He stuck to the corner when he reached the end of the corridor, peering cautiously into the perpendicular hallway. The doors Arcanthus had indicated were visible on the left, both closed.
“They’re suiting up now,” Arc said. “Probably mobilizing to help fight the cren upstairs.”
“Going to be a nasty fight,” Urgand said, “but we can’t just leave them at our backs.”
“At least they’re vulnerable now,” Drakkal growled. “Urgand, Sekk’thi, take the first door. Thargen, on me.”
Drakkal rounded the corner and resumed his advance, splitting his attention between the closed doors and the far end of the corridor. The map updated, displaying twelve red dots in the large room to the left. Drakkal flattened himself against the wall beside the far door and glanced back to see Urgand and Sekk’thi already in position. He nodded to them, briefly met Thargen’s wild gaze, and slapped the door control button. The door hissed open, sliding aside into the wall. Drakkal charged through the opening with Thargen immediately behind him.
Startled shouts filled the air as several guards—some of whom were only partially dressed—snapped their gazes toward the intruders. Shay and Leah’s faces flitted through Drakkal’s mind’s eye, followed by the faces of some of the other beings he’d seen imprisoned down here during the tour Foltham had given him. All enslaved, all having been robbed of their freedom, just like Drakkal and Arcanthus long ago. Just like countless people throughout the entirety of time and space.
And all these guards were complicit in that by working here, by working for Murgen Foltham.
Drakkal opened fire. Thargen’s auto-blaster joined in, adding its own thumping whines to the cacophony as it filled the air with sizzling blue-white plasma bolts.
Chaos ensued, exasperated by the crimson haze that had settled over Drakkal’s vision. Several of the sturdy beds lining the walls were toppled over to provide the guards makeshift cover, and plasma bolts—return fire from their foes—darted back toward Drakkal and Thargen.
“Check your fire,” Urgand called through the commlink. “Nasty crossfire in here.”
A plasma bolt struck Drakkal’s combat armor and dissipated, producing a faint burst of warmth that was nothing compared to the fires blazing inside him. He released the trigger of his auto-blaster—acknowledging somewhere in the back of his mind the danger it posed to his companions—and charged forward. He didn’t know how many of his enemies were dead or wounded, nor did he care. He’d fight so long as there were foes still moving.
Drakkal slammed the stock of his auto-blaster into a guard’s face and turned toward the next enemy before the first had fallen. Two more blaster shots struck him, one on his breastplate and the other on the armor plating extending from the top of his prosthesis. He let his auto-blaster drop to hang over his shoulder by the strap and tackled the shooter. The struggle was brief, fierce, and bloody, ending when Drakkal rose on his knees and slashed his hardlight claws through the guard’s face and throat.
He looked up to see three more guards in front of him, two of them holding smoking blasters; they were facing Drakkal with their backs pressed against an overturned bed. Drakkal snarled, baring his fangs, and tensed to launch himself toward them.
A big, heavy foot came down on Drakkal’s back and pushed him forward as the weight bearing down upon it increased. Thargen leapt over Drakkal, wielding a tristeel knife in each hand, and loosed a guttural roar just before he crashed bodily into the trio of guards. His blades flashed and darted in the tangle of limbs, and blood splattered the floor and nearby bedding.
Drakkal rushed into the fray as the guards grabbed, clawed, and kicked the wild vorgal in their midst. He landed on the heap of thrashing bodies and set his claws and teeth to work. Blood soaked patches of his fur and ran sticky over his hands. Blaster shots sounded from nearby, providing a beat for the melody of grunts, growls, shouts, and wet, crunching sounds. When a strong arm looped around his neck from behind and dragged him backward, he hurriedly planted his feet—one firmly on the floor and the other on meaty, unresponsive flesh—and kicked off, forcing himself back hard.
The increased momentum knocked his assailant down, and Drakkal landed atop him heavily. The hold around his neck loosened. He angled his chin down, sank his teeth into his opponent’s forearm, and brought up his left hand. A slash of his hardlight claws nearly severed the guard’s arm at the elbow; a hard jerk of Drakkal’s head to the side finished the job, tearing apart the remaining tissue.
