“Please, speak freely,” the prince invited.
“Can we count on you?” The bald question startled Sheyla sufficiently that she nearly dropped the thermos.
“That depends on what you’re expecting,” Alastor said.
“None of your sophistry. I’ve heard you talk circles around people in Ash Valley, all mockery, and amusement. But sending my men to battle on your orders isn’t a game, and the princess stands to lose everything if we ally with you in vain.”
“I cannot promise you victory. That would be irresponsible. What I can swear is that I will give everything I have to stop my brother.” Sheyla had never heard Alastor sound so grave, and he held Gavriel’s gaze until the Noxblade nodded.
“That’s enough. I’ll quell my resentment at being sent away from the princess. She doesn’t need me beside her.” Those words came out glazed with bitterness, and from the flicker of chagrin on the assassin’s face, Sheyla could only conclude that the barley wine had loosened his tongue. “And that’s none of your doing, in any event.”
“Let’s work well together,” Alastor said, offering his hand.
From what she could tell, the handshake sealed the peace, and the Noxblades left shortly thereafter. The tent remained warm with their leftover heat, so she didn’t need to shift to get comfortable enough to sleep. Outside, the wind buffeted the fabric walls, so they seemed to be shivering. It was hard not to think of everything that could go wrong, how quickly they could be exterminated by Tycho’s forces.
We are so few.
Sheyla didn’t let herself linger on those fears; there was no point. As she rolled into her blankets, she said, “Good job.”
“Are you praising my efforts?” He turned off the light but she could still see him, sharply delineated in the darkness.
“You say it like it’s never happened.”
“It hasn’t.”
“Me in particular or… anyone?” It was easy to keep him at a distance during the daylight hours, when there were only the cold and discomfort and endless running. Once they took shelter, it was another story entirely.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Before, you said I was brave, but that’s not the same.”
“I suppose not.”
She had the idea that in Golgerra they had made his life entirely about his illness, but she’d asked enough intrusive questions that she hesitated over inflicting harm for the sake of her own curiosity. Still, she was tempted to ask; in the end, she decided that if he wanted her to know more, he would volunteer it. Nearly holding her breath, she waited for his next words.
Which were, “Good night, Sheyla.”
His withdrawal left her oddly disappointed. Though she’d told herself that she shouldn’t feel anything other than empathy for him, she didn’t enjoy his silence or the sense that he would prefer not to confide in her. It took her longer than she expected to fall asleep, though the awakening came sharp and cold, sooner than she would’ve liked.
Icy air blasted her when the prince slipped out of the tent. She groaned and wished she could take a hot bath as she downed the last of their packed provisions. From now on, we hunt. With an Animari patrol that would prove no problem, but the Golgoth seemed better suited for mass carnage than securing food. Likewise, while the Eldritch might be effective silent killers, she wasn’t sure about their woodcraft. Worst-case scenario, she could hunt for herself and Alastor. If the others arrived at the rendezvous hungry, it wouldn’t end them.
The next two days were harrowing. Sheyla wasn’t the fittest of her pride and the constant movement took a toll. They played hide and seek with another of Tycho’s patrols and in the evening, she couldn’t rest; she prowled the forest in search of prey. That first night, the caribou herds were skittish and she couldn’t get close enough to take one down. In the morning, there was no breakfast other than dry crackers and hot barleywine.
Alastor was pale, not as he usually was, but with trembling hands and pronounced bruising in his joints. “I’m fine,” he said, trying to wave her away.
“You’re not. The serum isn’t working properly, and you’re not eating enough.”
“Nobody is. The cold’s taking a toll too, and not only on me. Have you seen—”
“I’m not in charge of them,” she snapped.
“There’s nothing more we can do out here. Let’s just keep moving.”
Before the squad departed, she treated two Eldritch for mild frostbite and she bit off a curse that she couldn’t help them properly. Vowing to do better, she stripped, shifted, and ran ahead, ignoring the prince’s protest and Gavriel’s questioning shout. As the sole Animari in this group, she could stalk and scout at the same time. I have to get some proper food in him. That thought drove her forward.
