cheek. “Is that as uncomfortable as it looks?”
“Worse.”
“I don’t need watching over as if I’m on my deathbed. That is, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.” She rolled over, hissing as she shifted the weight onto her leg. The stab wound had been deep but clean. It was the silver the blade had been dipped in that posed the greatest risk. She’d seen the ugly purple streaks creeping outward from the stitched edges. She’d felt the sickness as the silver’s venom slid through her bloodstr
eam. “Mostly fine.”
“I know I needn’t watch over you. I wanted to. It makes me feel less useless.”
“I can’t imagine anyone considering you useless.”
“You didn’t see me . . . you were unconscious when . . .” He opened his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Take my word on it—I was exceedingly useless for a long time.”
Actually, Lady Estelle had recounted everything to Meeryn in amazed detail. And even now, as she leaned for the tinderbox to light a candle, she could see the reddened puffy eyes and granite set to his face as if he battled still to recapture his lost stoicism.
A fluttery excitement took the place of the unsettled nausea in her stomach, and she wanted to smile despite the cut on her face, despite the fear and worry weighting her limbs, despite the dark memories lingering close around her like wraiths. Gray scattered these emotions like a bracing wind. The solidity of his presence chased the worst of her nightmares away. The memory of his words slid like honey along her weary consciousness. “Did you really speak to me in the tongue of the ancients?”
He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You noticed that?”
“I did, so there’ll be no backtracking now.”
“Can I attribute my babbling to overwrought emotions brought on by the chaos of battle?”
“If that’s the explanation that helps you sleep at night,” she replied, unable to completely mask the smugness in her voice. The flutters expanded into her chest and down into her toes.
He looked grimly to the dark window and then down at the basket of medical supplies resting by her bed. “Little else does.” He swung back to meet her eyes, a new ingenuousness to the icy depths. “But tonight I might sleep well and for the whole night through.”
She drew back the covers in blatant invitation.
