Chapter Three #2
Left with no other choice, I followed her, one hand riding the hilt of my sword. Dragon’s Breath quit spitting sparks. Evidently even a psychotic death spirit didn’t want to piss off the mayor.
“You okay?” Iona asked Vildra.
The dragon’s pupils had narrowed to slits of irritation.
“If that little yolk sucker toasts me one more time, I’m going to broil him like a hotdog wiener on a stick.
I am not in the mood.” She gathered herself and leaped into the sky.
We all braced against the backdraft and ducked her whipping tail.
“Interesting mayor you’ve got,” I told Iona dryly.
“She is that. Plus, thanks to her, nobody wants to hassle us. Especially when she shows up at the county administration building and roars.”
I grinned. “Permitting problems?”
“Red tape doesn’t have a prayer against Vildra.” She gave me an appraising look. “Bet you’d be handy for that too.” Her grin was so warm, it made me blink. Was she flirting with me? Normally I’d start looking for ulterior motives, but her scent held genuine sensual interest…
“Chief Anann!” The voice was deep and low, rumbling, edged with irritation. I turned, the fur on the back of my neck rising.
The centaur stomped toward us, his expression icy. Guess he’d decided he wanted that fight after all.
My sword spat happy sparks. Feed him to me.
Try being less disturbing.
No, it hissed.
Without the dragon to compare him to, I realized just how huge the ‘taur was. His horse half was easily nineteen hands tall -- about six-three at the shoulder -- and heavily muscled, and his human half was every bit as huge. He towered over me even in Dire Wolf form.
“We must talk,” the ‘taur growled to Iona, his chin lifted at an arrogant angle. I could see how he’d gotten that acting career.
He was ridiculously handsome, with his braided hair and the black skin that gleamed like his ebony coat.
Assuming his human form was as built as his centaur, he was practically tailor-made for superhero flicks.
But there was nothing heroic about the look in those black eyes as he stared at Iona. I stepped in front of her, wordlessly making it clear he wasn’t getting to her without dealing with me.
He met my stare and paused, his eyes narrowing. I gave him a big, toothy grin. I’d fought ‘taurs in the last war, and I could tell he was building up to a charge.
Without looking away from him, I lowered my voice to murmur to Iona.
“I don’t like the looks of him.” My hand fell to Dragon’s Breath.
It was glowing with excitement, the fall of sparks burning, the blade’s hungry growl rumbling in my mind.
I couldn’t tell whether it considered him a suspect or just a tasty-looking meal. Could go either way with Breath.
Iona dropped her voice just as low. “This is weird behavior for Baareo. Someone in the crew must have slipped him some cocaine again. No wonder he blew the choreography.”
My brows rose. The ‘taur weighed two thousand pounds if he was an ounce. “Must have taken most of a kilo to get that high.”
“Yeah. He normally has zero interest in fighting. That was the whole reason he had to flee the Centauri lands.”
That startled me. It was rare for the warrior class to produce a ‘taur who didn’t feel driven to fight. His clan wouldn’t have liked that at all. “I see why that would be a problem.”
The centaur’s tail was flagged, and I suspected if he’d been fully horse, his ears would be pinned. I could feel my own pointed ears twitching.
“Look,” Iona whispered. “Let me have a word with him. I’ll calm him down and…”
“No,” I said coldly. Even as the words came out of my mouth, I remembered bodyguards were normally a lot more politic than that. Decided I didn’t care. “I’ll remind you that one of your vision murderers was a ‘taur.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t him. He’s a poet, Dearg -- a centaur bard. I can’t believe he’d hurt me or anyone else.”
“He’s also an actor, Iona. He could have been playing a part.” I stalked to meet Baareo, one hand raised to show my claws growing longer with every step. “That’s close enough.” To reinforce the point, I rested my hand on the hilt of Dragon’s Breath, ready to draw.
Baareo looked down his nose at me. “Who are you?”
“Dearg Galatyn, Heir to Heroes, Cachamwri’s Blade, and Prince of the Two Kingdoms.” Declaring titles was the first step of a formal challenge. I curled my lips back from my fangs. “And you are?”
“None of your business. I need to speak to the chief -- in private.”
Not in this life, egg sucker. I just stared at him, saying nothing, letting Galatyn magic gather and swirl in my eyes, a trick I’d learned from my father.
Even the most impudent noble hesitated to fuck with King Ll?r when he gave them that flat stare blazing with centuries of power.
