Chapter 24
“Back off, Viv,” Reid roars. “It’s not your fight!”
I drive my elbow into the beast’s kidneys. “It’s always my fight.”
Peter scrambles free and crawls for his sword, one hand pressed to the wound in his side. Had that been inflicted by the wolf’s teeth and not his claws, he’d be turned. Too fucking close.
The werewolf whirls—fangs mere inches from shredding my skin—and unleashes a howl from the depths of his lungs.
He lashes out, and one swing of that mighty arm into my side knocks me to the ground.
My bones shriek with pain, but I’m already up, daggers out and flying as I force the creature back inch by inch.
A slice here at his paw. One there behind the knee.
A slow inflicting of injuries that weaken the thing but not enough to kill.
The creature roars its frustration and I’m treated to a noseful of pungent raw meat and carrots.
But not rancid.
Not the scent of human flesh and blood that the weres I kill reek of.
This creature has been captured and fed for the sole purpose of being studied in Crowley’s class.
I may have an aeon’s bloodlust, but that doesn’t feel fair to me.
My eyes find the sheet of gray sky above us once more.
A sliver of pale sun is beginning to poke through.
It’s got to be almost seven by now. And the moon—it was nearly full Friday night, presiding over the horrors of the undead.
Which, if I remember when the game started, was at seven in the evening…
I’ve fought enough werewolves to know those twelve-hour windows are pretty airtight. Which means any minute now—
The next time the wolf lunges for me I don’t drive either blade toward him—I run.
I can hear the crowd of students suck in confused inhales. Shock, concern—
I bolt for the stands on the other side of the arena, letting the creature chase after me on all fours. Faster, faster. I pump my legs as I formulate my half-assed plan. I’m not going to be able to outrun the beast, but if I’m right, all I need are a few more seconds—
The arena is a blur of screaming students and decaying white stone.
I jump from bench to bench, higher and higher.
And then back down to the soft ground. We careen around the rack of weapons and speed past the creature’s cage.
I can feel his hot breath on my ankles. Hear the gnashing sound of his fangs.
I dig my dagger into my palm until it draws blood, then coat the silver in red and splatter it across the dusty stone floor.
The werewolf, like any canine, thinks with his nose first. My quads are on fire with each pounding footfall.
The werewolf has stopped to scent the air.
I don’t look back. I don’t stop running.
I race up the stands to the top of the coliseum, putting as much distance as I can between me and the wolf. Running out the clock—
But I’ve used up whatever time the blood bought me.
He’s charging for me now, angry and hungry and feral.
I’m tripping over the stone seating, twisting as I crane my neck back to see the snarling, spitting creature, fisting my daggers as I near the top of the coliseum.
If this doesn’t work—if he’s a born werewolf, not a turned one—I’ll have nowhere left to run.
Suddenly the snarling is replaced by a howl of bone-deep pain. I whirl to find the beast crouched behind me, wailing and thrashing. Changing under the hot, rising sun. It’s 7:00 a.m. Twelve hours after nightfall.
Backing away, I breathe as best I can despite the way my lungs burn and the wound in my hand pulses.
Coarse fur smooths into skin. Yellow eyes grow dull and watery.
And crouched in the fetal position is not a beast but a man.
An adult male, naked, scarred, and coughing to catch his breath.
I don’t have enough air myself to heave out a sigh of relief.
Only then do I realize that the students on the other side of the arena are cheering.
Clapping and whooping. Stomping their feet in the stands.
Sophia and Elliot are the loudest of the bunch.
Even Peter, who I thought might have been shamed by my unplanned rescue, offers me a grateful smile, his hand thrust into the air in triumph while a pixie presses a glowing compress into his side.
Reid’s already jogging up the stairs to me. I’m ready for the look of fury on his face. I, of all people, ruined his lesson plan with my altruism. But when his chin tips up I see it’s not an expression of anger or impending discipline…It’s one of fear.
And before I can make sense of why, I’m falling—
My bruised kneecap pounds into the stone seating behind me. The man, snarling and spitting, has me by the hair and drives his fist into my stomach before I can even grab my daggers.
“Fucking hunter—” He raises his fist in the air and I brace for impact. “Keeping me locked up! I’m going to fucking kill—”
But it’s over quicker than it began.
