Fetching Analia

by Jory Strong

  “What’s the likelihood?”

  Kellen shrugged. “All I can say is that it’s a possibility.”

  “Perhaps one of us should go ahead.”

  “Me,” Kellen said, despite the howl of protest swelling his chest at putting more distance between him and Analia. But there was no choice, in hound form he could more quickly assess the danger.

  Crew gave a soft whistle. “And leave the little mate? I’m impressed by your sacrifice. She is the little mate now, correct? And does she know it?”

  Whatever Kellen might have answered was lost in a shout of alarm and by the thunder of charred logs rolling downward toward the trail. He caught a glimpse of a boar high up on the charred hill, moving to another grouping of logs, and of Deidra, in human form, rising from behind a massive log and adding her strength to that of the treacherous grig who’d wielded the cold iron knife.

  The logs descending on them gained speed as they tumbled downward, some of them breaking apart, some of them loosening soil and rocks, creating small slides.

  Crew charged toward the enemy, cursing at not being able to become dragon. And at not being able to risk his fire and turn the tumbling wood into ash, for fear of incinerating the warrior grigs who were racing upward.

  The boar, traitor and fey hound continued to send more logs downward, in a trap that’d been cleverly disguised and must have been laid in place weeks or months previously, in anticipation of the grigs journeying to the lake should they regain possession of their crystal.

  Kellen dropped the net and pouches to the ground, and with a glance toward Analia shifted to hound form. His heart screamed when he looked toward her again and saw her dodge a slide, then disappear over the lip of the trail with the child still on her hip.

  No! howled through him. But there was no following her, no way of ensuring his mate’s safety other than to kill the enemy.

  He raced upward, easily passing Crew who scrambled on feet, and sometimes clawed with hands to gain traction in the loose, scorched earth.

  A grig to Kellen’s left gave an agonized cry as he was struck by a log. Images of Analia being crushed or broken tormented Kellen, ripping at his heart but also feeding his determination to reach the enemy and kill, kill, kill.

  He leapt sideways to avoid a rush of rock and dirt dislodged by a log sent tumbling forward when one higher up crashed into it. Behind him Crew grunted, hit by something but Kellen kept climbing, his paws and lower center of gravity giving him the advantage.

  More broken and burned tree trunks came down the hill. More dirt and rocks.

  Moans of agony followed cries as those below couldn’t avoid being struck. But others continued upward. He heard them scrabbling and scrambling up the torched terrain.

  He couldn’t take the time to look back to determine who might be dead or dying or could be saved with the rendering of aid. He couldn’t allow himself to think about Analia, or go to his mate, though his heart howled, and he cursed himself for not telling her he loved her, for not telling her they were mated.

  Arrows flew from grigs still on their feet, missing Deidra who ran upward, toward the canyon edge rather than continue sending logs hurtling toward the trail. She escaped while those same archers trapped the traitorous grig behind a tree whose branches anchored it in place because they hadn’t burned hot enough to lose all strength.

  Fury scorched though Kellen as he felt the phantom burn of the cold iron blade across his scarred back. He reached the log, surged around it and found the traitorous grig, Tobik, facing him.

  Kellen crouched, bared his teeth, his keen hearing bringing the sound of others rapidly approaching. He waited until his enemy was aware of that sound, wavered, perhaps because he counted on the mercy of his former clan members.

  Tobik glanced behind him and it was all the opening Kellen needed. He charged forward, leapt, his mass slamming into the grig.

  The blade sliced across Kellen’s shoulder, burning, cauterizing, marking the moment when canine teeth slid through skin and muscle, ripped and tore.

  His mouth filled with a hot flood of blood. It sprayed onto his muzzle and face and shoulder in the seconds before the grig’s feeble struggles ended in death.

  Kellen spat the blood out, nostrils filled with the tainted stench of apple and decay, the same scent that had filled Analia’s car during the ambush. To his left came the high-pitched squeal of a boar.

