Chapter 76
The room was frozen in a strange, jilted stillness.
Shock seeped from the men holding Quentin, their grips loosening by just a hair. A few of the others palmed their rapiers with wide eyes.
Quentin, though, was not surprised.
No, instead, all he felt was wild, crazed pride. His lips tugged into a fierce smile, a low chuckle burning up his throat.
The massive cream and red wolf snarled, the sound rumbling through the small room, and his chuckle turned into a laugh.
The wolf—Delaynie—crouched back onto her hindquarters, muscles bunching beneath her fur as her hackles rose along her shoulders. The air was taut, a bowstring about to snap—
“Quentin!”
A presence slammed into his mind. The voice was weak, as if calling from a great distance, but he knew it. He would always know it. It was as tied to him as he was to it, as much a part of him as his daggers or his scars.
But gods, could her timing have been any worse?
“Queenie? Fuck, is that really you?” Yes, he was annoyed. His relief was genuine, though. It had been so long since he’d heard Mariah’s voice; he wasn’t too proud to admit how much he missed it.
“It’s me. Where are you? What’s happening?”
“Um…”
Delaynie growled again, this time deeper. More menacing. It snapped a few of the men out from their stupor, and they jumped forward, their blades extended. Quentin gritted his teeth, yanking against his captors.
“It’s a bit hard to explain at the moment. Not exactly a good time.”
One of the men inched closer to Delaynie.
With a booming growl, she lunged, snapping with moon-pale teeth.
The flurry of movement was just the diversion Quentin needed; with a final, desperate shove, he freed himself from his distracted captors, eyes landing on his baldric discarded on the floor. “Chat later, maybe?”
He dropped to the ground, evading the pirates’ grasping hands, lunging for his knives. If he could just get to them…
“Protect Delaynie. And protect yourself. And when you can, come back to Onita.”
His fingers wrapped around familiar, worn leather just as a hand grabbed his bicep. With a wild grin, he yanked one of the blades from the baldric, whirling with a speed that came from unending practice and instinct honed from survival.
His blade sank into his assailant's throat before the man even had a chance to blink.
Quentin yanked the dagger free. Blood pooled down the front of the man's chest. He sank to his knees, collapsing on the floor.
Quentin quickly surveyed the room. A cool calmness fell over him, even though it was tinged with just a bit more fear than usual.
Delaynie was pressed into the corner, jaws snapping. One of the men lunged again, blade swiping far too close to all that creamy fur.
Quentin opened his mouth to yell, to tell her to fight, that he was coming—
Delaynie launched in a blur of cream and red. Her maw opened, eyes flashing as her teeth sank into the shoulder of the man who’d gotten a touch too close. Blood burst over her snout. The man screamed, his cries hoarse and ragged.
She violently shook her head, tearing his arm from his body.
Quentin couldn’t deny how fucking hot that was, even if it made him a little twisted.
He could still feel Mariah’s presence there, waiting for a response.
“Sure thing—” He doubled over, grunting at the force that slammed into his stomach. Drawing shallow breaths, he let instinct take control.
His bloodied dagger whirred through the air, embedding itself in the temple of the man who’d just elbowed him. The man dropped like dead weight, taking the blade with him.
Which was fine. Quentin had more. He slung his baldric over his chest, palming two more of his knives as three men turned away from the giant wolf tearing their companions’ limb from limb.
Idiots.
“Fight well, Quentin.” Mariah’s presence vanished as quickly as she’d arrived, leaving him alone with his wild and raging thoughts.
The edges of his vision peppered with red. He flipped his knives, grinning wildly.
“I guess we failed last night, huh?”
One of the men stiffened. “We’re just following orders, boy. We don’t know why Lord Varyn wants you. But when he commands, we obey.”
“What well-trained dogs you are.” Quentin scoped the space. Delaynie had torn herself a path from the corner, inching closer to the center of the room. Four more men framed her in, but if they could get past these seven, the living room—and the hall beyond—looked clear.
He faced the men approaching him. “So”—he swung his smile between them— “do you want to begin, or shall I?”
With a roar, the center man launched at Quentin. The room erupted in a frenzy of blood and clashing steel and chaos.
Quentin gave himself to it. Lost himself in it. It was a second instinct, to fight. Especially like this—far outnumbered, in close quarters, with nothing but his swiftness and his knives.
He plunged his dagger into the gut of the first man, slipping through the space his opponent had left exposed with the swing of his sword. Whirling on his heel, Quentin flung another blade, chuckling with satisfaction as it sank into the neck of the second.
