Chapter 46
THUNDERSTORM
ALIGHT PATTERING OF RAIN tapped on the roof of leaves overhead. Several fat, lazy droplets fell through the foliage—one landed on the curve of Felíne’s cheek, heavy as a teardrop.
Kal!
Her feet were moving before her brain had given the command. Twenty paces away, Kal struggled against his assailant.
A masked shurii man in first form held Kal by the throat, the crook of one muscled arm cutting off his airway. The man’s free hand pressed a heavy cloth over Kal’s nose and mouth.
Fifteen paces.
Felíne ripped her hatchet free of its sheath.
Kal found the hilt of a dagger and buried the blade in the man’s thigh. The man grunted in pain but did not release his hold. Kal jerked the knife free. Stabbed again. The masked man shifted his footing. Kal’s second attempt pierced the outer curve of muscle. Too superficial.
Ten paces.
Felíne was no warrior. But she was more than capable of providing a distraction. She raised Daybreak as she ran, the sound of her feet a soft thud on dampened leaves.
Kal tugged his dagger free once more. The movement looked labored. He flipped the blade in clumsy fingers. Tried to drive it through the man’s eye behind his mask. But the motion was slow. Too slow. The man dodged easily. The blade hit the dirt.
Something is wrong, Felíne thought. I’m here, Kal. I’m coming.
She could see Kal’s eyes grow lidded as he tried to focus on her. His hand fumbled on his person, patting, searching for another weapon. He had them. So why couldn’t he find any?
Five paces.
It was raining steadily now. The earthen smell of dead foliage and damp soil rose from the ground and hung trapped between the mossy trunks of old trees. Felíne filled her lungs with humid air and bellowed like a feral woodland creature.
Her feet left the ground.
She flailed, something snaring her by the waist, hoisting her from behind.
Kal’s eyes widened a fraction, rage battling with descending disorientation for control of his features. A strangled groan reverberated in his throat.
The masked man holding Kal tightened his grip. “Go down, damn you.”
Felíne hacked blindly at whoever had grabbed her.
“Ow, fuck!”
Daybreak collided with something soft. But not forceful enough to critically maim.
A canvas sack was shoved over her head, the wet fabric inciting immediate panic.
A large hand yanked at her hatchet. She gripped the handle like it was her last tether to life.
The rain wet her hold, and her fingers slipped. Daybreak was pulled from her grasp.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. Or, rather, she tried to. Felíne gasped, cramped lungs only partially filling with stale air. The hood sucked into her mouth. Terror clamped her chest.
“Quit your fussing, and we won’t hurt you!” A man. Voice higher in pitch than she’d expect, given the strength with which he dragged her away.
“Kal! Kalevar!” The second name came out with less force than Felíne intended. Black crawled into the corners of her vision.
“Bit of a mess you’re in, missy,” the man said, too close to her ear. “The Battle Master, too. You’ll be answering to the Conclave. Both of you.”
Something snarled, the rumbling sound vicious and unfamiliar. The man’s suffocating grip tightened.
“Robb! Fuck. Robb! We’ve got wolves!”
Felíne couldn’t see past the damp bag covering her face, but she’d bet anything there was only one. Grim.
The man’s arms abruptly vanished, and Felíne hit the ground hard enough to expel whatever little air remained in her chest. A ripping sound filled her ears through the hood—a shurii shifting form.
Felíne clawed at the canvas sack, dragging it over her head. Her hair had come loose from the low knot that held it, the wet strands clinging wildly to her face. She wheezed, thorax still tight from fear. Felíne scrambled backward, wedging herself against a spongy tree trunk.
Her captor crouched several feet away, his broad flaxen-furred back to her. His shirt had ripped when he shifted to second form, but his bias-cut trousers remained intact, a breakaway opening in the back making room for his swishing tail. Beyond the shurii male, snarling like a rabid dog, was Grim.
“Robb! Get him tied up and get the fuck over here!” the male called to his companion, not daring to pivot away from his new adversary.
The wolf’s yellow eyes locked on the sandy-colored male. His black lips curled over wicked canines. His wrinkled snout and raised hackles sent a shiver of fear through her. The rattling rumble that tore from Grim’s salivating maw promised violence.
But Felíne’s captor was a beast in his own right. His second form wasn’t as imposing as Kal’s—he was no more than two-thirds Kal’s size—but his hands flexed with long claws, and an equally sharp row of fangs protruded from his shorter, creased muzzle.
“Alright then, mutt. You want a fight?” He pulled a serrated knife from the band at his waist.
“No!” Felíne gasped.
The blond male lunged for the wolf. Grim darted back, barely avoiding being slashed with the shurii’s wicked blade.
