8 - Rivals & Strays

I send my throwing blades hissing through the air for the hoard of werewolves rushing at me. With a gratifying hiss and a wet thud, they connect solidly exactly where I intended— in the necks of the two closest men.

They stagger backwards, grasping at their throats as blood seeps down their shirts. They're gasping and coughing as they collapse to their knees— abruptly no longer a threat and counting down the seconds to a painful end.

The others don't seem to care. They shove their comrades aside and rush for me with war cries.

I meet their challenge, dodging and weaving between their brutal swings, using their force against them. Blade after blade I send hissing through the air. Blade after blade nestles in their skin.

My mind is quiet and my muscles tingle with instinctive reflexes that have me jabbing and feigning and slashing. I'm one with the icy air swirling around our chaos; a force you never see coming until it is upon you.

That is until I reach for my belt and find my blades are all used up, deposited neatly in the necks of several slump forms on the ground.

Fuck, how I miss having a full set.

No matter. I adapt, as I always will. I tear the knife from my ankle and send it slashing. It rips across a werewolf's chest and he falls back with a grunt of pain.

I fall back, too, and tear out a throwing blade from the closest neck.

"Stop fucking around and kill him," a voice I vaguely recognise as Seb's hisses as he grabs for me.

As you wish.

I dodge and roll and shove my knife right up to the hilt into his side. His yell of agony is a melody in my ears. Blood splatters across my face as I twist and tear it free.

He grunts in pain and shoves me back before stumbling to the ground. He'll bleed out before he can heal— the silver will ensure it. An instant later, hands grab for me and haul me up.

I'm shoved hard against the alley wall, the impact jarring.

A few of them have knives. Not silver ones, but sharp ones. Intended, I presume, for some carving once I'm dead. And some maiming whilst I'm still alive.

They get a few good slashes in before one grows impatient and sends his fist flying for my face.

The next moment, I'm crumpled on the ground as agony explodes across my jaw. Fucking shit.

I fight and struggle my way to my knees, slashing at their arms as they reach for me.

Fuck, what I wouldn't give for a gas canister right about now.

In their eager rush to get at me, they stumble over one another. I aim my knife and send it flying for the burly one with the broad shoulders. He appears to be leading the fight, and if I get him on the ground, the others will panic.

My aim lands true— the knife burrows into his chest. He falls back with a grimace, clutches the hilt, and rips it free. Damning himself.

"You bastard," he groans, tossing it to the ground.

It clatters uselessly out of reach. I can only hope the adrenaline wears off and he bleeds out before he can reach me.

But by that time, in their distraction, I've wrestled my way to my feet.

Watch your footing, Esme's voice whispers through my head.

I set my weight and meet their chaotic advance with my fists flying and blood coating my mouth. I'm weaponless, but not yet defenceless.

My nerves are alight; instinct setting blazes off in my veins. I've trained for this all my life.

They're strong, but they're too eager and fall too easily for my feigns and diversions. As I shove one back and send another crumpling to the ground, I find my gaze lifting towards the mouth of the alley— tracking a sudden, unexpected movement.

Fuck.

They prowl into the alley like the foot-soldiers of hell, their eyes gleaming golden fire. There's two men, one woman, and three wolves— reinforcements with fury lining their features.

And I know I'm dead.

But they race for our chaotic fight and throw themselves to my aid, hauling werewolves away from me and shoving them against the alley walls and sending their fists flying towards them. Wolves snarl and bite at their legs, or else leap up to tackle them to the ground. Screams and barks and growls rise in the cool air as werewolves turn on one another. Seb's men release me and turn their focus towards the new threat.

Absently, I wonder if they've all gone mad. Then, more absently still, as I back out of their chaotic range and snatch up my silver knife, I realise these wolves are not here to offer these men aid. They're rivals.

I am, quite literally, on my own in the middle of a ferocious battle between wolf packs.

And amidst the carnage of them all, amidst the maelstrom of cries and thuds, a man comes marching straight for me. He's a force of golden eyes on fire with rage and messy curls and blood splattered across his olive skin. His form ripples with the urge to shift, but he does not.

"I need you to get out of here," he tells me, as though we aren't stuck in the middle of a brutal fight with a wall to my back. "Right now."

"And how exactly can I do that?" I shoot back harshly, right as a werewolf comes charging for me.

I tense to fight, but the man meets his challenge and shoves him aside. In a swift move, he gets the werewolf in a headlock and sharply jerks the man's head to the side.

The fatal snap is lost in the chaos of blood and yelps and shouts. He shoves the limp body to the ground carelessly and turns to me once more, an order on his lips.

By then, another has broken free from the battle and is upon me.

I duck beneath his rage and kick his legs from beneath him so he crumples to his knees. With the bloodied edge of my knife pressing firmly against his throat, I tangle my fingers through his hair and wrench his head back.

"Please—!" he gasps, gripping my arms and digging his nails into my skin, desperately trying to shove me away. His form shudders and his eyes shimmer golden as his wolf struggles to fight past the silver.

I slash my knife across his neck, sending an explosion of blood splattering across me and the wall.

As I turn to face the others, adrenaline a raging fire in my blood demanding satisfaction, I realise the rivals have taken care of the rest.

The alley falls quiet as the last scream dies out. The woman shoves her latest kill aside, swiping a bloody arm across her forehead and only succeeding in streaking crimson across her face like war paint. Her dark hair is tied back but loose strands fall out around her petite face, framing sharp features.

At her side stands a man I recognise at once. He's the one I saw in the alley— the wolf that shifted into a man. Beau, I think. His auburn hair lies in damp curls across his forehead, slightly obscuring his eyes.

