4
When the Howls Came
Blair
The man laughs and yanks Melody harder, forcing her to her knees.
“Let her fucking go!” I snarl, flinging out my claws, baring my teeth.
Melody’s eyes find mine, dark with fury, full of a simmering, terrifying determination—but she’s spent. Helpless.
The man tilts her head to the side, revealing the smooth curve of her unpointed ears. “Well, look at this. A human. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one in my whole dear life. Can you suck and fuck like any fae can?”
Laughter spills from the shadows, and within seconds, more tall figures step out from between the trees.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melody’s grip tighten around the hilt of the sword. She twists—and slices through her own hip-length hair. The blade’s sharp enough to cut through it like a knife through warm butter.
But she doesn’t stop. She angles the sword, swings again—this time aiming for the bastard’s body. A scream tears out of him as the blade slices through his banded armor and into the flesh beneath.
“I can also make you bleed like any fae can,” she pants, her eyes wide but locked on him as she backs toward me.
He stares down at his wounds, then up at her, blinking in disbelief.
The next moment, all hells break loose.
At least five of them charge me. Shit. I spin, claws flying, slashing through limbs, scraping bone as I whirl. The air fills with red—slicing, shredding, blood painting the trees.
Someone grabs me from behind. I slam my leg back, catching him hard in the groin, then pivot. My teeth sink into his neck. Hot blood floods my mouth and—
Ancient gods, it tastes like reeking, rotting dog.
Yikes.
I spit it out and shove him off me, slicing through his neck. Blood pours from the gash, and he’s down too fast for even his fae healing to catch up. My silver-tipped claws are working—they’ve immobilized a good chunk of his power.
“Enough, witch,” one of them barks. “Or she dies next.”
I spin to my feet, breathing hard, eyes locking on Melody. She’s on her knees again, blood spilling from her mouth, her breaths coming sharp and ragged.
The first man—the one with the mohawk and the predator’s grin—stands behind her with a blade pressed to her throat. The leader, clearly. The rest of them hover, watching him like a pack of mutts. Wolf shifters.
“If she means anything to you, witch,” he says, “you stop right now.”
“Fuck you, fleabag,” I snarl, eyes flicking to the cuts Melody dealt him to judge the severity of his injuries. He’s panting hard and still bleeding, still unhealed, thanks to the Nefarian steel. The cuts slow him down for sure, but aren’t deep enough to truly knock him out. Damn.
My eyes dip one more time to Melody. By the stars, she’s far from good. Her lips are bruised, her cheeks swollen. And her body…broken ribs at least. I have no idea how half-fae healing works, whether it’s half as strong as mine—but it doesn’t look that way.
I raise my chin. My claws are still flexed, ready to rip through the rest of his pack. I could take them. With a bit of luck. “Go ahead,” I say coldly. “Kill her if you want. She means nothing to me.”
He smiles. “So she’s nothing to you, huh? Then you won’t mind me doing this.”
He lifts his leg and kicks her hard in the side. She cries out, the sound echoing through the forest. I flinch as I hear more of her ribs snap. The leader releases her now-shortened hair, and she collapses into a ball on the ground.
My eyes burn as I stare at her broken form, but the others—those I haven’t killed—have recovered, regrouped. One of them tosses the black sword to mohawk-asshole, who catches it with a smug grin and calloused hands.
Fuck. With that in his grip, I’m dead meat.
“Nefarian steel,” he muses, running a finger along the blade. “Took down one of those flappy bastards who prowled our woods too long. Huh, witch?”
“Maybe I’m friends with one,” I hiss, making a show of studying the blood on my claws. “And they’re coming to kick your asses.”
He runs his tongue along one sharp canine. “I doubt that, witch. But then, I’ve never met a witch who hadn’t turned us all to ash by now.”
He looks me up and down with those unnervingly pale eyes, a sneer tugging at his lips. “What happened to you? Enlighten us—why are we still alive? Where’s your gods-damned magic?”
“Tell me why you’re stupid enough to attack a witch in the first place,” I growl, flashing my long, silver canines. His men shift, glancing at each other, clearly uneasy.
“Call it curiosity,” he says. “A witch covered in filth. A human in tow. I couldn’t resist.”
“Woke up and decided to poke the bear, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he drawls as he nudges Melody with his boot. She doesn’t stir, but I can still hear her heartbeat. Weak. Barely there. But still there.
“We have nothing you want. So why don’t we just forget about what just happened and each of us go on our way.”
“You almost killed a packmate.”
“And you almost killed this half-human, so I’d call us even.”
“Yeah, you see, it’s just not every day you meet someone in the Black Forest. And then one of you is carrying a black Nefarian sword,” he continues, scratching his neck.