The guard screamed and thrashed. Drakkal rolled aside, landed on his knees, and lifted his left arm high over his head. He swung it down like a hammer. His metal fist struck the guard’s face, which crumpled like it was made of cloth. The screams ended with a choked gurgle.
“All clear,” Urgand declared from nearby.
“They are dead,” said Sekk’thi. “May they meet their ancestors in shame.”
Growling, Drakkal tugged his hand away from the guard’s caved-in face and shoved himself onto his feet. He shook his hands, flicking off excess droplets of blood, and surveyed the room.
The guards’ bodies were strewn across the floor and over the beds, with blood and scorch marks everywhere. Taking in the carnage, Drakkal felt…little different than before. His bloodlust wasn’t sated, his rage hadn’t diminished, and his worry for Shay and Leah had only intensified. He ran his gaze over his companions. Urgand and Sekk’thi sported a few new blaster burns on their armor, but seemed otherwise untouched. And Thargen…
Thargen was covered in blood of at least two different colors, so much of it that Drakkal couldn’t tell whether any of it belonged to the vorgal. His lips were stretched into a wide grin that fully displayed his short, pointed tusks, and his eyes still gleamed with that wild light.
“Everyone all right?” Drakkal asked.
All three of his companions answered affirmatively.
“There are a few updates, now that you have a moment,” Arcanthus said. “The guards are aware of intruders in the lower levels, according to their chatter, the cren have pushed into the manor, and…Shay escaped, but she’s run into a volturian guard.”
Drakkal’s heart thumped, sending a wave of heat outward through his arteries. He wasn’t sure whether that feeling was relief or terror. He lifted his wrist and said, “Show me.”
His holocom’s display gave way to a surveillance feed depicting the intersection of two corridors. Shay stood near one corner, dressed in an oversized jacket of the same style the guards wore. And she was locked in a physical struggle that had her face-to-face with Nostrus.
Drakkal’s eyes widened, and everything inside him went suddenly still and silent. “Guide me to her. Now,” he barked, but his voice sounded distant to his own ears. He was already running into the hallway, though he couldn’t remember telling his legs to move, and no matter how much strength he put into the movement it felt too slow, like he was running under water.
He raced down the corridor, following the directions as Arc relayed them, and saw nothing and no one even though his companions must’ve been right behind him. Shay was all he could focus on in those moments.
Almost there, kiraia. Almost there.
Tightening his grip on Shay’s forearm, Nostrus swung himself around and slammed his right shoulder into her left. The impact was hard enough to drive her aside and into the wall. Before she could react, he’d twisted his hips so his right leg was in front of both hers.
Guess I’ll have to wait for a chance to kick him in the balls.
He leaned into her, wedging his hip against her midsection, and bashed her hands against the wall. Shay growled in pain. Nostrus’s face was so close to hers, and his hate filled eyes and qal markings glowed as though alight with spiteful fire. He forced her hands away from the wall only to slam them against it again.
The blow was painful enough to break her grip; the blaster fell from her nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
For all her training, she couldn’t deny the
facts—Nostrus outweighed her by at least twenty-five kilograms, stood at least ten or fifteen centimeters taller, and he was stronger than her. She was at a disadvantage.
So all-in-all, no different than any other fight I’ve ever been in.
She sure as hell wasn’t going to lose her first—and only—real fight with him. This time, she wasn’t held back by shock collars, heavy restraints, or an unwieldy pregnancy belly. And now she was fighting for something more powerful than ever before—her daughter.
She turned her face toward his and spat in his eyes.
Nostrus snapped his head aside and leaned away, swearing. Shay used the tiny amount of leeway that afforded her to brace her leg against the wall and shove away from it, throwing her full weight into Nostrus.
He stumbled backward, maintaining his hold on her arms, and growled through his teeth. He quickly regained his balance and halted, blinking away moisture from his eyes. His torso pitched toward her again, threatening to force her back and negate the ground she’d gained.
