Chapter 40
Arustling in the jungle wrenched Quentin from sleep.
Fuck. He must’ve dozed off against the wagon. He cursed to himself again; he was supposed to be on watch. Quentin sat forward, blinking away his sleep. The fire had burned to quiet embers, and the oil lamps were blown out. A muscle in his back twinged.
He grimaced. He would definitely feel the effects of his uncomfortable sleeping position for a while. What he wouldn’t give to be back in that Vathan feather bed right now.
The darkness moved again. Their mule, tied to a tree, brayed softly and stamped a hoof. Quentin pushed off the wagon and landed in a crouch. He pulled a knife from his baldric, scanning the jungles.
Leaves rustled. He could almost imagine it was the wind brushing through the boughs high above them.
Almost.
Until he heard the growl.
It was low and guttural, rumbling through the deep night. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, the anticipation of a fight settling over him like a familiar blanket.
The wagon jostled. A wide-eyed Delaynie emerged into the night, her auburn hair mussed from sleep. Her usual polished appearance had fallen away, replaced by a softness he so rarely saw on her.
Quentin couldn’t appreciate such things at the moment. Not when wild, desperate fear pierced him, washing away any cool anticipation of a fight he might’ve felt.
“Delaynie,” he hissed, still scanning the brush. “Get back inside the wagon now—”
A heavy thing crashed through the forest. A dark, massive shape leaped over the vines, landing with a heavy thud on the fallen tree trunk Delaynie had used as a bench no more than a few hours earlier.
Yellow eyes narrowed on them, snapping teeth glinted behind a snarling maw, brownish-gray fur bristled in the dying embers of their fire.
A wolf. A huge one; far larger than anything Quentin had ever seen in his life.
He lunged forward, throwing himself between Delaynie and the beast. Its glowing eyes locked on him, another snarl ripping through the night.
Quentin flipped his dagger, balancing its familiar weight as he drew a second one from its sheath. He angled his feet, settling into a stance he’d spent his whole life honing. “Get lost, fucker.”
The wolf growled again.
They stayed like that, caught in a tense stalemate. Sweat beaded across Quentin’s brow, dampening his hair, dripping into his eyes.
Slowly, the wolf started to move.
It circled the tent, yellow eyes on them, lip still lifted in a snarl. Its giant paws were silent on the mossy floor, gray fur melting in and out of the surrounding darkness.
But there were always those eyes. Quentin never lost sight of those.
The wolf stopped, its yellow gaze sliding off Quentin, landing on something beside him.
Not something.
Someone.
Delaynie hadn’t listened to him. She hadn’t even bothered staying behind him, but had instead moved to his side, her shoulder inches from brushing his.
Fuck. What was she thinking?
He couldn’t ask her or yell at her or do much of anything.
The wolf lunged.
Its jaws snapped, snarl again ripping through the still night air. And yet it didn’t attack; only took a single step forward, ears pressing back to its skull as it fixed its gaze on Quentin. He was frozen in place, chest heaving, arms trembling from how tightly he gripped his daggers.
“Delaynie,” he whispered, not bothering to hide the desperation bleeding into his words. “Please, get in the wagon, now—”
He swung his gaze to her, his words dying in his throat.
She wasn’t looking at him. Her expression was wide, open, and curious. Not a trace of fear lurked in the planes of her high cheekbones or in the proud set of her brow.
Her icy-blue eyes were pinned on the wolf, holding its stare.
And they were glowing.
It wasn’t a glow like Mariah’s magic. It was like…
Quentin swallowed.
It was a glow just like the one in the beast’s eyes.
The wolf’s yellow eyes met Delaynie’s blues, and the jungle held its breath.
The wolf’s snarl slowly faded, its lips dropping to cover its wicked teeth.
The raised hackles along its shoulders lowered, its stance relaxing.
It cocked its head, ears pricked, ignoring Quentin even as he readjusted his grip on his knives.
Delaynie stood stiff and still. Unblinking and unmoving, a statue but for the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she heaved her breaths.
What the fuck was going on?
Quentin jostled her with a shoulder, trying to shake her out of whatever this was. “Please, little wolf,” he whispered again, fighting the panic clawing up his throat. “Please—”
The wolf stepped forward.
“I said stay back,” Quentin snarled, swinging back to the beast. But it still paid him no heed, yellow eyes locked on Delaynie.
