Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (37 page)

Astrid dragged her gaze from the struggling pair back to Nathan and Bracebridge. Nathan's punches aimed for the mage's face, his mouth, until Bracebridge bellowed in pain and spat out a blood-covered tooth. The moment the tiny white tooth hit the ground, Nathan dove for it, abandoning Bracebridge.

As the mage cradled his injured mouth, Nathan, kneeling, held the tooth. Bracebridge's eyes widened. Nathan whispered something into his cupped hands.

“Goddamn it!” The mage's curse was more a spray of saliva and blood than words.

Suddenly, Astrid stumbled forward. Free. She was free.

She ran to Nathan, but there wasn't even time to throw her arms around him. His eyes burned her, searing with intensity.

“I am well,” she answered in response to his unspoken demand. “You—”

“I'm here. Always.”

They shared a kiss, brief and fierce. But now was not the time. Now she was free, and she would fight. With Nathan beside her.

Staunton whirled and, seeing her liberated from her prison, bellowed his rage. And Bracebridge, wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve, rose up with a snarl.

Astrid and Nathan exchanged a glance, wry and affectionate. Time to do battle. So, with a final squeeze of assurance, they sprang apart, ready to face whatever came next.

 

Just to touch her again filled Nathan with a rush of power. Not even holding the totems had given him such a surge. But to feel her, whole, alive, and primed for combat, was as potent and bright as a strike of lightning.

He saw her grab a knife from the dirt and face Staunton. The two stared at each other across the expanse of the camp—two old enemies preparing for their final clash. Much as Nathan wanted to help Astrid, this was her fight. Staunton belonged to her alone, but like hell would Nathan let the Heir hurt her. If it meant saving Astrid's life, Nathan would kill Staunton himself. Better to face her anger at depriving her of her revenge, to keep her alive.

Nathan had his own battle to fight. He turned and faced Bracebridge. “Your damn magic tried to kill me,” he growled at the mage. “And take her. But all that's going to end tonight.”

“Oh, I definitely agree,” smirked Bracebridge. “I've been waiting for this, red man.” He raised his hands, curling them into claws, and muttered something in a language Nathan couldn't recognize.

He didn't know what Bracebridge was chanting, but he absolutely did not want him to finish saying it. Nathan sprang toward the mage. And was knocked back by a roiling wave of heat and animal stench.

The mage grinned at him. Then his grin faded, replaced by a grimace of pain as he bent over, convulsing. Something pulsed beneath the surface of his skin, as if his muscles pulled and swelled, reshaping themselves. Bracebridge screamed. He lurched upright, jerked up by an unseen hand, and a loud cracking filled the encampment as his bones split and grew. His clothing tore apart, unable to contain his growing body. Thick, black fur sprouted over his skin, covering everything, even his face. His scream turned into a snarl as his mouth and nose lengthened, his teeth elongating into wicked daggers, and his ears grew pointed. The nails of his hands and feet blackened, thickened into claws.

And then the transformation was over. Nathan stared at the enormous, unholy combination of man and wolf, neither one nor the other but something awful in between.

“Now, little dog,” the mage growled, his words more animal than man, “let's see who is alpha wolf and who is dead.”

With a snarl, Nathan's wolf surged out of him, and the two animals threw themselves into the fight. Only one of them would see the morning.

 

The sight riveted her. There were legends, of course, as old as time. Some internal scholar flipped through her mental archives, remembering the names. Loup Garou. Upir. Anjing Ajak. Werewolf.

Reading and hearing of such a beast compared not at all to seeing one. The visceral horror at seeing this profane transformation. A creature born of dark magic. Created from a man's body for one purpose—death.

Nathan's death.

“I do not want to kill you.”

Her attention torn from the awful vision, Astrid's mouth formed a taut line as she stared at Staunton. “Your decency is commendable.”

The Heir scoffed. “Words such as ‘decency' are meaningless when forging global empires.”

“Then there should be no empires.”

His laugh grated. “The naïveté of you Blades never ceases to charm me.”

Smiling coldly, Astrid brandished the knife in her hand. “I am a most charming woman.” She motioned Staunton forward. “Let me show you.”

He saw now. There was no way to take her, not alive. Whatever she knew about the Primal Source would die with her. A momentary slump of his shoulders, frustrated at the loss of her knowledge, before he straightened them.

Polite as a courtier, he said, “As you wish.” Then he drew his pistol and pointed it at her heart.

The mage—or what the mage had become—lunged for him. At the same time, Nathan sprang toward the beast, aiming for his vitals. But the change had sharpened the mage's skills, and he knocked Nathan aside with a sweep of his arm, scoring Nathan with his claws.

Nathan rolled and recovered swiftly, then launched himself, teeth first, at the werewolf. He felt the gratifying sensation of tearing flesh, ripping away at the fur-covered skin across the beast's forearm. It howled, something between a man's shout and a wolf's yelp.

Maddened by shedding blood, the werewolf pounced, catching Nathan under his front legs. They fell, spinning together, in a fever of bites and slashes.

A movement distracted Nathan. He turned just enough to see Staunton with his gun aimed directly at Astrid, and her armed only with a knife.
No.