He snarled. “You little fucking—”
Shay snapped her head forward. Her forehead struck the bridge of his nose with a satisfying crunch.
Nostrus reeled away, losing his hold on her arms, and Shay staggered back simultaneously. Her head throbbed dully, and little black spots floated across her vision. She shook it off and dropped a hand toward her pocket.
Growling again—and releasing a ragged breath that sprayed the blood running from his nose—Nostrus charged at Shay.
His hands hit her upper shoulders and immediately slid toward her neck, but Shay lifted her hands to grasp the front of his jacket and threw herself backward, adding her weight to his momentum. She brought a leg up as she fell into a roll, planting her foot against Nostrus’s stomach, and flipped him over into a somersault. He crashed down behind her, striking the floor on the back of his head before tumbling onto his back.
Rolling aside, Shay hurried onto her knees. She reached for her pocket again—for the spare blaster inside it—but Nostrus recovered too quickly. He sat up, planted a hand on the floor, and swung his leg around, spinning on his hip.
His shin struck her upper arm before her hand had even reached the pocket. The pain swept up to her shoulder and down to her fingertips, and the force of the blow knocked her aside. Gritting her teeth, she tucked her shoulder and went with the momentum he’d created, moving away from him.
She stopped herself on one knee and shoved onto her feet, raising her left arm in a partial fighting stance as she shook the tingling and stiffness from her right.
Nostrus sprang to his feet. He smiled a joyless smile as he assumed a fighting stance of his own. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
He was too close for her to go for the spare blaster again; all the attempt would accomplish was to lower her defenses. She knew Nostrus was carrying a blaster in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. There was also a collapsible stun baton dangling from his belt, and she’d seen him carry knives in the past.
Guess I should be happy he hates me just enough to want to use his fists.
“Me too,” she replied. “Been too long since I’ve seen your blood.”
Nostrus’s smile twisted into a scowl, and he lunged forward. His strikes were quick and controlled, conveying discipline, experience, competence, and a touch of caution. Shay refused to give him any ground. She defended herself from his blows, blocking and dodging, and offered her own retaliatory strikes—but none of her attacks landed.
Nostrus held the fight at the edge of his reach, using his longer arms as his primary means of defense.
His fist clipped her right ear. Though the damage was negligible, it hurt like a bitch. Her head snapped to the side, and heat thrummed through her ear and spread across her face. He launched an immediate follow-up, kicking at her head with his right leg. Shay bent her left arm and raised it to protect her head; the impact was still strong enough to knock her off-balance. She staggered aside, and Nostrus followed relentlessly, planting his right foot on the floor and spinning into a reverse heel kick with his left leg going high.
Recovering her balance, Shay ducked his left leg as it cut downward at a diagonal angle like a scythe. She surged forward immediately, grabbing hold of his jacket with both hands, and drove her knee into his groin. Nostrus grunted and leaned toward her; Shay hammered her knee into his stomach twice in quick succession. Face pale, he doubled over and stumbled backward a step, but Shay held on, unwilling to let him open that distance again.
Halting his backward momentum, he swung his right arm around as though to wrap it around her neck. Shay dipped under it, letting his arm slide over her back, and punished him with several fast strikes to his ribs. His right hand fell to her shoulder and grasped her jacket while his left took hold of the fabric near the center of her back. He shoved her down and thrust his knee up to meet her.
Shay dropped her arms and slammed them against his leg, robbing that first strike of enough of its power to keep him from blasting the air out of her lungs. Holding her in place, Nostrus drew his leg back and brought it up again, growling when she blocked the second blow with her forearms. As he drew his leg back a third time, Shay lifted her left foot off the floor and thrust it down, driving her heel onto the inside of his left ankle.
Nostrus’s leg buckled. He dropped his other leg to catch his balance, spitting a curse, and swung both his arms to the side while twisting his hips to throw Shay away.
She stumbled aside, remaining upright only because her shoulder struck the wall. “You never been in a fight before?” she asked as she straightened. “Maybe I should put the cuffs back on.”