The ground froze her paws. Unlike Dominic, the pride master, she wasn’t adapted for winter and would rather not hunt in the snow. At least I have fur, unlike the Eldritch. Their chilblains and cold-numb hands troubled her. Though she’d signed on as Alastor’s personal physician, she couldn’t ignore others who were suffering.
Her head cocked, ears swiveling. Sheyla lifted her face to the wind, wishing for camouflage, but her spots stood out warm and stark against the winter wood. Above, tree limbs groaned with the weight of icicles dripping from their branches. Holes perforated the snowy ground from where they’d fallen like frozen spears. Smaller paw prints dotted the white as well; identifying them by scent required nothing more than a sharp intake of breath.
Her tail swished. Nothing big enough nearby to make a substantial meal. Most of the birds had flown for warmer climes. There were only the herds, lean and dwindling in the gloomy months. Overhead, the sky was gray, cut with shivering clouds, and the sun no more than a slice of light that failed to yield warmth.
Yet she smelled something in the air—to the east, the caribou she needed to run down and drag back to the others, and to the west, the coppery stink of blooded Golgoth hung heavy as a threat. She snarled softly, torn between needing to hunt and to acquire intel. It would likely save lives if she could report how many enemies were nearby, but if Alastor collapsed on the trail from a combination of low caloric intake and her insufficient serum configuration—
What would he have me do? After a moment of reflection, she sprang off to the west.
“This is unwise,” Dedrick said in base-Gol, some hours later.
The doctor had been missing the entirety of that time, but Alastor couldn’t show how shaken he was. He pretended he didn’t know what his friend was driving at as he sipped from a steaming hot drink. “What is?”
“She kept your mark, sire, and you scan the horizon, not for threats, but for her.”
It was impossible to deny. He could’ve claimed that he did it because he only had a limited number of vials left, and that he’d begin dying in increments when he ran out. Those rationalizations would even be true, but they didn’t encompass what he was feeling, like a taloned hand had reached into him and tangled in his intestines. Gavriel had already chewed him out because he didn’t know why Sheyla had split from the group or what she was planning.
Finally, he said, “She’s necessary. You know that.”
They had reached the halfway point in the day’s march, pausing briefly for rest and hydration. It wasn’t a campsite but the Noxblades still set watches. The tension had improved enough that at least he wasn’t worried about infighting anymore. He wished he could change and spell Ded on carrying the RVAC, but he had to ration his energy. Already it seemed like continuing might be more than he could manage. That was nothing new, but the circumstances had seldom been so dire or so demanding.
His bodyguard said nothing more, though his eyes spoke volumes. Rowena interrupted just then, trying to offer her meager rations; Alastor declined, as he didn’t miss how delicate she’d become in only a few days. She was shivering nonstop, a discomfort he shared, and it seemed as if he might never be warm again. There was no one he could tell either, as the Exiles looked to him fo
r leadership. With Sheyla, it was permissible to show when he was weak, when he was hurting, and not simply because she was a doctor.
Where the hell has she gone?
“Moving out,” Gavriel called.
Possibly he should take a more active role in dictating their movements, but he couldn’t muster the vim for a pissing match. Let the Noxblade handle logistics. If they engaged on Alastor’s command, that was enough leadership. For all he knew, the troops might fight as long as he was propped up as an alternative to Tycho.
Damn depressing thought.
Since they were only hours away from reaching the rendezvous coordinates, he focused on getting there. The pain was constant in his joints and his chest kept tightening—to the point that it seemed he wasn’t getting enough oxygen as he ran. Sparks popped before his eyes, a distant drumming in his ears that he knew was only the echo of his accelerated heartbeat. Soon, this would escalate into a full-blown attack, and the frosty air exacerbated his condition.
A shout from the lieutenant, Zan, made Gavriel call for a halt. “Report!”