  He spared a glance and saw Crew, close enough to send a second stream of flame toward the already burning animal. Kellen felt a second of regret for a beast trapped by compulsion—only to have that regret become a surge of satisfaction when fire-engulfed boar became black-haired baoban.

  She screamed, the sound a blend of boar’s high-pitched squeal and woman’s cry. She shrieked and spun, and burned and died.

  But her death didn’t end the threat. There was at least one more of them—the one whose silver braid Deidra had tried to enslave him with. Kellen continued upward, intent on ending Deidra’s life as well as eliminating the remaining threat.

  He reached the end of the burn, plowed through scrub to the trail Deidra was now on. A backward glance was all he could spare, but the angle didn’t allow him a view of Analia.

  Howling inside, he charged forward.

  Chapter 13

  Analia slid down, down, down, her arms wrapped around Gwendolen, her hand still gripping the bow.

  Rocks pinged against her face, leaving small cuts and bruises. Above the sound of her pounding heart and the slide and crash of dirt and rock, she heard shouts and cries of pain.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said, for her own benefit as well as the child’s. “It’ll be okay.”

  But how many would end up dead? Gravely injured?

  Some of the logs rolling downward were as tall or taller than the tallest grig.

  Against her neck, the smallest grig whimpered, mouthed Papa, over and over again.

  By some miracle they reached the path she’d seen from above. Its flatness stopped their descent.

  Shaking, Analia scrambled to her feet, saw more logs bearing down on them and ran forward.

  Tree trunks rocketed past her, crashing into scrub or young trees, close enough she felt the vibration through the soles of her feet. Pebbles and small rocks hit her legs and torso, bouncing as they struck harder dirt.

  Above them, grigs continued to cry out, and some lay horribly still.

  “Papa,” Gwendolen sobbed, “Papa.”

  Analia searched. She didn’t see the girl’s father, but she did see Dugald, lying motionless and bleeding, his scraped arms crossed over the pouch containing the crystal.

  In front of Analia, a tall, black-haired woman charged out of the dense brush. She was a shocking apparition wearing a long black gown.

  Slits down the sides exposed legs that weren’t human. Her canine teeth formed short, gleaming tusks.

  Gwendolen screamed and clutched Analia tightly.

  Baoban, Analia thought, heart thundering harder as the woman scrambled up the hill toward Dugald.

  “I’ve got to put you down,” Analia said, prepared to peel Gwendolen away if necessary.

  But the child was more afraid of their enemy gaining possession of the crystal than she was for her own safety. She released her vise-like hold, allowing Analia to set her on her feet.

  Breath coming in loud pants, Analia grabbed an arrow from the quiver that miraculously still contained arrows after the long, rough slide down the steep hillside.

  She nocked it, steadied herself by imagining Kellen’s arms around her, Kellen’s hands on hers, his warm voice murmuring in her ear, “Feel and release.”

  “Feel and release,” she whispered, letting the arrow fly.

  It struck, sinking into a boar-like leg and eliciting a high-pitched squeal.

  Analia blocked her mind to the woman’s pain, blocked out any thought but doing what needed to be done.

  She grabbed another arrow.

  Nocked it.

  Pu
lled back the string and let it go.

  With a thwack it stuck higher, into a human thigh.

  The baoban shrieked, but didn’t stop climbing.

  She reached Dugald and bent over him. Grunted like a rooting boar as she tore at the pouch.

  Another squeal, this one like a high-pitched trumpeting, and she stood, turned, sunlight hitting the green crystal.

  “No!” Gwendolen cried, and charged forward, her bravery and courage a death sentence.

  Analia nocked another arrow and sent it flying.

  And then another.

  And another.

  And another.

  Whack.

  Whack.

  Whack.

  Whack.

  They struck the nightmare apparition in rapid succession. One after another sinking into her chest.

  The baoban fell face forward and hit the ground, sending the crystal tumbling toward the trail.