Two down. He was disappointed; these pirates were making this too easy.
A sharp yelp, followed by a vicious snarl, tore through the room.
Quentin’s heart dropped into this stomach, eyes locking onto those of icy-blue.
The third man rushed him, thinking him distracted, but Quentin ducked under his swinging blade, shooting up to sink his blood-drenched dagger between his ribs.
The man collapsed with a wheeze, blood bubbling up from his punctured lung and heart.
Done. Good. Time to get to Delaynie.
Two more of the men around her had fallen, but the final two inched closer. A shallow cut must’ve landed on her shoulder; deep maroon bloomed across her pale fur. She didn’t look seriously injured, not even favoring the foot.
Pride swelled in Quentin’s chest. He hadn’t had time to process any of this; he likely wouldn’t for quite a while, given the situation.
But he marveled, for just a moment, at how incredible she was.
Not only coming to terms with a hidden gift but being forced to fight for the first time in her life in a body that likely felt as foreign to her as any.
Being forced to kill for the first time, just to keep herself alive.
He was absolutely fucking sure he wouldn’t have been able to do the same.
“You all right, little wolf?”
She blinked at him, shifting on her massive paws. The two men cornering her glanced over their shoulders, blanching.
Quentin flipped his dagger in his hand. “Sorry for killing your friends, but I really don’t like being dragged out of bed like that.”
It was still for three tense heartbeats.
Quentin dodged as the first man lunged for him, springing just out of reach. The second hung back, turning to face his comrade, ready to lend his assistance—
A great pale jaw closed around his throat, teeth sinking into his soft flesh. The pirate’s eyes flickered, body going rigid, before the light left them and he sank to the floor. Delaynie stepped over him, delicately avoiding his corpse as if offended by it.
Finally, there was only one pirate left.
He stared at the bodies around them, piled on the floor. Quentin caught the tremor in his hands as he released his curved rapier, landing wetly on the blood-soaked floor. The pirate sank to his knees, the room clouding with the scent of his terror.
“P-please,” he stammered, wide eyes darting between Quentin and Delaynie. “I was just following orders. It’s nothing personal—”
His words died in a garble as Quentin’s blade drew a clean line across his throat.
“It wasn’t personal for me, either,” he said, the man’s heart pumping his blood out over the front of his shirt, mixing with that of his comrades on the floor. “Not until you drew her blood. Good thing that was the last mistake you’ll ever make.”
The pirate slumped to the floor and didn’t rise again.
Quentin used the brief moment of peace to quickly collect his daggers. He wiped them on the now-ruined comforter before slipping them back into his baldric. From the dresser, he pulled a fresh tunic, tugging it over his blood-splattered shoulders.
Delaynie just stood, nearly as still as a statue in the corner. Even set into a wolf’s skull, her pale eyes were wide, unseeing.
Shock. If she were a human, he expected that she would be going into shock. It was only the instincts of the beast whose skin she wore that kept her standing now.
He slowly approached, hand stretched before him. She tensed, shifting back on her haunches, lips lifting in the earliest hint of a snarl.
“It’s me,” he murmured, as soft and calm as he could. “Delaynie. Little wolf, it’s me. It’s Quentin.” He spread his hands. An offering.
Gently, hesitantly, she leaned forward and gave him the barest sniff.
Something in her snapped. The tension melted off her massive frame, her ears drooping back against her skull. A soft wine slipped from her, so afraid and desperate and raw.
Quentin swallowed, fighting back the urge to rush into her. To bury his hands and face in what he was sure was delicately soft fur, to assure her that this would be okay. That they would be okay.
But Quentin also didn’t like to lie. Especially not to her.
“I know, little wolf.” He swallowed. “I know. But it’s not over yet. There will be more coming. We’re going to have to run for it. Can you do that? For me?”
Their eyes locked. He could almost feel the way she was pulling herself together, the way she was fighting back the desire to fall apart right there. Fighting back the shock, the horror, the disgust.
He knew. He’d battled those same feelings once, too. Taking your first life was never easy; especially when the taking was so brutal.
Delaynie was strong. Stronger than any of them knew. When she stood to her full height—eyes nearly level with Quentin’s—and gave him the subtlest of nods, he knew she was ready.
He ran his hands over his baldric, taking comfort in the weight of his daggers.
“Stay together, stay calm, and if anyone gets too close, bite their head off.”