He huffs out a breathless laugh and, as he swipes a thumb across the woman's cheek, he says, "Duskland's getting desperate. You okay, love?"

"I'm fine," she responds, offering him a regal smile despite the carnage. "You?"

"Just perfect."

The man with the golden eyes and tousled curls merely stares at me, his brows raised with incredulity or admiration or something in between. As the others go to him, and as he rolls his shoulders and assesses the slump forms and the blood coating everything, it hits me like a strike to the face. The power rolling off him in thick, smothering waves, the way he holds himself as the others flock to him, the clinical, sharp glint to his gaze— this is an alpha werewolf.

Oh, fuck.

I back up, clutching my knife tightly even though the blood makes the hilt slick. I set my shoulders and breathe through the fiery adrenaline, preparing myself for another fight.

The wolves shake out their bloodied fur and fix me with their golden stares. They pace and grumble, muscles rippling beneath their fur, hackles raised to attention.

"Are you alright?" the alpha asks, his gaze lowering pointedly.

I'm tensed up, expecting them to rush at me and trying desperately to calculate my dwindling chances of survival, and his taunt makes me scowl.

I take a moment to look over myself for injury.

There's a bloodied slash in my hoodie, right across my chest. Agony nudges its way into focus with adrenaline seeping through my fingers. I check myself fervently for bite marks, but thankfully the wounds are strictly slashes and cuts only. The injuries are merely an inconvenience— nothing damning.

"Hold on, is he—?" Beau asks haltingly, his golden eyes wide as he finds one of the bodies with a silver throwing blade nestled in their neck.

"I believe so," the alpha allows. He doesn't break my gaze as he asks softly, "Where are the others?"

"There are no others," the woman tells him, studying the quiet street beyond the alley as the wolves tip their heads back to sniff at the air. "They'd be here by now."

That's the thing about hunters of the occult— the plural nature. No one asks if there's a hunter lurking. They always expect more than one. Hunters are dangerous; a lone hunter is an ambitious fool.

He hums tonelessly, considering. "What's your name?" he asks me.

I don't answer him. I merely shift my weight from foot to foot and take laboured breaths, preparing for a second round. Rushing for them now would kill me, with the wolves so close, so my feet stay planted as I wait for them to make the first move.

They do not.

"We won't hurt you," the alpha werewolf insists as he absently kicks the limp, bloody arm of a fallen werewolf at his feet. "So long as you don't hurt us, that is. Do we have a truce?"

I stare at him warily. With one word, he can order my death. He can probably jerk his head a certain way and the wolves will attack. A truce with him means nothing.

"Rowan, I don't think this is a good idea," Beau says, his focus flickering between his alpha and me.

The alpha — Rowan — tilts his head and says, "You were doing well on your own. I'm guessing this isn't your first fight, is it?"

Fuck this. If he's messing with me, it's in very poor taste.

But one of us needs to make the first move, and I will not let them advance when I'm backed into a corner.

So I shrug off the stiffness in my limbs, wipe the blood from my knife, and deposit it safely against my ankle. I step forwards and, in turn, the werewolves take a step back.

As I set about wrestling the throwing blades free from torn tendons and muscle and cartilage, not wanting to waste a single one, they fall back even further. Possibly wondering whether I'm going to send the silver flying towards them, or if I've got any other tricks up my sleeve.

I do not, but they don't need to know that.

"Beau," Rowan says, tucking his hands into his pockets as he watches me curiously. "Could you clear this mess up, please?"

Beau gapes at him. "I mean, technically. Do I want to? No. They left Ryan to rot. I reckon leave them here."

"They're on our land. Dump them on theirs, instead. Have them clean it up," the woman suggests, absently picking blood out of her nails. Her dark gaze is locked on me.

"This is why I love you."

"Don't encourage him, Morgan. We're not animals," Rowan scolds lightly.

"That's debatable," I mutter.

His lips twitch.

I scowl at him.

"You're on your own, aren't you?" he asks me, resting his shoulder on the bloody alley wall and regarding me with a flicker of intrigue behind his golden eyes. "I mean, surely your friends should be here by now."

Not if I can help it.

"Perhaps we can help one another. Come home with us, if you'd like. You can get yourself cleaned up and we can check you over if you're hurt."

As the others look at him strangely, perhaps wondering if he's entirely sane, I can't help the suspicious glare I send his way.

"I'm all for taking in strays, but this one will kill us," Beau says, frowning as he studies me closely.

"I'm not a stray," I bite back, my voice harsh.

He gestures wildly at me. "See? He's a hunter."

"Exactly," Rowan allows. "A powerful ally, wouldn't you say?"

Of course. An alpha looking to protect his pack. He thinks he can offer out a hand and I'll come running because he called me powerful.

Perhaps, a part of me muses, I could work this to my favour. Get in the heart of their land, gauge their numbers, use their resources to take out their rivals, and hit them from within when they're weak.

Don't let your guard down.

Despite myself, the hostility melts and seeps from my features. The cuts are superficial, but they really fucking hurt. They're lines of fire across my skin.

And, as the last of the adrenaline sputters out, I feel a familiar crawling, itching sensation along my arms and down my chest— my Ferreus markings weaving new trophies. Wonderful. The map of my bloody legacy stretching even further. I wonder if one day it'll run out of space on my chest and start crawling up my neck; tangling roots that steal the air from my lungs.

"If you try anything, I'll use these," I vow, shoving my blades into my slashed hoodie pocket.

Rowan inclines his head. "Naturally."

As they all head back out into the street (minus Beau, who grimaces lightly as he nudges one of the dead werewolves with his foot, stuck on cleaning duty), and as I grudgingly and hesitantly follow behind them, one thought runs through my head over and over; a broken record.

What the hell am I getting myself into?