Stopping the forced march gave Alastor a chance to cling to consciousness. He leaned on Ded, glad everyone’s attention was focused elsewhere. The soldiers in front parted to reveal a cheetah dragging a bloody carcass toward their group. She went hunting? His astonishment nearly distracted him from the waning spasms in his lungs.
As if that wasn’t maddening enough, she didn’t stop, no matter who stepped into her path. Leaving a blood trail in the snow, she dragged her kill right up to Alastor and dropped it before him. Her whole body shuddered and then there was a naked woman on all fours at his feet. Alastor swooped down on her so fast, his head swam. Without hesitation, he stripped out of his coat and wrapped her in it.
He half-expected her to shove him away, but instead, her icy hands curled into his shirt, holding on for dear life. Through chattering teeth, she tried to speak and he barked an order at everyone within earshot. “Get her a hot drink and something to wear. Now.” The last word came out in a roar and Ded almost dropped the RVAC.
Rowena scrambled away, returning in two heartbeats with an armful of clothes and steaming metal cup. He held up the coat to shield Sheyla from the curious looks; apparently naked women weren’t common in Eldritch culture either. When Gavriel strode toward them, Alastor strangled the urge to tear his face off.
“Not now. Give us five minutes.”
At Alastor’s gesture, Ded stepped between them and six more Golgoth soldiers, including Rowena and Graff, formed a protective circle. Sheyla was trembling too hard to get dressed on her own, so Alastor swore as he helped her. She’s so fucking cold.
“I need a fire built yesterday and someone to field dress that wildebeest.”
Gavriel said, “It’s not a—”
“Is that what matters right now?” Damn, but he wanted to change and wipe the attitude off the Noxblade’s face.
The Eldritch didn’t back down. “We don’t have time to warm ourselves around a crackling fire. It’ll give away our position, too.”
“He’s right,” Sheyla managed. “Get our heater. We should have some energy left and there will be no plume of smoke for the enemy to follow.”
She was dressed, but she didn’t look good. Hell, none of them did, but he’d never seen her like this, as if she was shards of amber glass that would puff to powder with a touch. It was all but impossible to check the fear that bubbled into his throat, interfering with his breathing.
Ded was already doing as she asked as Rowena put the cup in Sheyla’s hands. He left his men circled as a windbreak, the best he could do. She drained the mug and whispered, “Please,” for more in a voice so raw that it hurt him to hear it. What happened to you out there?
While they located the heater, Alastor followed his snarling instincts and drew her to him, wrapping them both in his voluminous coat. Tucked against his chest, she seemed smaller than usual, as if this experience had already diminished her. That was just his imagination, of course, but it was hard not to feel that he might devour everyone in his path, seeing nothing, permitting nothing but an undifferentiated march to power.
Just like my brother.
The heater kicked in, glowing orange, and she immediately drew back to squat before it. Sheyla gulped down another mug of hot barleywine as she warmed up. On the other side of the clearing, the Eldritch were making short work of the beast she’d brought, butchering and cleaning it with an expertise that suggested they might be skilled hunters. Blood infused the air, and all around him, he watched other Golgoth faces go hungry and avid. Alastor felt the same urge, a twitch in muscles that wanted to burst and swell, hands that wanted to stretch into claws.
“You must stop.” Ded’s snarl in base-Gol cut into Alastor’s aching, violent impulses. At first, Alastor thought he meant the bloodlust, so he was already nodding, shame-faced, when Ded went on. “You offer a blood mark. She brings food to fill your belly. You will not allow others to gaze upon her. It was bad enough when I only saw flickers of it in you, sire, but she is responding in kind. Even if you want her, you cannot have her. You must look higher—”
“Enough,” he bit out.
Alastor already knew this, so why was he so blisteringly angry over hearing Dedrick state the facts? His hand curled into a fist, and he turned away unexpectedly enough that he caught a haunted light in Rowena’s silvery eyes. She ducked her head quickly, still sending a pang through him. After all this time, she still thought she wasn’t worthy to gaze upon him; they’d fucked her up properly in the undercity… or maybe she was reacting to Ded’s warning. At least Sheyla didn’t seem to understand the conflict.