Nostrus snarled and, despite a visible limp and the sickly pallor of his skin, moved toward her, keeping his weight off his left foot as he unleashed a flurry of punches. Shay raised her hands to defend herself, weaving and swaying to avoid as many of the blows as possible. Several still struck, hitting her sides and head, though most were glancing blows that hurt little compared to her other pains.
He was fighting sloppier now, but it wasn’t quite enough; she wanted him wild, wanted him making mistakes, wanted him reckless.
She grinned. “Maybe if you go whine to your space walrus daddy, he’ll pay to get you some real training.”
He leaned back and, with a wordless shout, launched a haymaker at her with his right hand. Shay ducked and bobbed to her left, avoiding the blow. His fist struck the wall.
Nostrus cried out in pain. Shay punched him in the kidney—if that was where a volturian’s kidney was, anyway.
He grunted and swung his elbow around, clipping Shay with it on the back of her head. The sound of the blow was a jarring bone-against-bone thud. Her vision darkened for an instant, and she stumbled away. Several huge, clumsy steps carried her to the center of the corridor before she finally caught her balance. She spun to face Nostrus.
He turned toward her, stretching and flexing the fingers of his right hand and shaking it as though to work out a deep ache.
“My azhera fucked up your hand, huh?” Shay turned her right side away from him and moved her hand toward her pocket. “Must suck to have such dainty fingers.”
Eyes aflame, Nostrus ran at her and tore the stun baton from his belt.
Shay’s fingers closed around the grip of her blaster. She stepped back, tugging up on the weapon. Nostrus swept his arm up, and the stun baton extended to its full length, crackling to life.
The blaster snagged on the fabric of the jacket pocket.
Fuck. Stupid fucking goddamned jacket!
Shay leapt backward as Nostrus swung the baton at her in a wide arc. She angled the blaster in her pocket and squeezed the trigger, firing from the hip. A blue-white plasma bolt cut through the air only a few centimeters from Nostrus’s left elbow. She shifted the weapon toward his body and fired again, but she’d overcorrected for her second shot—it darted past his right hip, burning a hole through his jacket. The stench of singed fabric stung her nose.
&nb
sp; That quickly, Nostrus was too close. Shay hurriedly pulled her hand out of her pocket, leaving the blaster behind, as Nostrus advanced with the baton swinging wildly. They both knew how it worked—he didn’t need to hit anything vital. He just had to touch her with the active end of the device.
Shay ducked and dodged frantically as the baton cut through the air around her; it moved fast enough to produce soft whooshing sounds, came close enough to make her little hairs stand on end and produce a static tingle across her skin.
Nostrus punctuated his swings with frustrated grunts and snarls. His attacks came as fast as ever, but they lacked the discipline he’d demonstrated earlier. At heart, Shay knew that was to her advantage, but it was hard to keep that in mind while a pulsing lightning stick was flying toward her head.
Jaw clenched, she kept up her gradual retreat, grateful that he was telegraphing his movements so clearly. The baton hissed and crackled, its sounds mingling with Nostrus’s in a harsh and hateful symphony. Shay’s heartbeat eagerly backed that music with its frantic drumming.
Her aching muscles renewed their protests, joined by a chorus of pain both new and old. God, it would’ve felt nice to lie down and rest, even for just a few minutes. She could keep this up for a little while longer, but there were hard, physical limits she was bound to slam into soon.
Hold on, Leah. Mommy’s on her way.
Shay’s backpedaling seemed to urge Nostrus on; he pressed his attack, picking up the speed and savagery. But he was still favoring that left foot.
He swung down from overhead. Shay dodged to her left, grabbed his extended right wrist with her right hand, and slammed her other palm into his elbow. She felt a crunch in his arm. Crying out, he dropped the baton. A barely audible scrape of metal on leather was Shay’s only warning before his left hand darted toward her face, the tristeel blade in his grasp glinting under the bright overhead lights.
Eyes rounding, Shay grasped his elbow with her left hand and wrenched his arm up, diverting his knife attack to the side, prompting a scream from Nostrus. His blade sliced across her cheek rather than striking her eye. The hot blood that oozed from the wound a second later felt like molten lava.
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