Chapter 21 #2
“Traveling south from Grayhollow,” Rell told the official, the words clipped and cold as winter iron. “Routine supply transfer.”
The guard’s questions continued—destination, cargo, authorization—but the words blurred in Elora’s ears. Her attention locked on the second official circling their motorcar. Window by window, he bent to peer inside, his shadow falling across each passenger in turn.
Elora kept her eyes low. Studied the weave of the fabric at her knees. Counted the floorboards. One, two, three—
Two sharp raps of knuckles against glass, followed by a downward jerk of the guard’s hand—an order to raise her face. Rell’s finger began tapping a quick rhythm on the steering wheel.
The man’s brow creased immediately and signaled for her to roll down her window.
“Your eyes,” he said. “Why are they—”
He leaned closer. His pupils contracted as he stared into her irises.
Heat crawled up her throat. Her fingers found the seam of her robe and pressed in, nails biting through the fabric. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—
But Rell’s voice cut in smoothly from the driver’s seat.
“Potion experiment,” he said flatly. “Temporary visual effect. Side reaction.”
The guard’s nostrils flared. “And what potion was that?”
Rell’s fingers drummed once on the wheel before going still. “A concentration elixir. Prototype. She’s our alchemy specialist.”
Elora’s jaw tightened until her teeth ached. Rell’s words flowed with the practiced ease of a street performer’s sleight of hand.
The official’s gaze lingered on her face. His eyes narrowed to slits, hand drifting to rest on his weapon belt.
She forced herself not to shift, not to breathe too fast, not to bare her teeth.
Finally, the guard stepped back.
“Fine,” he muttered, tapping the window frame twice as though testing it. “Proceed.”
Rell double-tapped the accelerator, rolling them forward.
They were through.
Elora exhaled sharply, pressing her palm to her knee to stop it from shaking.
A muscle twitched in Rell’s jaw as he stared straight ahead. His knuckles bleached white against the dark leather of the steering wheel, veins standing out like rivers on a relief map. The motorcar lurched forward, engine straining as if sharing their collective anxiety.
Half a mile later, Rell yanked the wheel sideways. Tires crunched through wild grass, sending tiny insects scattering in panicked clouds as they bumped to a stop beside a wall of pines.
“Go,” Rell jerked his chin toward the tree line, eyes still fixed on the road behind them. “Before you leave a mess I won’t clean up.”
Marcus fumbled with his belt, the Empire insignia catching on his trembling fingers as he shoved open the door. “Oh gods—thank you—my bladder’s about to—”
“Move!” Rowan’s boot connected with Marcus’s backside, propelling him forward in an ungraceful stumble.
Metal doors creaked open and slammed shut. Nevin stretched until his spine popped audibly. Twenty paces away, pine needles crunched under Rowan’s and Nevin’s boots as they disappeared between the trees, their hushed conversation carried back in fragments by the wind.
Rell approached Elora, his posture shifting into that soft focus he always got when he was about to say something serious—maybe ask how she was doing. Hopefully nothing about last night.
But before he could speak—
A scream shattered the forest's silence.
Raw. Guttural. Primal.
Marcus.
Blood drained from Rowan’s face. Nevin’s hand flew to his blade.
Elora and Rell exploded into motion, tearing through underbrush, branches whipping their faces as they charged toward the sound. Elora’s heart hammered against her ribcage, her inner beast clawing up her throat, demanding her to tear through whatever she found.
They skidded to a halt at the clearing’s edge, ducking behind massive pines.
Marcus thrashed on the ground, pants tangled around his ankles, face contorted in terror. Three men circled him like vultures—scarred faces, yellowed teeth, weapons glinting in dappled sunlight. The largest one pressed a serrated blade against Marcus’s throat, drawing a thin line of crimson.
“Empire garbage,” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips.
Elora’s fingers cracked as they began to transform. “Snatchers?”
Rell shook his head, lips tight.
“No. Just brigands. Wrong place, wrong prey.”
He uncorked a small vial.
The forest erupted with phantom soldiers—boots hammering the earth, weapons clanking, voices bellowing orders that shattered the silence like glass.
The men’s eyes widened in terror.
Two fled, crashing through undergrowth, their curses strangling in their throats as they vanished.
But the third—the one with the knife—snarled like a cornered animal and plunged toward Marcus’s exposed throat.
Elora’s humanity burned away in an instant.
Claws ripped through her fingertips like daggers unsheathing. Her jaw stretched painfully as fangs descended, vision bleeding into golden clarity so sharp she could count every vein in the attacker’s neck, pulsing with blood she could almost taste.
She launched herself at him, a feral scream tearing from her throat.
Her robe caught—one violent wrench shredded the fabric—and she slammed into him with such force that the air punched from his lungs in a grunt.
Her claws found his shoulder, raking deep.
He thrashed beneath her, knife skittering into the undergrowth, and the movement only drove her grip deeper—hot blood welling up between her fingers, flooding her senses with something dark and sweet and impossible to ignore.
The beast surged. Her vision narrowed to the pulse jumping at his throat.
Then Rell’s dagger sank into the man’s skull with a sound like a mallet striking wet wood, and it was over.
Elora went very still.
She rose slowly, blood dripping from her fingers, and turned to look at Rell. He was already withdrawing the blade, wiping it clean against the grass with the same unhurried efficiency he brought to everything. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“Rowan!” Rell called. “Marcus needs healing!”
Elora shifted back to fully human just as Rowan skidded into the clearing, Nevin right behind him.
Marcus whimpered from the ground, clutching at his robe.
“Guys,” he rasped, “I almost died… naked…”
Rowan dropped to his knees, pressing steady hands to Marcus’s chest. “You’re fine. Shut up.”
Rell approached her, one slow step at a time, hands raised, as if she were some wounded animal. “Elora,” he said quietly. “You alright?”
The pulse beneath her skin hadn’t faded yet, but it was contained. Brought to heel.
“Of course.”
Rell studied her a beat longer, his expression tightening just enough to give him away.
Who was he seeing: 9-year-old her, defenseless and needing saving, or the person she actually was?