The wolf twisted, snapping and yowling. Felíne’s captor recovered, throwing up a furry forearm to protect his face.
Grim’s powerful jaws clamped down on the provided target.
The shurii male jerked his arm back on instinct, but Grim held fast. The momentum lifted the wolf’s forepaws off the ground, back legs scrambling for purchase in the leaf-strewn forest floor.
Felíne was drenched. Thunder boomed overhead, the sunny afternoon having given way to roiling gray clouds that she glimpsed through a break in the treetops. Lightning flashed, painting the scene before her in harrowing shadows and flickering light.
Her captor finally threw Grim off. He stood panting, his forearm soaked by both rain and blood. He clutched at the ribboned flesh. A growl resounded in his chest. He gripped the serrated blade with his right hand. This time, when he slashed forward, Grim didn’t move quickly enough.
The wolf yelped, the cry sending a fresh wave of dread crashing into Felíne. Tears flowed freely now, mixing with her running nose and the pouring rain.
Her captor, his blond pelt darkened by the deluge, rose to his full height. His left forearm was a bloody ruin, but his right hand wielded that blade with frightening confidence. The male stepped forward. Grim couched low, his growling drowned by the clap of the thunderstorm.
A sob lodged itself in Felíne’s throat. She couldn’t watch Kal’s wolf die. She forced herself to her feet. Her hatchet was gone, she possessed no claws or teeth, but she’d attack with blunted fingers and a panic-vised chest if need be.
The sandy-pelted male raised his blade.
Grim’s ears flattened to his skull. Yellow eyes gleamed. A whine pierced the sounds of the storm, his silver belly hugging the dirt.
“That’s right, you hateful beast,” the male panted.
A roar, the likes of which Felíne had heard only once before, rattled the wood.
The blond male twisted.
A clawed shadow shot out of the dark and seized the male’s throat with terrifying strength.
Felíne’s captor was lifted off the ground.
His face slackened with startled horror.
He slashed with the jagged knife, and a second clawed shadow-hand materialized, snapping the male’s wrist with an effortless crack.
He howled. The blade dropped, lost somewhere among the underbrush.
Lightning flashed again. Felíne glimpsed a muzzle filled with gleaming white fangs through the downpour and her haze of tears.
She saw the thick column of a neck attached to broad shoulders.
A hackled ridge of midnight hair ran the length of a long, curving spine.
Muscles rippled under a pelt solid black as a piece of stygian wood.
Not a shadow.
Kal.
Another strangled sob broke from her, and she went to her knees. She still couldn’t breathe, but Kal at least appeared unharmed.
One of Kal’s ears flicked in her direction. He turned glowing gold eyes on her, holding her in his attention the way a collector might cradle a priceless artifact—one he’d spent a lifetime seeking.
Felíne managed to suck in a gulp of air.
Kal returned his furious glare to the suffocating male in his unrelenting grip. His rage was a tangible, bloodthirsty thing.
“Bad move, Skott,” Kal rumbled. “This little stunt got you and your brother killed.”
“Robb?” The male’s eyes bulged as he mouthed the word. “Robb!”
“He’s dead, you fucking coward,” Kal spat, words slipping past his fangs with pitiless precision.
The male, Skott, went limp, lifeless. Then, as realization dawned, he keened.
Kal’s expression held no mercy. “Who sent you?”
Skott choked on new grief. Kal loosened his grip just enough to allow him a whisper of air.
“Who?” he repeated.
“Con-clave.”
Kal shook him. “Horse shit.”
“S-swear,” he wheezed, self-preservation outweighing the acute agony of learning his brother’s fate. “Lu-cien. Paid us.”
Kal’s black lip curled, dangerous teeth on display. “You might just be that stupid,” he growled. “But Robb should have known better than to accept blood money from a slug like Lucien Cross.”
“I’m sorry, Kal—”
“It’s too late for sorry.” Kal set Skott’s feet once more upon the sodden earth and dragged him toward Felíne. She scrambled back, boots slipping, and slumped against the tree. “But you can beg her forgiveness.”
Skott had lost his menace. He crumpled, mud splattering his hide and trousers, bloody and blubbering at her feet. His pitiful voice pitched up another octave as he pleaded for his life, earlier ferocity collapsing in on itself.
He was no longer a threat. But instead of assuaging her fear, as was surely Kal’s intent, Skott’s obvious hysteria bled into her.
The barely controlled anxiety tightening Felíne’s chest increased in pressure with each sloppy imploration.
He reached a quaking claw toward her, strips of bloody flesh dripping inches from her feet. She turned her head away.
She couldn’t face this. She needed to escape. She needed…she…