The man gurgles and spurts in shock before rolling off me. Blood dribbles from his mouth onto the stone seating as he falls to the side. His meaty, bloated body is in a heap, a silver sword lodged in his back.
I scramble away, eyes wide. Reid is standing over me, catching his breath. He swallows hard. His hand is blistered from holding the blade.
The arena is still once more.
“Class dismissed,” Reid calls out, terse and definitive. His eyes don’t leave my face.
One student clears his throat and asks, “Actually…I had a question about the were—”
“I said,” Reid roars, “class dismissed.”
They clear the space in ringing silence. Crowley included.
I can’t take Reid’s ancient blue eyes on me a moment more. Not when there’s so much anger there. Anger and something else. Something agonized. Like that was too close for him.
Wincing, I push myself up and hurry down the stands to grab my leather book bag on the other side. I need some ibuprofen and a hot bath.
He sighs, prowling down the steps behind me.
“What?” I grunt.
“That was quite the performance.” His voice is as cold as the frigid morning air.
“Hunting’s not a performance. It shouldn’t be treated as one.”
“Is that what you thought this was?”
Yes, I have an underlying, near-constant, burning desire to kill, but I don’t like that about myself.
I don’t even want to murder my own lobster for dinner.
I don’t believe in slaughter for the game of it, even if my instincts tell me to annihilate things on the daily.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.
” I swing my bag over my shoulder carefully, but the weight still makes my knee scream.
I’m about to have a very unexplainable bruise.
Maybe I’ll tell James I’ve traded Pilates for jujitsu.
When I face Reid, he’s studying me with quiet interest. “Why didn’t you kill the turned when you had the chance?”
The turned. “That whole species-caste-system thing is horrible. Even among deviants. You’re all equally vile.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I kill to save lives. Not for sport.”
“You didn’t kill him, even though he was a deviant. Who was trying to kill you.”
I wince as I move to limp past him. “Some werewolves don’t know what they’re doing. Some are shocked to see what they’ve done when they’re turned back.”
“Even if he’s a perfectly fine mortal, a turned deviant will always kill eventually. Always.”
I stop in my tracks to narrow my eyes at him. “And yet when I apply that logic to you, it seems to annoy.”
“I don’t care what you think of me, huntress.
I just want you to do your job and do it right.
Kill deviants when you’re supposed to. Stay out of it when you’re supposed to.
Stop trying to be a hero so you think you’re worth something.
” He says the words like they’re a mere observation. Devoid of bite or sympathy.
But a hot, sticky anger licks up my insides just the same. One that’s reckless and curling, because the quicker it moves, the less time it has to linger on the fear that there’s truth to his cruelty. “I couldn’t just sit there while—”
His eyes heat. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to Roydon.”
“Well, you have more faith in you than I do.”
Reid says nothing as his eyes sweep across my bruised body and back up to hold my eyes. “I saved you, didn’t I?”
As infuriating as it is, he’s got a point. I stuff my fisted hands into my pockets and inhale sharply. He can think whatever he wants about me, but I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of being right. I can’t leave this arena until I clean my side of the street.
“Thank you,” I grit out. “For not letting me die.”
Reid ignores me, walking over to pick up Peter’s discarded sword by the leather pommel and wiping the blood on his pants, up by the thigh. I bite my tongue until it hurts, then stomp over to where he stands, even as my knee throbs.
“I’m serious,” I say, grabbing his forearm. His key card dangles from the pocket of his track pants. My heart hammers under my shirt. “Thank you.”
Reid’s eyes snap to my hand on his skin like I’m poisoning him. Then his eyes, ringed in desperate, ravenous red, slice up to my own. The sight takes my breath away. I all but choke on air. I’ve never seen him hungry before.
“You need to stop doing that,” he says so low I can hardly hear him. I’m so shocked, my hand doesn’t move. None of me does.
He holds my gaze with lethal calm as he pries my fingers from his skin. One and then another and then another. That red still glowing. Still staring at me.
I come back to myself in time to realize the opportunity I have here. I hold his predatory gaze as I slide the key card that hangs off his belt loop into my pocket. His red eyes have not left my face.
“Time to go,” he tells me through clenched teeth. None the wiser. Too interested in my soul.
I lift my hands and back away. I don’t need to be told twice.