Florida Knight (43 page)

“And what will you be doing?” Cat’s friend challenged.

“A little walk in the woods. Now, get going!” Without waiting for any more protests, Cat ducked into the tent, groped her way to her weapons and the wooden chest next to them. Raven hadn’t gone unarmed into the night, and neither would she. Though how he’d come up with the gun in his hand, she didn’t know. He must have slept with it under his pillow.

Not a good thought.

She’d have to get used to it if . . .

If she ever got courage enough to rejoin the real world.

Cat located her LALOC sword, her circular wooden shield. Unerringly, her hand closed over the leather belt and small dagger she kept in the chest. The small dagger whose only use, until now, was cutting her meat at Feast. A knife three times the size of hers was missing. She’d be foolish not to be prepared with something more serious than a three-foot bamboo pole wrapped in duct tape. Grimly, Cat fastened the belt with the sheathed dagger around her waist, picked up her sword and shield.

The smoke was acrid, nasty. She was certain Raven was right, this was no wildfire. Coughing, tears threatening once again, Cat circled around the heaviest, darkest swirl of smoke pouring out of the woods. No need to stride right into it, unable to see, unable to breathe.

Unl
ike Raven who was crazy enough to walk into swirling darkness where an enemy couldn’t be seen at a distance of three feet.

She shouldn’t worry so damn much! Raven and Max wouldn’t find anything. Their Bad Guy would have done his usual disappearing act. He was probably part of a crowd clustered in front of the Feast Hall, relishing the sight of panicked campers flying out of the woods, chortling over visions of people floundering around, trying to figure
out what the hell was going on.

Speaking of floundering around, Michael was out there with a cannon, a 9mm Beretta almost as big as Bubba’s hand. So what was she doing coming up on the source of the smoke from the side?

Not smart. Definitely not smart.

She’d better call out, let them know she was there.

But what if
he
was still there and she scared him off?

Cat came to an abrupt halt as her shield snagged on a bush. The forest was remarkably silent. The small creatures had fled. What about the two-footed ones? She wrestled her shield free, paused to listen intently. Was it imagination, or did she hear footsteps ahead? Or did she just
feel
human presence in the whorls of smoke in front of her?

Later, she’d damn the bush, damn herself for not moving faster. Damn her false certainty that the
bad guy
would act normally and slink off into the night.
It was her fault, her fault, her fault.

Ahead of her—at last—the source of the smoke. No flames. Just a solid blanket of pungent black billowing up from the ground about twenty feet ahead. To the left, downwind, she could see nothing. But straight ahead and to her right, visibility was good.. After the almost impenetrable darkness of the smoke-filled night, the pale gray of predawn seemed to illuminate the area with the clarity of arc lights on a stage. Two tall shadows, one more than a hundred pounds heavier than the other, emerged from the cloud of smoke to the left. Immediately, Michael motioned Max to a halt. They were exposed, out in the open. Cat, who’d ducked behind a bush, started to rise.

With a grunt of surprise, Max crumpled to the ground. Stunned, Cat stared as Raven, in a half crouch, swung in a circle, the Beretta clutched in front of him with both hands. Nothing. Max was down, and there was nothing to be seen except Raven, now dropping to one knee beside Max, checking his condition, even as he continued to keep an eye out for their attacker. Smoke still obscured the area behind them. In front, nothing moved. Not a sign of life. But the trunks of the live oaks were broad, the bushes thick; they could be under attack from almost any direction.

Max. Giant huggable Max, who moved through the world as inexorably as an earth mover, was down. Felled as easily as Goliath, whether by sling-shot, knife, or crossbow. Now here they were—the three musketeers—armored
in
T-shirts. Fat lot of good that was going to be against a crossbow bolt or hunting knife. Well, she’d always wondered how she’d measure up in a real battle. Now was the time to find out.

“Get back in the smoke!” Cat shouted, leaving the safety of her bush, sprinting forward.

Oh, damn! Wrong move. She shouldn’t have done it. Of course she shouldn’t have done it.

