Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
R onin burst through the arched doors to the estate, a welcome blast of air cooling his frenzied bloodlust.
Outside, the guests were scattered along the iron fence, most congregating by the towering entrance gate and trying to break through the air between the bars. To no avail. That warded barrier remained intact.
A panicked sweep around the circular driveway revealed Layla crouched over Mireille, prone in the gravel next to the empty fountain with that coiled, striking serpent statue.
Heart in his throat, Ronin hobbled over to the two females, his ribs and arm still aching, and roared at Layla. “Why hasn’t she woken up yet?”
Layla raised her head, revealing two coppery red braids. On the ground before her, Mireille’s bun was a swirl of black and white.
“What the—” Awe stopped his words as Layla’s features sharpened, her espresso eyes turning silver and her lips filling out into a very familiar pout.
At his feet, Mireille transformed into Layla, and her eyes snapped open as she sucked in a shuddering breath before popping upright.
Mireille stood, beaming at him. Though her smile dissolved as her eyes roved over his bloodied face, his awkwardly cradled left arm. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I will be.” He shook his head, tossing Bonecleaver to the ground and cupping her cheek with his right hand. “What’s going on? What did you two do?”
Mireille aimed a smug smirk at Layla. “Took some extra precautions. We each took a small dose of veiling potion before the performance. Layla thought Otto might try to drink from me. Luckily, honey-badger bi-forms are immune to Deathstalker venom. His bite only knocked her out for a bit while the neurotoxins in her blood did their work.” Mireille laughed, the merry sound music to his ears.
“What were you going to do if you had to go through with the dance solo?” Ronin asked Layla.
She shrugged. “We wouldn’t have let it get that far. Mireille would’ve captured Nostrata before I took a single step.”
He brushed a thumb across Mireille’s cheekbone. “You should have told me.”
She tipped up a shoulder, all cool nonchalance. “We needed your reaction to be genuine. Otherwise, Otto might have known we’d switched places.”
He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her in for a hungry kiss.
Layla rolled her eyes. “You two can quit pretending now.”
Mireille gazed up at him, her icy silver eyes softer than he’d ever seen them, a strand of copper hair blowing across her face. She placed a hand on his chest, and his heart squeezed. “We were never pretending,” she whispered, smiling, and sweet Amatu, it was the most beautiful fucking thing he’d ever seen.
Ronin leaned down for another kiss.
He never reached her lips.
The estate entrance exploded, a burst of tinkling glass and crushed stone that revealed Nyctima.
And Otto riding on the back of her head.
Horrified screams and echoing clangs erupted through the courtyard as the guests began pounding on the iron fence.
Mireille grabbed her sword, Ronin lifted Bonecleaver, and Layla unhooked two throwing knives from the corset around Mireille’s waist.
Nyctima lowered her head and Otto leapt down, his feet crunching through the gravel as he headed for the trio at the fountain.
The last line of defense between these monsters and the innocent Fae behind them.
Otto paused, blinking slowly. His skin had paled further, and his bright yellow viper’s eyes had darkened to deep pits so black they seemed to swallow the gray afternoon light.
“He’s mine,” Mireille growled. “You two take Nyctima.”
She stalked forward as Ronin and Layla pivoted for the snake, who was being lured toward the gate by the wailing, cowering guests.
Mireille tightened her grip on the sword as she stopped mere feet from Otto. “You look a bit different, Jurgev.”
He cocked his head, the motion more serpentine than Fae, then hissed, shooting a jet of fire toward her that she pivoted away from.
“Lost your ability to speak when you got eaten by your little pet, huh?” Mireille taunted, inching closer. He smelled like singed hair and charred flesh, the skin on his palms melting onto the gravel in smoking chunks. “You wanted me to dance for you” —she leveled the sword at his face— “so let’s fucking dance.”
She lunged for him, slicing her sword toward his stomach, but he slithered away. His movements were hitching and jerky, like he barely had control of his muscles. A corpse risen from death.
He shambled toward the fence, aiming for the guests, and Mireille dashed after him.
She passed Ronin and Layla, both dodging Nyctima’s giant fangs as they futilely attempted to pierce her hide with knives and axe. Every blow glanced off the shimmering black scales.
Mireille re-focused on Otto, arcing her sword down and catching his calf. It cut through his blackened trousers, digging into his flesh, but he didn’t halt. He was beyond pain, beyond thought.
She crashed into his back, tackling him to the ground, and pressed her sword under his jaw. He didn’t struggle, merely lay beneath her, smirking like he had some great secret.
Not a drop of blood emerged when she dragged the steel across his throat, even though the skin parted easily, releasing a cloudy gray puff. He laughed, a smoggy hiss containing no sound at all.
As if he’d been transformed into a being of pure fire. One her sword would be useless against.
He bucked up, throwing her off, then sent a blazing stream for her head. She raised a forearm to block it, and the fire scorched across the leather. She rolled away, dropping her sword and dousing the flames.
Time to come out and play , she called to her wolf.
