Chapter 17 Braze
brAZE
The Kriver wouldn’t…fucking…die.
And it had dared to touch his Mistress. Rage rushed like fire through his veins and Braze felt, rather than heard, a low, continuous growl coming from his chest. The state of berserker fury that came over any Kindred warrior whose woman was being threatened gave him superhuman strength—and the anger that fueled him made him feel ready to rip the fucker apart.
But though the huge beast was down, it was far from out.
It was now a thrashing, screaming whirlwind of destruction right on top of them.
One flailing tentacle smacked the Empress’s concubine, who had been cowering between her legs, sending him tumbling off the dais.
Another sent a golden platter spilling into the darkness.
Braze still gripped the severed tentacle he’d torn away.
He rolled, came up, and saw the immediate problem—the Kriver’s head was right beside the Empress’s chair, its huge single eye rolling wildly, its beak-tentacles flailing blindly.
One of them smacked across the Empress’s shoulders—not biting, but knocking her sideways with a stunned and indignant cry.
Braze doubted the spoiled monarch had ever been in mortal danger before—this was no doubt a learning experience for her about inviting deadly wild beasts into her dining hall.
But the Kriver’s other tentacles were finding a new target—Kaitlyn. For some reason the beast seemed fixated on his curvy little human, Braze thought grimly.
Well, it couldn’t fucking have her.
Kaitlyn had backed herself against the wall and had nowhere left to go. Two of the writhing, bloody appendages slithered across the floor toward her, their beaks opening and closing with mindless hunger as though they wanted to finish the job the other tentacle had started.
“Kaitlyn!” Braze’s roar cut through the chaos.
He didn’t have the spear anymore—he only had the tentacle—a five-foot-long club of dead muscle ending in a grotesque mouth. Would it be enough?
It’ll fucking have to be, he thought. Rage blazed through him again, dropping a bloody red curtain over his vision. Everything narrowed down to one thing—saving his Mistress—the woman he had sworn to protect—or to die for her if he had to.
With a low growl, he charged. As one beak darted for Kaitlyn’s hurt ankle, he swung the severed tentacle like a crude flail. The heavy, limp beak of his weapon connected with the attacking one with a solid thwack, knocking it aside.
The second tentacle struck at her from the other side.
Braze dropped his makeshift club, dove, and grabbed it bare-handed just behind the beak.
The rotating teeth scraped against the thick metal manacle on his wrist, sending up sparks.
He snarled, pinning the thing to the floor with his knee, his hands straining to hold it as it bucked and writhed like a monstrous eel.
“The spear!” he yelled at Kaitlyn, his voice raw. “Get the fucking spear! Now, while I have hold of this fucker! And hurry!”