Chapter 12 Betty
BETTY
Iwake to silence.
The thought is so jarring, so wrong, that my eyes snap open.
The screaming is gone. The wind is no longer a monster wailing at our door; it is a low, weary moan.
The darkness is no longer absolute. A faint, watery, gray light seeps through the cracks around Threk’s body, a body that is still wedged, a living wall, in the cave’s entrance.
It’s day. We’re alive.
My entire body is a map of aches. I’m stiff, my muscles frozen in the curled position I fell asleep in. But I am warm.
I am still pressed against Threk’s massive back. My face is pillowed on his hide, my arm thrown over his waist. And his arm...
His massive arm is still wrapped around me. His clawed hand is still resting on my hip, pinning me against him. The sheer possessiveness of the gesture, done in his sleep, sends a strange, hot, flicker of something through my cold limbs.
I am aware of everything. The heavy, musky, animal scent of him, which is no longer frightening—it is just his. The leathery, scarred texture of his skin beneath my cheek. The slow, deep, powerful rhythm of his breathing.
I am a mouse, sleeping in the den of a lion, and I have never felt safer.
He stirs.
A low grunt rumbles in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through me. His red eyes open. He does not jolt; he is simply awake.
His hand, the one on my hip, clenches. His claws, those black, dagger-like things, press gently into my side through my thick cloak. It’s a testing, a reassurance. You are still here.
My breath catches. I don't move. I don't breathe.
He grunts again, a sound of pained stiffness, and moves.
He pulls his arm from me, and the loss of his heat is immediate and shocking, like being plunged into a frozen lake. He shoves himself forward, his wounded shoulder scraping against the rock entrance with a sound that makes me wince.
He is outside, a ten-foot shadow against the new, gray world.
I scramble to my feet, my body protesting. "Threk? Is it... is it over?"
I stumble out of the cave after him, my eyes watering at the sudden, blinding whiteness.
The world is remade.
Everything is gone. The path, the trees, the rocks—all of it is buried under a pristine, undulating blanket of deep, white snow. The sky is a low, oppressive, bruised-gray ceiling. And the silence. It is a heavy, dead thing. It is the silence of a graveyard.
Threk stands, his back to me, his massive head turning, sniffing the air. He is a dark, brutal, living thing in this perfect, dead world.
We are alive. We survived the elves. We survived the blizzard.
A small, hysterical bubble of a laugh rises in my throat. We survived.
Threk goes still.
His head snaps up. He draws in a deep, rumbling inhale, his nostrils flaring wide. His entire body locks, a statue of coiled muscle.
"What?" I whisper, my laugh dying. "What is it?"
He lets out a growl.
It is not the growl teeming with hate he gave the elves. It is not the possessive-rumble he gives me. This is a low, guttural, animal sound. It is a challenge.
And then I see them.
They are shadows on the snow. Gray shapes gliding between the few visible rocks, their movements too fluid, too fast.
My heart stops.
One, two... five. Five of them. They are huge. As large as ponies, but they move with the predatory grace of cats. Their fur is a matted, dirty gray, their bodies lean and ropy with muscle.
Worgs.
One of them stops, its head raised, its gaze locking on us. It has no eyes. Only two points of pale, glowing, green light. It opens its jaws, and a snarl rips through the silence, a sound of pure, intelligent malice.
My blood turns to a frigid tide. Magic wolves.
The stench hits me. A wave of wet dog, old blood, and a musky, territorial rankness.
They are circling us.
They are not just dumb beasts. They are hunting.
My hand fumbles at my belt, my numb fingers finding the hilt of my father's skinning knife. It is a toy. A toothpick. My hand is shaking so violently I can barely hold it.
The Worgs are drawn by the blood. Threk's wounds. The open, weeping gashes from the raiders. We are a beacon of food in this frozen wasteland.
Threk roars. It is a blast of pure, defiant fury.
But he doesn't charge.
He moves. He shoves me.
His open palm hits my shoulder. "Ah!" He barks the sound, a command. He pushes me backward, hard.
I stumble, falling against the tall, snow-covered rockfall we hid behind yesterday. The one the elves passed.
"Threk!" I scream, panicked.
He doesn't answer. He plants himself in front of me. He has put his back—and my back—to the wall.
My breath catches in my throat.
He’s using the terrain. He has created a bottleneck. He has protected our flank.