  On hands and knees Gwendolen scrambled upward, reaching the crystal. She grabbed it, turned and cried out.

  Above them, warriors shouted and lobbed arrows between Analia and Gwendolen. They hurried down the hill, firing more arrows, sliding and standing, sliding and standing.

  The arrows fell far short but they sent Analia’s heart thundering up into her throat.

  Too late, she understood the source of their fear and efforts.

  A noose tightened around her throat from behind.

  She had enough presence of mind to hurl the bow as far as she could, upward, toward the advancing grigs.

  The noose jerked, and she felt her attacker’s fury at having been thwarted. A hissed, female voice said, “I’ll make you wish they’d killed you where you stand. I’ll carve you apart limb from limb and then hang what’s left of you alive over the cooking fire. Come willingly with me.”

  A savage tug pulled her backward though her feet were already obeying the baoban.

  Breath sawed in and out of Analia’s lungs, the hair around her neck restricting her airflow. The stench of blood and offal and evil made her stomach threaten to heave even as the rest of her fought for air.

  She glimpsed a silver-haired woman out of the corner of her eye as she was swung around and shoved forward. She had enough will to rid herself of the quiver with its remaining arrows.

  That gained her another savage, twisting jerk of the hair around her neck. It gained her another hissed threat. “Maybe I’ll allow the hound bitch to maul you before I begin my feast preparations. Now run! Run fast!”

  And Analia ran.

  Fast.

  She ran even when her sides and legs screamed for her to stop.

  She ran even when her lungs burned.

  She ran even when her heart pumped so hard it sent spasms of pain through her chest and threatened to explode.

  But at least her mind wasn’t fogged.

  At least—running aside—her will hadn’t been stolen.

  Kellen would come for her. She had to believe that he’d survived the ambush.

  She refused to believe otherwise.

  Refused to dwell on the possibility he’d be too late.

  But if he was…

  Her only regret was in not having the courage to tell him she’d fallen in love with him.

  It was sappy…

  Tears leaked from her eyes as she remembered using that same word on the beach, when she’d told what she thought was an Irish Wolfhound that the first kiss with Kellen had made her think he was the one.

  There’d be another chance. She had to believe there would be another chance for them to find their happy-ever-after.

  * * *

  Kellen abandoned the hunt when Deidra, traveling downhill, crossed the trail they’d been on a couple of miles before the place where the ambush had been staged. She’d pay for her actions, he silently promised, whether in the grig realm or the one she called home or in the human world. He’d see to it that she paid.

  Turning toward the burned area, the heat of the chase gave way to fear for his mate. He raced forward, covering the distance in a fraction of the time it’d taken the procession journeying to the sacred lake.

  When he reached his traveling companions, his throat tightened and burned at not seeing Analia. Crew’s eyes held an answer, but it was one Kellen refused to read.

  He shifted to human form, asked, “Where is she?” uncaring that his voice vibrated with pain and fear.

  “Taken.”

  Gwendolen began crying, her tear-streaked face testament that she’d only recently stopped.

  Her father, bruised and bloody, his trousers ripped and one arm secured by a sling gathered her up in his other arm. “She kept the crystal from falling into our enemy’s hands.”

  “She killed one of them, a black-haired baoban,” Crew said, pointing downward, to where a corpse was visible halfway up the steep, burned terrain.

  Jaw aching with the force required to keep himself from howling, Kellen forced the words out, “Was she taken alive?”

  “Yes,” Crew said.

  Gwendolen’s lip quivered and tears fell more quickly. “Herr—our enemy put a leash around Analia’s neck.”

  Kellen spared a glance at the grigs gathered on the trail, only a few of them standing. “How bad?”

  Crew said, “No losses, but between the injured and the able-bodied needed to help carry some of the others home, only the elders and the descendants remain. Some of the elders would be better off returning—”

  “We will go on,” the woman who’d lifted a flute to her lips and led them away from the burrow said, determination in her voice, though like Dugald and Gellawin, her clothing was bloody and torn, her face and arms scratched.

