17 - Look Out

I blink, startled with his offer. Rowan is handing me the reins of the approach, and it's equally gratifying and daunting as hell.

A werewolf is asking for my advice, and the world feels as though it has tilted on its side.

I'm quick to haul up that familiar mask of cold fury. "We follow the blood trail and see where it leads. After that, we wait for reinforcements and split up in their territory. Get them flustered and panicking. Prove we can give as good as we take."

Rowan hums, absently rubbing at his jaw as he considers my plan. "And what of Gale?"

"Leave Gale to me. I'll get him on your land. They don't know we're working together— let them think they've got a war on two fronts and use it to make them vulnerable."

"You're going to find him on your own?" Lachlan asks, frowning.

"No, I'm going to make sure he finds me."

I shrug indifferently, but it's difficult to ignore the flighty panic that crosses over Rowan's features; a strike of lightning behind his gaze.

He doesn't like this, I realise. He's out of his comfort zone, handing the power of decision over to me. Perhaps it's because he's an alpha wolf and the prospect of taking orders is a foreign experience, or maybe he has just realised how brazen I am when it comes to planning.

Good. Working with werewolves isn't exactly easy for me, either. It's about time he started feeling uncomfortable, too.

Despite his clear unease, he doesn't raise any complaints and at his side, Lachlan nods without raising any more questions.

So I take my silver knife from its home at my ankle and stalk down the alley, following the blood trail. I hear the others follow after me, and the weighty assurance of the hilt in my firm grip helps to clear my head.

The streets are quiet as dawn gives way to a murky day. I can't see anyone wandering but I check every lane fervently, just in case. The blood trail is sporadic and lurching from wall to wall, sticking to back-alleys and cutting across streets to shadowed places. Avoiding witnesses, then. Or perhaps further confrontation.

Behind me, Rowan and Lachlan are silent, either making their own conclusions or eager not to distract me from mine. I shut them out regardless.

We disappear into another maze of alleys— this one home to a few stores tucked away from the high street with shutters down and locks still sturdy. Bunting stretches between the buildings crowding close. Blood is splattered on the cobbles.

"River," Rowan says, his voice rising on a soft warning.

I'm not sure what he's picking up on, but as I turn the next blind corner, I find myself upon it soon enough.

There's a blur and a figure crashes into me with a strained war cry. We go tumbling to the ground and I grapple for the upper hand, slashing and stabbing. A knife rushes at me— the next moment, I snap my assailant's wrist and send the weapon skittering across the cobbles.

Rowan is suddenly right there, his eyes flaming pools of gold, ripping the man away from me and shoving him against the wall. He crumples, clutching his side, and I see my knife has made a home in his abdomen.

The struggle is over as fast as it started, and the threat lies in a bloodied heap, gasping his way through a painful end.

Lachlan towers over him as Rowan pulls me up and checks me over. I scowl and shrug out of his hold, turning my focus to the werewolf.

He's in bad shape, and not entirely because of my knife. There's slashes tearing their way along his arms and neck and face and his clothes are all torn. His shoulder is dislocated, protruding and ghastly, his arm hanging limp and useless in his lap. His clothes are soaked in blood and there's a jagged hole in his thigh seeping with crimson. The source of the blood trail, I assume. Whatever hit him, he's made the mistake of ripping it out and condemning himself— unless the woman tore it out first. The silver in my knife blocks his unnatural healing capabilities— so as long as my knife stays where it is, he cannot heal. If something tore the artery in his thigh, he'll be dead in minutes. Even without my knife, an injury like that would take time to heal. Time he does not have.

Which means I don't have long.

I'm ruffled and exposed and doubting everything I've ever known, so I'm glad to shove it all aside and pull answers from an unwilling recipient.

I rip a throwing blade from my belt and kneel before the gasping werewolf. Behind me, Rowan makes a small, strangled noise, but he does not argue. Vaguely, and with some note of dark humour, I wonder how far I can stretch his patience before he snaps and gives me a reason to turn on him instead.

In any case, the werewolf isn't much of a threat to me. He's Duskland— his eyes flicker golden and Lachlan certainly makes no move to help him up. Instead, he backs up and leaves him to me.

The werewolf glares, panting through his agony, his broken wrist cradled against his chest.. He's clutching at the hilt of my knife as though torn between ripping the silver out and keeping it still to minimise the pain.

I'll make him hurt regardless.

"I want you to tell me where Gale is," I say simply.

"Why would I... tell you anything?" he manages, his voice rushing past his lips in a breathless murmur. His eyes shimmer and I can almost see his wolf prowling beneath the surface, longing to push past the silver barrier and bite me.

I tilt my head a little, tracking a droplet of blood that leaks out his mouth and trails down his chin. "I can put you out of your misery or I can draw this out. Your choice." To make that choice easier, I rest my blade against his throat.

He sneers up at the others. "What are you doing... working with... hunters? Fucking traitor scum—"

A scream tears through his throat as I probe at the wound on his thigh with a curious thumb, pressing relentlessly. He collapses against the wall, shuddering and trying to struggle. He can't get far. With the strength seeping from his limbs and the wall at his back, he's trapped beneath my morbid curiosity.

"Don't look at them. Look at me. Where's Gale?" I ask again. "Is he making you do all the dirty work? That's not very fair, is it? Tell me where he is and I'll make him pay for you, how about that?"

"You don't f-find him..." he chokes out, gripping my wrist to keep the blade at his neck as still as possible. He's trembling and his efforts only make my knife bite harder. Tears stream down his cheeks and when a cough wracks his frame, droplets of blood splatter my neck. Disgusting. "He finds... you. And he will find you. He'll m-make... He'll make you pay for t-touching Seb."

