I drove the knife hard, twisted. The Hellhound spasmed. At last it slumped. Dead.
I had a hard time catching my breath then. Between the agony of my shoulder and the tears streaking into my mouth, I couldn't get a good inhale. And then there was the fact that I'd just killed my godfather, and his blood was everywhere. All over me. Soaking into my jeans and boots.
A car door slammed, then another. Through the sound of my own gasps, two sets of footsteps crunched in the snow. Above, the sky had deepened to starry black, but through the haze of my own breath lit up by headlights, I couldn't make out any constellations.
"Shit," a man said. His accent was strange, almost Australian sounding. "He said she wouldn't kill it."
"He also said it wouldn't kill her," said another voice, this one female and low-pitched. "But it looks like he was wrong about that too."
"Shit," the man repeated. Then he emerged over Eamon's corpse, a man with graying black hair and a cruel twist to his thin lips. An iron spiral dangled from a chain around his neck, but otherwise he wore none of the metal accoutrements of magic. He looked too big to be a Sorcerer, even one that used other people's blood to power his spells. Still, he leaned over me with a scowl and scribed a complicated mandala in the air over my shoulder.
I tried to move, pulling at my leg, but it was trapped beneath the dead Hellhound.
The woman leaned into view, her dark skin limned by reflected moonlight. She had beautiful features, full and carved as if from ebony. Her teeth were white and straight as she smiled down at me. Silver rings in her eyebrows stood out like stars against her skin, and both of her ears had bars through the cartilage. If the piercings had stopped there, I wouldn't have thought it unusual. But her tight-fitted jacket was unzipped to the waist, revealing two rows of safety pins spearing her chest above her tank top's collar. Tiny metal discs dangled from each pin.
She knelt beside me as the man finished scribing his mandala. I hadn't noticed him press a cloth to my wound—probably because I hardly felt it anymore—but he lifted it above the spell and squeezed. Blood dribbled onto the mandala and sizzled like water in a pan. It flared to life, first turquoise, then fading to a darker blue.
After that, he used Eamon's blood, feeding more power to the spell as it stopped my bleeding.
"Not too much," the woman said, staving off his next pass with the rag. She seemed unperturbed by the blood that streaked across her hand. "We don't want her struggling too hard. Trust me," she said, addressing me. "You'll prefer this boring."
She wrenched the knife from the Hellhound's neck and used it to slice open the front of my shirt. I tried to lift my arm, to push her away, but it was like being in a nightmare where I couldn't move. Only this was real.
She straddled my waist, one knee on either side, and I glared up at her, twisting to dislodge her. Then the man grabbed my shoulders, digging into the still-raw wound. I screamed, and he held me down.
"Your master taught me this," she purred, flipping the knife in her grip and setting the tip of it against my chest, just below the hollow of my throat. "He said it would help keep you house broken." I felt my heart hammering against it, as if trying to push the knife away. "I don't know, though—I think there are better things to make a bitch do."
The knife point dug in, then dragged an arc of fire across my chest. I bit down on the scream, my thighs twitching beneath the Hellhound as I struggled to move, to make her stop, or at least to mess up her work.
I bucked, but she was too high for my hips to reach. She carved, making the first few arcs of a mandala I knew all too well. I gasped, reaching for the turquoise fire behind my heart. But it was dim—I'd lost so much blood that the magic had no means of conduction. Fresh tears streaked down my temples, into my ears.
I couldn't go back to Gwydian. I couldn't go back to being a slave. This couldn't be the end of my freedom—no. No. No no no.
A crack split the night. Something warm and viscous splattered across my face, and the arms of the woman over me. A second later, the rogue holding my shoulders dropped sideways and crashed into the snow. The woman was on her feet, priming one of the mandala disks at her chest. Another crack and she dove sideways, rolling over her shoulder and coming up with a glowing red mandala poised like a shield. It crackled, and she brought her arms down in a cross.
The spell launched up behind me. I heard the sound of an impact, then the hiss of metal. I tilted over, twisting myself onto my good shoulder just as two quick, successive cracks sounded out. One headlight went out, and I twisted around to see the rogue dive into the driver's seat, her beautiful face twisted in rage. She touched her chest, calling forward a bevy of mandalas, and reached for something in the glove box. A second later, she smashed vials of blood across the spells, which sparked to life under her hands.