  Kellen’s gaze met Crew’s. “They need to continue the journey.”

  Crew nodded, expression grim. “The artifact has to be taken out of play. Go. Find your mate. I’ll provide their protection.”

  Kellen went, shifting to hound form and hurling himself over the edge of the trail.

  He went down, down, down, past the dead baoban, the scent of his mate reaching him, lingering on the arrows protruding from the hag.

  The bow Analia had borrowed was on the hillside. He snatched it up between hound teeth and kept going, finally reaching the place where burn ended and brambles began.

  Analia’s scent was there, along with one that reeked of boar and blood and charred flesh. A glint out of the corner of his eye had him turning his head and spotting Analia’s quiver of arrows.

  He padded over to it, shifted long enough to position the bow across his chest so he could carry it, then returned to hound form and snagged the quiver with a savage snap.

  She was still alive.

  He couldn’t allow himself to believe otherwise.

  He breathed in Analia’s scent and the stink of the baoban.

  And then he ran. Ran toward his mate.

  Crashing through brambles and trees.

  Traveling on game trails, briars grabbing at his fur.

  He ran as if his life depended on it.

  And it did.

  He couldn’t lose her.

  Refused to contemplate that such a thing was possible.

  When he caught up with her…

  After he’d dealt with the baoban and Deidra…

  He better understood the agony Taine experienced every time he was forced to separate from Saffron.

  Refused with each footfall to imagine anything other than finding Analia and fetching her home.

  Eventually the trail led to a cave.

  From the scents he’d encountered leading to and from the area, only Deidra and one of the baoban remained.

  They’d be expecting him. But delay wasn’t an option, not with Analia’s life at stake.

  He’d gladly die for his mate. Life wouldn’t be worth living without her at his side. He regretted not telling her they were mated, regretted she hadn’t felt the same happiness he had each time he glanced at her, each time he inhaled her scent and thought, my mate.

/>   He shed the hound’s form and readied an arrow, not letting himself linger on the memory of Analia in his arms as he’d taught her to line up her shots beneath the night sky.

  He refused to believe it was too late, that their future together was already lost.

  Steps away from the cave, the stench of blood and charred meat and offal nearly made him vomit as rather than take shallow breaths, he took deep ones in an effort to gain any advantage he could—and find evidence his mate was still alive.

  Kellen drew back the bow string and entered the cave, his heart thudding with equal measures of fear and love at seeing Analia.

  A silvery-haired baoban stood near a throne of bones. She had his mate positioned as a shield, a strand of hair around Analia’s neck to keep her passive. A knife pressed to her throat to keep him at bay.

  His eyes met his mate’s, and his heart soared at finding hers clear, shining with an emotion that had his heart answering with a pounding, melting beat. She might be unable to fight the hair-binding, but her mind wasn’t fogged. She wasn’t enslaved.

  Deidra was to the left of the baoban, in fey hound form, and it was all he could do not to release the arrow and send it into her greedy heart. Any number of males might well have considered her a prize, but love didn’t matter to her, only power.

  He forced his attention to the baoban, only barely kept the revulsion from his expression at seeing her examine him as if he were a piece of meat, one meant for breeding, and only when that purpose had been satisfied, for eating.

  But it played to his advantage. What he wanted with Analia, a future that included a mate and offspring, could be used to defeat their enemies.

  Not lowering his weapon, he said, “You’re all alone, with only a single ally, and she has no access to a portal. Nor will she ever be able to bring humans to this realm.”

  The baoban licked her lips. She slid the knife back and forth across Analia’s throat, turned at an angle so it didn’t slice through the delicate skin that’d drawn his mouth to it time and time again.

  “So you’ve come for this pretty thing. But I’m not one to share my meal. Or maybe you’re going to plead with me to enslave her rather than roast her over my spit.”

  A cooking fire burned hot a few feet away from the baoban. It leapt hungrily, as if waiting for an offering of flesh and blood.