I didn’t have the centuries, but I knew from the reaction I got that my eyes looked intimidating as hell surrounded by black fur and a mouthful of three-inch fangs.
But instead of stopping as I expected, Baareo pushed forward until we were almost chest to chest.
“Step. Back,” I said.
The centaur tried to walk around me. I stepped back, pivoting with him, drawing Dragon’s Breath.
Despite Iona’s opinion, I could tell he wasn’t high.
I’d seen coked-up mortals a couple of times, and their pupils dilated until their irises were eggshell-thin rings.
This ‘taur’s pupils were pinpoints in the bright afternoon sunlight.
He stopped and glared at me, a double-bladed battleaxe materializing in his hand in a burst of magic.
He half-reared, and I sidestepped to keep him landing a hoof -- or that axe -- anywhere painful.
Kill him. Kill him. He threatens her. Kill him. Dragon’s Breath sang a hungry aria in my skull. Fortunately, Cachamwri had given the weapon to me when I was seventeen, and I knew how to keep it from driving me into idiocy.
I fell into guard, a deep growl rumbling in my chest. “You don’t want to start with me,” I told him as I sidestepped, beginning to circle him. He spun toward me, so he wasn’t completely stupid.
And dammit, the move put Iona standing behind him, wearing a frustrated, worried expression. Oh, Cachamwri’s Egg. “Iona!” I snapped.
Too late. Baareo bucked, both rear dinner-plate-size hooves ramming her torso just as her shield ignited. She shot backward into the trees as if fired from a Howitzer.
“Iona!” I started to run for her, only to sense an explosion of healing magic from her direction. Not dead. Thank Cachamwri, she’s not dead. But she could have been thanks to her idiot bodyguard…
Dragon’s Breath hissed a warning as something silver flashed toward me. I ducked barely in time to avoid losing my head. Several black hairs wafted around me. One of my ear tufts, sliced clean. Fuck, that thing’s sharp.
“You’re dead, pony boy!” Dragon’s Breath sang in bloodlust as I hit the ground, spun and bounded at the centaur, swinging the great blade in a diagonal stroke with my full strength behind it.
Pain exploded up my shoulder as the weapon rebounded off the ‘taur’s glowing shield spell. Rather than the enclosing hemisphere used in most magical duels, it was a glowing disk the size of a medieval shield. Which would make his attacks faster, since he wouldn’t have to drop the shield to strike.
Howling a battle cry, the ‘taur raised his battleaxe and charged.
* * *
Iona
I’d realized my mistake when the centaur’s huge haunches bunched.
Even as I conjured a shield spell, his rear hooves slammed into me in a bomb-blast of agony.
My bullet-resistant vest blunted the impact enough to save my rib cage from shattering like balsa wood.
I still went flying, blasting into the woods to tumble painfully across the ground.
This time my shield saved me. I lay in the underbrush, stunned and struggling to breathe.
A savage chainsaw snarl jolted me back to full awareness. Dearg!
I started to roll to my feet, biting back a scream when my ribs shrieked.
Panting, I struggled over on my back instead, casting a spell that made my uniform shirt and vest vanish, leaving me in my white tee.
There were two reddening hoof-shaped bruises bigger than my head on my torso.
Shit, cracked ribs. I pulled on my magic and sent it swirling over my body to heal my injuries, gritting my teeth at the grinding pain.
I conjured a new Kevlar vest and shirt as I blinked away tears.
I wanted nothing more than to collapse and concentrate on breathing.
I couldn’t. Not with enraged curses, crashing brush, and magical blasts lighting up my senses. I had to back up Dearg.
Groaning, I staggered to my feet and braced against the tree that had damned near killed me. Calling another wave of magic from the earth, I flushed away the last of the weakness and mental fog rapid healing triggers.
“Let’s try that again, you bastard.” I drew the baton hanging from my duty belt and flicked my wrist.
Instead of telescoping into a whippy three-foot rod, the baton shimmered into a sword. Thank you, Grandma.
I headed toward the battling pair, ignoring the impulse to charge out of the woods howling a challenge. As Grandma always said, “Honorable combat doesn’t apply to motherfuckers.” If I could sneak up on the bastard ‘taur, I would.
It was hard to believe Baareo was the assassin. I’d known him for years, and my instincts were usually better than that.
Then I got a good look at what was going on in the clearing and had to stop and stare. Maeve’s Forge!