“Right after a bunch of those bat-winged fuckers got turned to dust by a dragon—or so one of my patrols claims. A real dragon. Not a conjured beast like the kind you witches ride.”
Beasts like my wyvern. My heart clenches. My phantom, my companion—half-smoke, half-solid, summoned through spell and soul. Wyverns the witches ride into war and wild hunts. And mine…gone. Lost with the magic I fed into Caryan’s veins.
“Let me go, or I just might burn your whole pack to cinder,”I try one last time, but I know it falls flat.
“Yeah, then go ahead. I heard witches aren’t known for words of warning,” he challenges.
“Maybe it’s your lucky day, so fuck off and we forget about this.”
His eyes glimmer. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have no magic left in you. You’ve either burnt out or there’s another reason for this. I highly doubt we’d be standing here and talking if that wasn’t true.”
I see his men shift their weight in my peripheral vision, waiting for his sign to launch again. I swallow and square my shoulders. “Well, well. Aren’t you a bright specimen. I’d guess your dad was a poodle. And your mom probably—”
“Shut your trap, witch, or I’ll make you bleed.”
“You? You’ve got all the bite of a declawed, toothless chihuahua. Where’s your damn alpha? I want to parlay.”
“Not your damn fucking business. And trust me, you’re in no position to parlay .”
I let out a snarl. “What do you want, mutt? Why attack us?”
“Food.” He kicks Melody again. “And this one looks like she’d taste damn fine roasted. Better than some foul kelpies.”
“Stop it, you douchebag! You’ll kill her!” I hiss, launching forward, but he raises the sword, pointing it at her head. I stop dead in my tracks.
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “That’s the plan. Shame she’s useless in this state. Maybe I’ll make it quick. End her suffering.”
He raises his boot again, aiming for her head.
“Stop! You have no fucking idea who this human is!” I shout, my voice trembling with barely contained rage.
He grins as if he just won the damn fuckingrealm. “Right. I don’t. So tell me—before I decide what to do with her.”
I hesitate. “She’s the Dark Lord’s property. He’s already looking for her.”
He starts cackling like a mad duck. His whole pack howls along, some even doubling over with laughter. “Sure, sure. The Dark Lord himself. Coming to this shithole for a stolen human sex toy?”
“He will,” I say, voice like stone.
“Delusional witch,” he sneers. “Maybe the forest made you mad. Some of my men say they heard you talking. Not to her. To someone else. Only there was no one else to talk to.” His pack-mates cackle again.
I keep my expression still. Gods forbid they saw what happened with the not-Caryan demon.
“So who is she if she is oh-so-precious?” Mohawk-wolf nudges Melody again but she’s unconscious.
“Killing her is the worst mistake you can make,” I warn him, letting my fury wash away my worry. She needs a healer. Soon.
“I strongly doubt that,” he says—and lifts his boot again.
I launch.
Two of his men intercept me, grabbing my arms before I can reach him. They yank me back as I thrash, teeth bared.
“Enough fun, Renfris,” a voice calls from the trees. Cold. Slick. And oh-so-damn familiar. Another figure steps out. Loose linen shirt, worn leather breeches, skin tanned bronze, strands of long, fox-brown hair braided and slashing past his shoulders. A scar bisects his left eye.
Connus.
Half-high fae, half-wolf shifter. Shady negotiator, alias the Fox because his fae-form looks more like a giant fox than a wolf. And he’s clearly their alpha, the way the mutts ogle him with pure admiration and so much devotion I want to vomit.
He pauses next to mohawk-fucker Renfris, green eyes studying me. Then surprise flares across his rugged face.
“The Crimson Death…can it be? Under all that dirt and feces?”
I grumble. Not so crimson anymore, with my formerly red hair pale as moonlight since Caryan sucked my magic out of me. Not that I think Connus can see this, dirty as I am.
“Fox,” I bite back. “Unexpected and annoying as ever.”
He smiles a perfect white smile. “That’s my Blair. Cunning and brooding as ever.”
“Connus,” I mutter, clicking my tongue. “Still don’t know how you keep that tan without a single ray of sunlight.”
“Happy to see me, witch? Akribea lies a long time back.”
Yeah. In a better damn century. Connus dabbles in all kinds of shady trades, got kicked out of elven Palisandre, and for a while, hid out in Akribea, capital of the Blacklands.
“The day the sun shines out of my ass, I’ll be happy to see you. How’s your fluffy tail swishing these days?”
He laughs—genuinely, the bastard. As if we truly are friends and didn’t just hook up a few times. Renfris stares, clearly uneasy, realizing that I know his alpha.