Her limbs popped and lengthened, her muscles strengthening, fangs and claws elongating as she shifted into her copper-furred wolf.
She sprang for Otto, but he threw up a wall of fire, undisturbed as the flames poured off him, consuming his hair, clothes, and limbs.
She whined, backing away and crashing against the fence as Otto strode toward her, each careful step agonizingly slow. As if he had all the time in the world. As if her end was inevitable.
“Please,” Mireille blubbered as Otto towered over her, his flames singeing her fur.
She swiped a paw at him, then yelped when he grabbed it, burning her skin and crushing her bones with unnatural strength.
She howled for Ronin and Layla, but couldn’t see anything beyond Otto’s dancing flames.
A shadow crawled over them, and Mireille tried to howl again.
No sound came out as Nyctima’s massive jaws closed around her and Otto.
Ronin could do nothing but watch in abject terror as Mireille and whatever thing Jurgev Otto had become were swallowed whole by Nyctima.
For a moment, time froze. The screaming of the guests, the metallic whine of Layla’s knives scraping the impenetrable scales, the cold tang of snow, and the acrid bitterness of the guests’ fear all faded away.
Ronin dropped to his knees, adrenaline fleeing his body, and Bonecleaver crashed to the ground.
The sound broke Layla’s trance, and she paused her useless slicing to rush to him.
“Ronin.” She shook his shoulders. “ Ronin!”
He glanced up, jaw slack, limbs numbing as the fight seeped out of his muscles.
“Don’t you fucking give up!” she screamed in his face.
As if lured by her scream, Nyctima twisted toward them.
Manic delight flashed through her rainbow eyes.
Manic delight and challenge.
It lit something within him. Not something. His wolf .
The creature howled to the sky, the most feral, furious sound Ronin had ever heard.
A howl borne from centuries of restrained misery.
A howl of world-ending fury.
A howl to cleave the cosmos.
Ronin staggered to his feet. His chest heaved, his muscles bulged, and his wolf’s howl echoed up his own throat. His tattoos glowed, throwing off pulses of ice-blue light.
Layla backed up a step, muttering, “Bless the Creator.”
The sound of Ronin’s cage breaking was the sound of a fissuring glacier. Deep. Thunderous. Bone-shaking .
A shockwave burst across the courtyard, knocking Layla off her feet and sending her skidding into the fountain. The guests slammed against the fence in a series of thudding clanks.
Nyctima reared, her sheer size absorbing the blast.
And then, for the first time in nearly three-hundred years, Ronin Matakos shifted into his magnificent white wolf.
His massive paws slammed onto the gravel as he bared fangs nearly half the size of Layla herself. Panting breaths clouded the air as Ronin shook his enormous body, then crouched onto his haunches.
“My fucking turn,” he rumbled.
He sprang off his heels and launched himself for Nyctima.
Ronin had nearly forgotten what this felt like. To be himself but not himself. Intoxicating power coursed through his veins. He chomped down on the snake, just behind its head, the scales no longer impenetrable thanks to his colossal fangs.
She twisted and thrashed, her body a solid column of pure muscle. As large as Ronin’s wolf was, Nyctima was at least three times larger.
Something wrapped around Ronin’s left paw and squeezed. Unbearably hard. Her tail.
With a swift jerk, Nyctima whipped Ronin across the courtyard. He skidded through gravel and snow, slamming into the fence and scattering the dazed, terrified guests.
“Get them out of here,” he yelled to Layla in a low, burbling growl as he lurched back to his feet, shaking stones from his gleaming white fur.
Layla slid a hesitant glance toward the manor, then herded the guests up the steps and through the destroyed doors as Ronin turned his attention back to Nyctima.
The two puncture wounds near her head oozed an iridescent substance that Ronin couldn’t say for sure wasn’t blood.
He readied for another assault, hackles raised, muzzle dripping saliva.
Nyctima pushed upright, half her body towering over Ronin, her forked tongue darting out to sniff the air. She swayed as if trying to throw off his aim.
Ronin rocketed forward, his paws pounding the gravel, then broke left as the serpent struck forward in a shining black blur.
Ronin leapt onto her back and sunk his claws in, and she flipped over, wrapping her body around him. Smooth, cool scales slid against his fur as he dug his claws in deeper, trying to rip through skin and muscle to get to the vital bits.
Nyctima barely noticed.
And before Ronin knew it, the snake had coiled around him entirely, her muscular body crushing his too-recently healed ribs.
Dimly, he heard Layla shouting for him as his bones crunched and his lungs compressed. He couldn’t breathe, could only manage whimpering whines as Nyctima crushed the life from him.
If this was how he was meant to go, so be it.
At least he’d reunited with his wolf, one final time.
At least he and Mireille had made peace. Had become true partners. Friends. Maybe even something more than that, for one blissful night. Perhaps he’d find her again one day in the Halfway.
As the darkness crept in and his consciousness faded, his last thoughts were of her.
His little she-wolf.