Startled, Raven turned toward her. “Get the hell out of—”

He didn’t get any farther. A dark shadow rose out of the thinning smoke to Cat’s left. Like a nightmare figure in a fantasy movie, the crossbow seemed an evil extension of the creature’s body, creating an alien silhouette, part man, part curved bow held horizontal to the ground. Raven was spinning around, hitting the ground before Cat could shout a warning.

If she’d kept her mouth shut, hadn’t distracted him . . .

No time! The creature—whoever he was—was reaching for another bolt. Yet nocking a crossbow wasn’t easy. If she could get there first . . .

“Get him, Cat!”

Max!
He w
as alive! But what about Raven?

Rage. Rage so powerful it wiped out horror, anguish, fear. This . . .
thing
in front of her had hurt the only two men in this whole world she loved and trusted. With a screaming battle cry the Valkyries would have approved, Cat charged.

Chapter 25

Standing tall above low swirls of disseminating smoke, he’d seemed larger than life, a grotesque monster out of grim tale. But up close . . . up close he was a remarkably slight figure struggling to stretch the tension on yet another crossbow bolt. His hands were shaking, his eyes fixed on his task. Scared to discover he had three opponents instead of two?

But when Cat knocked the crossbow out of his hand with one swipe of her sword, Geoffrey recovered well, springing back and unsheathing the hunting knife in one agile motion. The missing knife. Long, sharp, and very nasty.

So . . . they’d all underestimated Geoffrey the Sycophant Twerp.

Cat doubted he knew how to throw the knife. Her sword had more reach. Her shield was solid wood. She’d been in a hundred tournaments while Geoffrey was serving Gatorade in the royal pavilion. She could do this. She knew she could. For a few minutes—hopefully, a very few—she needed to be a lean, mean, fighting machine. A real bitch. Goodness knows, she’d had enough opportunity to learn how when she took to fighting in LALOC tournaments. Chivalry had been sorely tested, and occasionally stretched past the breaking point, when five-feet-ten-inches of Viking-like female had joined the ranks of the fighter jocks.

“Come on, Geoff,” Cat taunted, “think that knife makes you a man? Need it to get a hard on? I bet it stays up better than you do! Come on, come and get me. Are you afraid of little ol’ me? Come on, twerp, get to it!” As Cat tossed out her taunts, she edged closer, circling her target as she’d done so many times on the lyst field. How difficult could this be? Geoffrey the
Nasty
was half the size of Brocc or Thor. Yet with his cross-bow he had felled two of the strongest men she’d ever known. Without it, however, he was only a wimp with a knife almost as big as he was. Dangerous, yes, but Cat was certain she could take him.

“Let him go, Cat! We’ll catch up with him later.”

Raven!
A hoarse thread of his normal voice, but Raven nonetheless. Only years of training kept Cat’s head from turning, her legs stiff in spite of the waves of relief sweeping through her.

But Raven, as much as she loved him, was wrong. No, not wrong. He was trying to protect her. Geoffrey—for whatever reason—was one sick puppy. If she quit now, he’d lose himself in the vast underbelly of society, keep on hurting, or killing, for years to come. She was all that stood between Geoffrey the
Awful
and freedom. She was Lady Knight, and Geoffrey was suddenly all the men of the world who took out their rage on women. Well, this time, she was bigger and stronger and, by God, she was going to take him down! She just had to remember there were no rules, no holds barred.

Lean, mean bitch. Lean, mean bitch.

Shouting her battle cry, which was a weapon in itself, Cat leaped forward.
That knife’s history!
Geoffrey, like Cat herself, made up in agility for what he lacked in size. He jumped aside. For a moment, visions of himself as a mighty warrior spurred him on. His soft leather shoes danced over the forest floor, circling to come at Cat’s sword arm from behind. She followed his movements with ease, swinging round, her left side protected by her shield, her right by the longer reach of her rattan sword. She feinted a jab toward his stomach, Geoffrey staggered back, tripping over a root. As he scrambled for balance, looking alarmed, a feral grin lit Cat’s face. He howled as her
duct-taped
sword connected, the knife flew out of his hand. Dropping to his knees, Geoffrey scrabbled for it in the carpet of pine needles, oak leaves, and the last wisps of smoke. He seemed oblivious to the blows Cat rained on his head, which was protected by nothing more than his green velvet Renaissance-style beret.

