Chapter 8
Argos
As soon as Theora fell asleep, Argos left through the window.
If they’d actually planned on staying married, he would have drawn the line at her restricting his hunting time. But his prey drive was far too strong tonight to waste time on complaints. Theora had claimed him for a reason…and seeing her scar had just reminded him why.
She had been there…in the convoy, during the attack.
He must have known that, though he didn’t remember noticing her scent.
Perhaps he just hadn’t been paying attention, given that the mission had been to protect the queen’s convoy and Theora hadn’t been queen at the time.
Or perhaps he’d had more immediate things to attend to.
But that scar on her hip never should have happened…and maybe he could’ve protected her, if he had adhered to the rituals he’d been raised with.
If he hadn’t stayed with his wife’s body.
But now wasn’t the time for what-ifs. It was time to put aside all resentment and start taking his job seriously.
The Sovereign had given him this chance to redeem himself…
to protect Theora in a way he hadn’t been able to protect Izzi.
Better, even, because he would be cutting off the enemy before they got the chance to even try.
It would be a step down from his true prize, but a blow to the enemy nonetheless.
And one less danger for Theora to worry about.
As things stood, an hour would be cutting it close, but Argos wasn’t worried—it was just enough time to get there, claim his trophy, and get back to Theora with a minute or two to spare, if all went smoothly. And Argos was far too efficient a hunter for it to go anything but smoothly.
He traveled light—all he brought with him was his emergency knife and a small sack for carcasses, the heavy-duty kind that was lined with a waxy finish to keep blood from soaking through. Large enough for his trophy, but not much else.
He found his way back to the perch he’d occupied many nights over the past year and waited.
It was a new moon and a little rainy…the best sort of night for hunting.
His night vision and sense of smell were made for pitch-blackness.
He could easily avoid the few spotlights grazing the area.
And the Vespulan watchtower was made of stone and metal, creating a pretty little song from the rain, to better disguise his movements.
The guards he’d seen every night this week, in their usual place. And his prey, giving instructions to the night warden.
Right on schedule.
After giving instructions, she would round the watchtower before heading back inside. In that time, there was about a twenty-second window before the new guard took her position at the back of the tower, which the spotlight beams didn’t touch. Twenty seconds to snag his kill and get away unnoticed.
It was a tight window, and it certainly wouldn’t be as clean as he liked—Boada would scold him for that later.
But the war commander nodded and began to move on—his cue to move.
There was no more time for thought. His adrenaline was already pumping, his prey drive urging him to move faster, quieter, prowl toward his trophy.
The trees didn’t extend close enough to the wall, so eventually he had to climb down. He moved in the deepest part of shadow, climbed the stone wall of the fortress in the darkest corner. And then he stilled. Silently waiting the few seconds for his prey to be in position.
Let’s go, Argos. Bring it home.
He moved with the spotlight, with his prey’s approach.
And then he threw the sack over her head just as he sank his fangs into her neck with careful control—too much would deplete his venom stores, leaving him without that particular defense for the next few hours.
Too little would cause the sort of pain reaction that would get him caught.
As it stood, she had the predictable reaction of momentarily passing out, granting him enough time to tear her head off before she came to.
He twisted his bag quickly to contain the blood—he’d drain it later by the river—and laid what remained of his prey on the stone floor of the tower balcony, escaping just in time to avoid the persecution of the spotlights.
He didn’t stop moving until he reached the river. It flowed loudly enough to block his careful sounds but was not so obstructive that he couldn’t assess the environment with all his senses. No signs of Vespulans, no voices, no scents. Only then did he turn his focus on what came next.
He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to go. Easy work.
He crouched down to clean his trophy in the river. Offering, he should call it, not trophy. A trophy implied something more than either he or Theora cared to give in this arrangement, if they ever wanted to part ways after the next week was over.
This was nothing but a favor. A gesture of good faith.
After all, she herself had said she wanted this, the very first day they met—she could not retaliate against the enemy, as much as she wanted to.
And, as her husband, he had the Honor of making her desires reality, if it was within his power.
So really, all he was doing was delivering something she’d asked for.
Don’t kid yourself, Argos…
He would use that as an excuse, certainly. But the reality was, he’d never wanted to kill someone so badly in all his life, and he was proud of himself for doing what he had to do to protect his wife.