This isn't the mindless, red-haze slaughter from the village.
This is a warrior.
The pack lunges. Not one, but three. Three gray blurs of claws and glowing green eyes, coming from different angles.
It is explosive.
Threk moves. He is a whirlwind of violence, but it is not chaotic.
He catches the first one. Not with his claws. With his hand. He snatches it out of the air by its throat. There is a hideous, wet crunch as his grip shatters its spine. He doesn't pause. He slams its body, a now-limp, 100-pound weapon, into the second Worg.
The sound of the impact, of two bodies colliding, is a sickening thud. Both Worgs go down in a tangle of limbs.
The third one is on him. It’s faster. It lunges low, for his legs. It sinks its fangs into his thigh, the same leg that was already limping.
Threk roars in pain. The red haze flashes in his eyes, but it is controlled.
He doesn't try to pull the Worg off. He lifts his massive leg, the Worg still attached to it, its teeth buried in his flesh. He swings his leg like a club, smashing the Worg's body against the rockfall.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The sound of its bones shattering. The green light in its eyes sputters and dies. It falls, a broken rag, to the snow.
A fourth Worg. It’s smart.
It sees me.
It ignores Threk. It leaps over the bodies of its pack-mates, its jaws wide, aiming past Threk, for me.
I scream. I bring up my tiny, useless knife. This is it. I am dead.
"NO!"
It is not a word. It is a scream of pure fury from Threk.
He cannot reach it in time. His hands are full.
He kicks the body of the first Worg.
He punts the 200-pound carcass across the snow. It slams into the lunging Worg mid-air. The impact sends the Worg tumbling, a chaotic, yelping mess, its attack broken.
My mind reels. He used a body as a projectile. He calculated the angle. He did that... for me.
The last one.
It hasn't moved. It has been watching.
It is bigger than the others. Its fur is not gray, but a deep, shadowy-black. Its eyes are not green. They are blue. A cold, burning, intelligent blue.
The Alpha.
It steps forward, and the other Worg—the one Threk hit with the body—scrambles to its feet and slopes away, yelping.
It is just Threk and the Alpha.
Threk ignores his bleeding leg. He straightens to his full, ten-foot height. He is covered in new, steaming blood. His red eyes lock with the Alpha's blue ones.
This is not a slaughter. This is a duel.
The Alpha charges.
It is impossibly fast. It is not a lunge; it is a blur. Its claws seem to glow with the same blue light as its eyes.
Threk roars and meets the charge.
The impact is the sound of thunder. They slam together, a chaotic vortex of black fur and gray-green hide.
Jaws snap. Claws tear.
The Alpha is fast. It slashes Threk across the chest. The glowing claws tear through his hide, right over the star-scar.
Threk roars in agony and fury.
He grabs it. He gets his hands on it. He pins its shoulders. The Alpha snaps at his throat, its fangs scraping against his tusks.
And then Threk does something.
He roars, a sound of triumph. He opens his own massive jaws.
He bites down on the Alpha's neck.
It is primal. It is monstrous. It is absolute.
The sound of snapping vertebrae is louder than the wind.
The blue light in the Alpha's eyes explodes and then fades to nothing.
Threk holds it for a second, his body shuddering with effort. Then he throws the Alpha's limp, broken body to the snow.
The last Worg whimpers, a high, terrified sound, and runs. It disappears over the ridge.
Silence.
Just the whine of the wind.
The stench of blood and musk is overwhelming. The pristine white snow is a ruined, red canvas of gore.
Threk stands in the middle of it. He is a mountain of death. He is panting, steam jetting from his nostrils. He is covered in blood—his, and theirs.
He turns to me.
His red eyes are blazing. But the red haze... it is not the mindless, elf-magic rage. It is a warrior's rage. It is sane.
He sniffs the air. A deep, rumbling inhale.
"I... I'm safe," I whisper, my knife dropping from my numb hand.
He takes a step toward me... and stumbles.
He groans, a deep, pained sound, and his hand goes to his leg.
My eyes drop.
The Worg bite. It's not a cut. It is a mangled, raw, pulsing crater in his thigh. The blood is not running. It is pumping.
He looks at me, then at the gray, hostile horizon, and lets out a low, pained growl.
He is hurt. Badly. And we are in the middle of nowhere.