They were trapped like that, in a bizarre standoff between man, beast, and girl. Quentin didn’t dare move; what would he do, exactly, if the wolf attacked? It would barrel into him and likely take out Delaynie in the process. He needed to get it away from her, or get her into the wagon—
When he looked again at her glowing blue eyes, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Something deeper was happening, something he didn’t understand. Something maybe she didn’t understand, either.
Was she awake? Was she aware?
He was about to grab her again, to shake her until she looked at him, until she spoke to him, did fucking something—
The wolf leaned back on its haunches, tipping its nose up to the moons and stars hiding behind the thick canopy.
Its howl tore through the night, bringing the jungle back to life.
Birds took flight. Tree-dwelling animals leaped from branch to branch. Insects and burrowers scuttled into their homes.
Delaynie gasped. A shudder ripped through her and she doubled over. Quentin just barely flipped his knife out of the way to catch her around the middle.
“Delaynie,” Quentin said, urgency crawling and dancing up his throat. “Little wolf, what’s wrong—”
The howl ended abruptly, wrenching his attention up. Delaynie clung to him, still shaking, her body too hot, so hot, all but burning up—
The wolf gave her one long, final look. It turned, leaping over the fallen tree, and vanished into the night as silently as it had emerged.
Quentin’s heartbeat thundered in his chest. He gripped Delaynie, still holding tight to his knives, not willing to sheath them. Not willing to comprehend whatever the fuck had just happened.
“Quentin?” Delaynie’s weak voice almost pushed him to his knees with relief.
He loosened his hold on her, pulling her up to glimpse her face.
He held both daggers in one hand, using the free one to cup her cheek.
She was still flushed and too warm. Her eyes no longer glowed, but something bright and feverish lurked in them.
“I’m here, little wolf,” he murmured, scanning her. “What was that? What happened to you?”
She met his gaze, pupils wide, chest still heaving. “I—” She swallowed, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you get back in the damn wagon?” He didn’t mean to growl the words. Didn’t mean for them to come out so harsh. His fear still coiled around his heart, and growls rumbled amongst the murmurings of the jungle.
Maybe he was imagining them. That didn’t make the terror he felt less real.
Delaynie glanced around. She blinked, like she was trying to clear a fog from her vision. “I don’t know,” she repeated. The warmth was fading from her skin, the flush dying, her breaths returning to normal.
Her muscles still trembled, and she still clung to him, like if she let go, she’d fall to pieces.
Quentin swallowed. He tried to push down his anger—push down every protective instinct that was rising around him like a wild wave.
He slipped his knives back into his baldric then pulled her into a guiding embrace.
He cast a final, searching glance around their small clearing, trying to pierce the veil of thick darkness that consumed the jungle.
Nothing. As still and silent as it had been before, no traces of watchful, seething yellow eyes.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he murmured. She didn’t react, didn’t respond to him. It was like as she steadied, she also was retreating, sinking into herself as reality settled over her.
She let him pull her toward the wagon without fight or protest. Let him lead her beneath the canvas cover, where a makeshift pallet of blankets and furs was nestled amongst their food and supplies. She said nothing, utterly empty, when he guided her down and pulled her close against him.
This was another bad idea, especially given their conversation the night before. After what had just happened, though, there was no fucking way he was letting her out of his arms tonight. Damn the consequences or what she would say when his fiery little wolf came back to herself.
As they lay there, nestled in the darkness, Quentin’s mind fed him vicious images. Of all the ways that encounter could have gone horribly, dangerously wrong.
Sharp fangs sinking into soft, pale flesh. A gray muzzle streaked with ruby blood. A nightmare painted into the silent night, the memorial of a failed Armature who’d never deserved his station in life.
It was what could have happened. What should have happened. He’d fallen asleep, let the fire go out, and all but invited the beast into their refuge.
It could still happen. The darkness pressed in, like a vice.
As Quentin slipped in and out of restless sleep and woke with the dawn the next day, Delaynie still tucked tightly against his chest, there was but one thought lingering in his mind.
One thought lingering as he cleaned up their camp and hitched the mule to the wagon.
One thought as Delaynie settled on the bench beside him, pale and quiet as a wraith.
That wolf should have attacked.
Why didn’t it?