Before he could address Rowena’s reaction, Sheyla straightened. She no longer looked half-frozen and urgency brightened her gaze. He shouldn’t be looking at the curves of her mouth when she spoke or admiring the raven spill of her hair, tumbling from the flaps of her hat. Gavriel tried to push forward to hear whatever news the doctor had delivered at such cost. Though it irked him, Alastor splayed his hands, indicating his guard should give way.
“Sorry, it’s been a tough day and I needed to collect myself.”
“What did you learn?” Alastor asked, mostly to preempt the Noxblade.
Sheyla took a breath, let it out, and when she answered, her tone was somber. “Over two hundred Golgoth stand between us and the rendezvous. They’ve laid a trap…and if we don’t warn our allies, we’re looking at our first massacre.”
9.
Relieved to have delivered the message, Sheyla relaxed a little as reactions rumbled through the group. She’d eaten plenty of meat when she brought down the caribou, so she wasn’t weak, just weary and half-frozen. Alastor wore a troubled, pensive expression, which meant he was working out the implications. He and the Noxblade seemed to reach the same conclusion at once, though it was the assassin who spoke first.
“We have to change the meeting point,” Gavriel said. “Get on the comm.”
Alastor held up a hand, forestalling movement. “There’s a risk of signal jacking if we make plans on the wireless. Right now, they’re searching for us. If they overhear, they’ll know exactly where to look.”
“That’s true enough. Caution is warranted.” Gavriel turned to Sheyla. “Anything you can tell us about the enemy camp would be helpful.”
Everyone in their immediate vicinity quieted, leveling their gaze on her. She’d only gotten such a reaction from anxious families waiting for her to deliver a diagnosis. Into the sudden silence, she reported on equipment and weaponry, though she hadn’t gotten close enough to get a completely accurate count.
“Could you tell who was leading the troops?” Alastor asked.
Sheyla shook her head. “Sorry. I skirted the perimeter and noted as much as I could, but I was in a hurry to get out of there.”
Those numbers…
A shiver that had nothing to do with cold rocked through her. Sheyla had never been more terrified than in those moments when she crept t
oward the encampment, certain that any moment, one of the watchmen would stumble on her and sound the alarm. Because there was no question of her passing for an actual forest dweller, not in this territory, highlighted by the icy backdrop of a winter wasteland. Eamon’s condition when he was ransomed from Golgerra told Sheyla everything she needed to know about how she’d be treated as a prisoner of war.
She started when Alastor pulled her against his side; since he was arguing with Gavriel about the risks involved with contacting the other Animari, she suspected it was a reflexive move. For a couple of seconds, she considered elbowing him to get loose, but his body heat felt so good that she couldn’t force herself to do it. If she was completely honest, there was comfort in his unconscious support, too.
“Can’t we encrypt?” Gavriel was asking.
Alastor sighed. “Of course, but we’re using our tech. Don’t you think Tycho’s people can crack it? Hell, since we stole it from them, they might even have the key already.”
That made perfect sense to Sheyla, though Gavriel seemed irritated that Alastor was only offering problems, not solutions. “Someone has to carry a message,” she said. “Someone quick and quiet, preferably.”
Gavriel beckoned a pair of Noxblades, but unease gnawed at the back of her mind. She’d heard whispers of how first contact between the Noxblades and the pride master had gone catastrophically wrong. On the whole, the Animari didn’t trust the Eldritch, so she didn’t know if sending one of these fey bastards would work.
She vaguely recalled that the Order of St. Casimir was donating war machines, so the meeting might be with Callum from Burnt Amber, but it was unlikely that Raff would be leading the Pine Ridge delegation in sending reinforcements and supplies to Hallowell. Additionally, she had no reason to believe that these assassins knew shit about Animari diplomacy. The problem was, the Golgoth wouldn’t fare any better. In fact, the Animari might attack first and ask questions later, just as Dominic had done at the retreat.
Alastor nudged her, jolting her out of her thoughts. “You look like you ate something bad. What’s wrong?”