Cat, spotting the gleam of the blade, shifted gears. Using her sword as a golf club, she tried to drive the knife into the underbrush. Dammit! She missed. She’d also failed to heed her own advice.
Lean, mean bitch!
LALOC training could be a hindrance as well as a help. This battle was the real thing. One she had to win.

Anything goes!

Grabbing her heavy wooden shield in both hands, Cat swung with all her might at the back of Geoffrey’s head. He fell forward, his hand now grasping the knife. Taking no chances, Cat leaped onto his back, pinned the back of his neck with the edge of her shield, then drew her dagger. “If you’ve killed either of my friends, I’m going to use this!”

Applause.

Cat raised her head to find herself ringed by LALOC members in startling states of undress. Only Cleve Johnson, the ranger, had paused long enough to draw on a khaki shirt and pants. For some reason—maybe shock—she couldn’t take her eyes off Earl Marshal Drakon, who was wearing nothing but boxers with red hearts.

Strong hands lifted her off Geoffrey’s back. “It’s okay, Cat,” Max said. “He’s a bad shot. Only got me in the leg.” He
removed
the tiny jeweled dagger from Cat’s hand, carefully inserted it into the sheath hanging from her belt.

“Someone over there needs you,” Corwyn told her gently, as he and Cleve Johnson took Geoffrey in hand.

Stunned, Cat allowed herself to be led away. What had she done? She’d left the two most important men in her life lying on the ground, possibly bleeding to death, while she charged into battle. Raven could die and it would be all her fault!

But she’d heard his voice, she was sure she had. He couldn’t be badly hurt. Or dead.

She’d heard his voice
after
she passed him by, raging to get Geoffrey instead of stopping to aid her friends.

He was all right. Had to be all right.

But Raven was flat on his stomach with Lady Bronwen, the chiurgeon, hovering over him. His eyes were closed, his body lax. Someone had carefully pulled down his black T-shirt to cover most of his nether cheeks, but on his left side, the fabric was wrinkled. The side where a crossbow bolt protruded from his lower back.

Cat fell to her knees beside him, touched his too-cold cheek, a lock of black hair. He was still as death.
Her fault, her fault. All her fault.

Three days later.

“Dammit, Kate, I’m
glad
you got the sorry son of a bitch!” Though his voice was half its former self, Michael didn’t see how the blasted woman could doubt his sincerity. He was delighted. Really. His ego would recover. Eventually.

Kate continued to look anguished. Michael closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

For seventy-two hours s
he’d been in a time warp. At first, it seemed as if time stood still
—they
’d dialed 911 in
Los Angeles
. Or maybe
Alaska
. The wait for the ambulance seemed endless. She’d been at the hospital
twenty-four hours
before she found out the name of the town they were in. Not that it mattered. It was still Podunk,
Florida
. Except the smiles were broad, the care expert and efficient. If she hadn’t known it would embarrass the staff, Kate would have kissed each and every one of them from the cute pixie of a Certified Nursing Assistant to the hatchet-faced night nurse to the swarthy doctor with the unpronounceable name who kept assuring her the lieutenant was going to be fine.

Michael’s family—all of them, including Mark—had come and gone. As had several of his colleagues from the patrol station in
Golden
Beach
. Bubba had been treated and released, he and Mona driven home by a member of their local shire. The only explanation anyone could get from Geoffrey was that he’d caused the first accident by mistake and, after endless moments of agonizing about getting caught, he’d discovered he enjoyed the excitement, the ego-boosting awareness that he had caused it all. After that, things just escalated, he didn’t know why. The police shook their heads, sent him off for psychiatric evaluation. Michael, when he heard the news, vowed that Geoffrey would get back out on the street in sixty days over his dead body. Kate, however, was satisfied that the vast network of the Florida Highway Patrol and Florida Department of Law Enforcement would make sure Lieutenant Michael Turco would never have to face his attacker again.