"Is that so? You've been leaving us messages all over town— how about I return the favour and write a message of my own for him?" I aim my blade at his eye, a mere hair's breadth away from it. He cringes back but can't get far, and a smile tugs at my lips at his retreat. Oh, how I love it when they retreat. "If I carve an L and a K on your temples," I muse, trailing the knife along the soft skin beneath his eye and over the bridge of his nose, "and if I take out your eyes, that makes look, doesn't it? We're halfway there. All I'll need is a U and a T here—" I tap his jaw with the knife and he flinches— "And if you die screaming, my message is complete. Do you think Gale will look out if I leave you on his doorstep? It's a clearer message than the Othala, wouldn't you say? Where is he?"

Where my knife has trailed, a line of irritated skin follows. Everywhere my blade touches him, I catch sizzling as the silver burns him.

"He's going to make you suffer," he vows, his voice weak. He's gasping hard and his skin is turning an ashen, grey pallor. He's fading. And I was having so much fun.

"You're useless," I tell him pleasantly. "I think I'll take my knife back now."

"No," he chokes. "No, no, no—!"

Just as I tear my knife from his side, just as his pain reaches a crescendo, I slash my throwing blade across his neck. Warm blood splatters over my face and the wall and the werewolf gargles on a bloodied scream before slumping unceremoniously to the side. Dead.

The silence that floods the alley is thick and choking, and when I rise and turn, I see why.

Rowan and Lachlan stare open-mouthed, shocked to their very core. Behind them, I see Beau has arrived with reinforcements. Morgan is at his side. There's fifteen startled faces gazing at me, their features twisted with fear or distrust or brittle awe. I must look a crazed mess, clutching my knives with blood covering my face and clothes, the self-satisfied smile still tugging at my lips.

Nothing clears my head like a fight I win. My skin burns and crawls as the lichtenberg figures inch a little further across my torso.

Features slack, Beau nudges Rowan and says, "Holy shit. That could be you, you know, if you piss him off."

"I am well aware," Rowan retorts. Despite my startling advances on the werewolf, despite me painting my true colours on the wall in splatters of crimson, the tension seems to slide from his form and he offers me a tentative twitch of his lips.

To escape the heat of his close attention, I busy myself wiping the blood from my knives on my trousers before depositing them safely in their respective holsters.

Lachlan clears his throat. "Um— Rowan, what shall we do?"

Rowan says, "River will lead our offensive, this morning."

I glance up at him sharply. "I will?"

"You will," he confirms, tucking his hands into his pockets. He seems carefree and at ease, as though my frankly horrifying attempt to force answers from our enemy has shown him exactly where my loyalties lie. Maybe it has. Maybe now he'll start taking my threats more seriously.

I roll my shoulders and let my gaze drift over the reinforcements Beau has fetched. To their credit, they hold my gaze with steadfast intensity, not one of them cowering beneath my cold survey.

Do they know about Rowan and this cursed tie between us?

I shove the thought from my head and stamp on it.

I've been leading fights since I was a kid— first with Esme and Myles, where our weapons were sticks and our prey the trees crowding round the den, later with silver knives and people's lives in my hands. It is second nature. It is a job, and a job I do well.

For an instant, I'm back in the map room of the den with my family scrutinising me, awaiting instruction on the cusp of an initiation ritual. Are you ready?

This feels similar and yet inherently different. Past and future colliding and causing chaos in the present. A war zone of old instincts and newfound hopes fighting dirty.

My gaze settles on Rowan's in the crowd, pensive and open. Something deep within me stills, and that war raging inside of me falls quiet and still. Some shade of peace claws for the surface, grasping and pleading.

The strange sensation has my hackles raising and I have to bite back a scowl and tear my gaze away.

"You're splitting up into threes," I tell them, swiping a sleeve over my face to try and get rid of some of the blood before it dries. It'll help Duskland sniff me out, but it looks rather incriminating to an unsuspecting human.

Then again, they know what they signed up for, living in this wolf den of a town. Why can't I just leave it behind?

I shove the thought aside. "If you fight better as a wolf, then shift and stay the fuck away from me. Raid their territory and cause some chaos. While they're distracted, I'm going to find Gale."

"And who's going to help you with Gale?" Rowan asks. He's scrutinising me, mapping every inch of my expression as though checking for cracks.

I narrow my eyes at him. "I don't remember asking for help from you."

"I know you're annoyed — I get it — but this isn't strategical. It could get you killed. At least take one of us with you as backup— just in case."

The glare I send him is scathing. "If something goes wrong and he gets away, he'll know we're working together. He'll come with the rest of his pack and tear you all apart."

"As much as I'm loving this lover's quarrel—" Beau cuts in, waving his hands to clear away the tension and only succeeding in becoming the subject of my fury— "Sorry, stray, but Ro's got a point. Gale's the beta. He goes nowhere alone. He's got a bunch of lackeys who'll protect him with their lives. You won't get near him."

Morgan clears her throat and steps forward. "River's right, though. They don't know about the alliance. If we go with him, they'll know something's up. If you find Gale, can you goad him into following you to the woods by that alley where we met? A few of us can wait there to ambush him when he's close enough."

"I can," I allow.

Rowan frowns. "Will you?"

I shrug. "Maybe. If I don't like my chances."

He releases a sharp sigh but bites his tongue. "Very well. Do as he says. We'll converge on the woods near Hemmingway. Wait for my signal. This is for everyone those bastards have taken from us. Make them pay for it."

With stoic nods, the reinforcements split off and disappear down the alley to find some Duskland rivals. Lachlan leads one group, Beau another and Morgan a third— until only Rowan and I remain in the quiet alley.

He starts to back up, but he falters and watches me closely, his concern a fog settling over his features. "Please be careful."

"Always am," I lie, turning my back on him and stalking down the alley, leaving carnage behind.