I twisted, looking back to where a single Sorcerer stood, his red hair bright in the glare of the headlights. A gun glimmered at the end of his reach, two separate mandalas hovering above him and to the side. I recognized the design of a protective shield.
He fired again, knocking out the second headlight. Again, the tire. A flare of sapphire behind me sent me turning back to see that the spell he'd fired at the tire was melting the rubber. One of the woman's mandala's flared, and the windshield shattered out, spraying glass so far I had to shrimp curl behind Eamon's corpse to avoid being hit.
And then there was fire. Fire that jetted out like a geyser, spraying across the building behind me. The redheaded Sorcerer darted forward, liquid flame sliding off his shield into the snow. Steam enveloped the entire cul-de-sac, cutting off my view of the fight. Tires squealed, but I couldn’t see which direction the car was moving. I struggled against the weight of Eamon on my legs, convinced she was about to cast aside Gwydian's orders and run me down.
Then a mandala slammed down onto the asphalt beside me, and the bright sapphire of the Guild recruiter's magic leapt up around me. He knelt by me, shoving a crowbar under Eamon's corpse. He was so spindly I doubted he could lift that much weight, but leverage is a thing of beauty. He raised the body enough for me to wiggle out.
I slumped back against the inside of the shield, pain searing through every cell. Tires squealed again, farther off, and as the steam cleared, taillights flickered around the corner.
"Bitch knew she was outclassed," the Guild Sorcerer said. I closed my eyes, every limb throbbing and shaking. I wanted to curl up and disappear, hide until the world was safe again. "Hey, Martin. You can go into shock later. Take one of these." Something cool and curved pressed against the side of my face.
I opened my eyes to find a green bottle of Ferrous Sulphate supplements. I glanced up at him, feeling my expression twist in confusion.
"Iron pills," he said. "You don't know fuck-all, do you?"
I ignored the jab and opened the bottle with slippery fingers, tipping a pill into my hand.
"Two this time—you'll need it."
I grimaced at the metallic taste, but swallowed. Behind us, one warehouse was still on fire, belching gouts of black smoke into the air. Any minute now, there would be sirens. Given the bodies of the rogue Sorcerer and Hellhound growing cold in the street, I didn't want to be here when the authorities arrived.
The Guild Sorcerer met my eyes, then his gaze flicked over my injuries and his lips tightened. His pocket let out a squall of sound.
“What the hell is it now?” he said, pulling out his cell phone, which was lighting up with message after message. "This is probably backup requesting more backup because the sanguimancers have backup."
I shuddered, craving the safety of my hound form. Changing would take everything I had left, so unless the iron pills worked fast, I doubted I’d be able to get home after. Then again, I’d rather get caught as a dog than a mauled human girl. There would be fewer questions.
I closed my eyes again, relieved to find the turquoise flames I reached for brighter than they'd been when trying to fight off the sanguimancers. Either the healing had worked, o
r the iron pills. I didn't care which.
My good shoulder burned with the magic that infused my tattoo. I tipped into the change. It ached, my broken and bruised bones grating as my body rearranged itself, twisting my knees backward, elongating my jaw. When the shift was done, pain pulsed out across my back and ribs, making it hard to struggle out of my clothes. I was tired—perhaps not as tired as usual after changing, but tired enough that I wanted to curl up and sleep.
The shield dropped. I craned my canine head back to see the Guild Sorcerer staring into the distance, cell phone against his ear.
“Well, step on it,” he said. "Their backup's already here."
I swung my head in the direction he was looking. The crippled car had turned the corner, mandalas blossoming out every side like a festival float. There had to be at least four sanguimancers, including the pissed off face of the woman.
He glanced down at me. “Alive. Barely. Damn thing nearly tore her arm off. She’s just gonna get in my way at this point. Yeah? Then tell her to send an actual fucking healer to—you know what? Bugger off. I’ve got a fight to win.”
He shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Find the girl, Isaac. Fight the sanguimancers, Isaac. Do everyone's fucking job, Isaac. I ain't paid enough for this shit.” His fingers flew to the rings at his hands, priming the etched shields. “Hoof it, Martin. Paw it, whatever. I don't have time to keep you alive. And reconsider joining us. Fuck-face Number One ain’t nice enough to leave your friends out of this.”
A low rumble vibrated in my chest and Isaac nodded toward downtown.
The first of the sanguimancer's spells flared, shattering the asphalt a few feet away. I snapped up my ragged jeans and shirt and limped toward the alley. The cul-de-sac erupted into light and sound, and I felt the heat of the flames at my back as I limped toward the dog rescue.
What the hell was I going to tell my friends?
Chapter Twenty-One
I staggered back onto Erickson Street without a plan. The iron pills had done their work on my magic if not my body; the flame in my chest was bright, gossamer tendrils unfurling through my arteries, but my legs trembled and threatened to give out with each step. Every time I stumbled, I tipped onto my injured shoulder and spent several long moments suspended in pain, unable to move or even breathe before struggling back to three paws.
Pinkish ice matted my fur. The sanguimancers had stopped the bleeding on my shoulder, but the carving on my chest still seeped into my fur, pulling apart a little with each limping step. For a long time, all I smelled was blood and smoke, and all I heard were my own ragged huffs, the sound of paws in snow, and the distant wail of sirens.
Now, I smelled home. I smelled the dogs, and Krista, and Jaesung. I smelled fear and sanitizer and dog food. It felt like a kick in the chest, stopping my heart for a moment.
Krista’s SUV was parked out front, and though the lights were on upstairs, someone had drawn the curtains. I couldn’t imagine what Krista was thinking, or what she’d told Jaesung, and part of me wanted to hunker down in the doorway and let them find me as a dog. They’d take care of me, and there would be no need to explain. Isaac could still find me, so I wouldn’t even be putting them in danger.
Maybe the Guild would adopt me, and I could just give up.
No. I rejected that idea as soon as it surfaced. I wouldn’t give up. This power play between the Guild and Gwydian had taken everything from me: my father, my mother, my godfather, and now Morgan and the rest of my pack. I whined at my paws, ducking my head in frustration as even my simplified canine emotions fought for release.
I’d destroyed the book, but it didn’t matter. Gwydian had taught at least the enslavement spell to another sanguimancer and as long as they lived, they could make more unwilling soldiers. They could force my cousin to come after me again and again, and I wouldn’t always be lucky enough to escape him.
Another soft whine escaped my jaws as I limped into the shelter of the doorway alcove, tail tucked low. I dropped the clothes onto the doorstep, licking the blood from my muzzle and hating that, as a dog, the taste wasn’t repulsive.
I couldn’t let them find me like this. They deserved to know at least some of the truth, and that meant I couldn’t let them tend my injuries as a hound only to find those same injuries on my human body. I had to shift back.
The replenished magic made it faster. I was so numb that it didn’t hurt like before, though it was still torture on my ravaged shoulder. One-handed, I pulled on my jeans, but my shirt was harder. Half of it was stiff with frozen blood. Pulling it on was an exercise in agony.
I wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble for anyone in my pack—they’d seen me naked often enough after transformations, and I them. But the only thing I could imagine terrifying my friends more than my finding me so bloody I couldn't walk was finding me naked and so bloody I couldn't walk.
My keys were still in Krista’s car, but I grabbed the spare from underneath a dog statue. It took several tries to get the key in the lock. When I opened the door, my legs wobbled.
It had been one thing to walk as a dog, with four legs to share the weight and keep me stable. Well, three. Even three was better than two, and one of those still stinging from being trapped beneath a 200 pound demonic canine.
My knees hit the linoleum, and I fell forward, twisting so I landed on my less-injured side. The impact jarred everything. Something in my shoulder seared, and a warm trickle slid over my arm.
The dogs barked from the other side of the lobby door, and footsteps moved above me. I wanted to get up. To at least greet them standing, so they knew I wasn’t dying.
Teeth gritted, I pushed myself up onto my elbow, then twisted over my knees until I was balancing on three limbs. Just like I had been as a dog.
Wind gusted in through the open door behind me, and I lifted numb fingers to flick back the hair that fluttered into my face. The strands were gummy with blood, ends sticking together where they’d snaked through my wounds.
I recognized Poo-stank’s throaty bark among the din, and Jaesung’s voice hushing them. The deadbolt on the door to the garage turned, and the door flew open.
I winced as light rushed into my face, but made out two familiar silhouettes. Both were tense and armed, Krista with her pepper spray and a kitchen knife, and Jaesung with a lighter and a can I recognized from his computer table. Pressurized air.
The instant he saw me, he dropped both and lurched to the floor next to me. “Oh my God….”
Krista shrieked.
“It’s not as…It’s okay,” I started, but my words sounded wrong, thick and slippery.
Jaesung cut me off. He grabbed my face in both hands and for a crazy second I thought he would kiss me. Instead he stared, gaze mapping my face as if he could read every lie I’d ever told. His thumb found the pulpy bruise on my cheek, then the bloody wreck of my nose and lip.
The door behind me closed. The deadbolt slid home with a comforting finality and Krista knelt beside me. She plucked at the ribbons of shirt over my shoulder, fingers shaking. “That—that thing bit you? Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m calling the police. Oh my God.”
I shook my head, prompting Jaesung to let go of my face. “N-no police,” I said.
He looked up at Krista, and I didn’t like his expression—dark, either angry or protective. Both were frightening. “Kris, get the door.” He turned back to me. “There’s no way to do this without hurting you.”
It sounded like both an accusation and an apology. I reached for his shoulder and, just like before, he grabbed my belt-loops and used them to heft me to my feet. I bit the insides of my cheeks, but a whimper squeaked out. It was such a weak sound. I twisted my fingers into Jaesung’s shirt, pressing my forehead into the muscle of his shoulder.
My knees trembled and my vision went dark at the edges. A heavy throb pounded in my head. I’d gone vertical too fast, with too little blood. I felt the swoop in my sense of balance and tipped.
“Helena, don’t you
dare.” He caught me over his arm and knelt, propping my weight against his knee. The dizziness didn’t recede and my shoulder seemed to have torn open again. He lifted a reddened hand to the light, and I heard the growl in his voice when he spoke again. “For fuck’s sake. Krista, move shit out of the way.”
The arm I wasn’t slumped over slid under my knees. I knew what was coming but there was no way to prepare myself. It would hurt like hell.
I thought he’d struggle, lifting me from the floor, but he straightened up without so much as a grunt, like I weighed no more than Poo-stank. I choked out a gasp, but pressed my lips tight against the pain. The heat of his body burned.
“Where are your shoes?” Krista hissed as we passed through the door.
“Not so important right now,” Jae said.
I kept my eyes closed as he carried me up fifteen jolting steps. My cells had memorized the feeling of this place. I knew the pressure in the air, the temperature, the quality and color of light off the bricks. I knew the sound of Jaesung’s feet on the hardwood floors. The muted whisper of heat. The hum of appliances. It was home.
My equilibrium swooped again as Jaesung knelt, lowering me to the air mattress Krista and I had made only hours before. Time moved strangely after that. I might have drifted off into sleep or unconsciousness, but through it all I heard them murmuring, felt the warmth of rags wiping my face, the sting of disinfectant in my wounds. A cold sheet whispered over my skin, and I realized my shirt had been cut away.
It was the return of smell that caused my eyes to flutter open. Something savory was twining through the air, alerting me to the desperate growling of my stomach. I twisted my head, blinking, and found Krista and Jaesung in the kitchen. Krista leaned on the bar, fingers clenched in her bright orange hair. Jaesung had pressed his back to the counter, arms crossed as he glared at the floor. Beside him, the microwave whirred.
I grunted and tried to sit up, good arm flailing out to push against the air mattress. I was no longer sticky with blood, but being clean almost made my wounds worse. Air hissed through my teeth, but I forced myself up on the mattress, clutching the sheet against my chest with my bad arm. I couldn’t just sit here. I had something I had to do. What was it?
Unleash (Spellhounds Book 1) Page 19