Nathan thrashed to loosen himself from the werewolf's grasp, but the damn creature held him in a vise. He had to break free. Had to reach her.

The air suddenly filled with piercing hawk cries.

Everyone, the werewolf, Staunton, even the Heir and Native woman grappling with each other, stopped in mid-motion and stared up at the sky. The falcon let out an alarmed screech.

And then they descended. Two dozen hawks, maybe more, diving and shrieking, beating their wings. A flurry of talons and beaks. All directed toward the Heirs. The men waved their arms and swatted at the attacking hawks, but the birds' assault was relentless.

Astrid, thank God, seized the distraction. She leapt forward and kicked the pistol out of Staunton's hand. The gun flew into the air and was caught in a hawk's talons. Nathan could have sworn the bird winked at him as it wheeled away.

Nathan felt something choking him, a burning in his throat. He struggled for a moment, thinking the mage was cutting off his breathing, then realized with a start it was something else. Emotion. Hot, unruly emotion.

They'd come. The Earth Spirits had come to his aid. They must have heard his howl of desolation and known he needed help. So they had left the safety of their village and come to give their support. And, of course, the hawks arrived first, the fastest of the Earth Spirits.

He had dismissed them, this tribe where he thought he didn't belong, but they hadn't given up on him so quickly. And now, here they were, fighting with him for the life of his mate.

Renewed energy pulsed through his body. He let it overtake him, felt his wolf give way to his bear, and felt viciously triumphant when he threw the werewolf back. The beast snarled up at him, but with a new fear as Nathan reared up on his hind legs, bellowing.

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

But before he could attack, a barrage of talons and wickedly sharp beaks came at him from all sides. He grunted in surprise. The Earth Spirit hawks were bombarding him. And Astrid. But why? Moments earlier, the hawks had been his allies. Now he dodged their assault, growling with each scratch and bite.

“No!” Astrid shouted. She tried to evade the hawks as they swarmed her. “We're
friends
! Stop!”

Nathan didn't understand what could have caused the hawks' treachery. Until he saw the Native woman lying in the dirt, cradling her bleeding head, while the heavy Heir crouched nearby. Clutching the hawk totem.

The Earth Spirits were under his command.

 

Catullus had mulled allowing Halling and Swift Cloud Woman to kill themselves in the struggle for the totem, sparing him the effort. He did not particularly enjoy killing, and if someone else could do the work for him, he had no qualms reaping the benefits.

And when the hawks had thrown themselves into the battle, providing even more distraction so Catullus might return fire with Milbourne, so much the better. But then Halling snuck in a hard jab at the Native woman's temple, sending her toppling, and grabbed the totem. The Heir trumpeted his victory as he clutched the totem, and then the birds were his to control. Halling wasted no time in implementing his new weapon. The hawks launched themselves at Lesperance and Astrid while Halling and the other Heirs guffawed.

Nothing for either Astrid or Lesperance to do but bat the attacking birds back. Even Lesperance in his giant, brutal bear form couldn't really defend himself. Impossible to hurt one of the hawks while they were under the command of the Heirs.

Time to abandon the cover of the forest. Catullus charged.

Halling, caught up in his victory, didn't see Catullus until it was too late. Catullus tackled the Heir, then attempted to pin him down. Damn, but the man was heavy. And surprisingly agile. Catullus's punches landed in soft belly, and Halling squirmed like a fish as he tried to throw Catullus off. They both struggled for the totem, Halling holding it away from Catullus's reaching hands.

Then a feminine snarl, and someone latched onto his back. A rabid jackal. No—the Native woman. She wrapped one arm around Catullus's neck and squeezed. At the same time, Halling flopped beneath Catullus, trying to wriggle free. The corners of Catullus's vision began to darken.

Catullus hauled himself back and up, gripping the Native woman's arm, but Swift Cloud Woman wouldn't relinquish her choke, despite the more than a foot height difference between them. She snarled in his ear, “You and all intruders will be destroyed. I will see my land made pure.”

With no breath of his own to waste, he didn't bother responding. Instead, Catullus dragged his shoulders up and ducked his chin, giving him a tiny measure of release. He stepped back, hooking his leg around the woman's. Then he pivoted, gripping her arm, and threw her to the ground.

She slammed into the dirt with a gasp. Catullus, fingering his abused throat, winced to contemplate what his mother might think of him hurting a woman. He hated having to do it. But Swift Cloud Woman recovered almost immediately and launched toward him. As he dodged her assault, he grimly reflected that his mother might forgive him in these extenuating circumstances.

The hawks dove at him, as they continued to attack Lesperance and Astrid. Catullus, ducking to avoid their assault, strode to where Halling was staggering to his feet.

“It's mine!” shrieked the Heir. Red stained his cheeks, like an overtired boy having a tantrum.

“Impolite to hoard your toys, Richard.” Then Catullus plowed his fist into Halling's chin. This, at least, wasn't protected by fat, and as the Heir's head snapped back, Catullus seized the totem from Halling's weakening grasp.

The moment Catullus had the totem, he broke its hold over the hawks. The birds immediately stopped their bombardment, leaving Astrid and Lesperance free to face their enemies. But not before both sent Catullus looks of thanks.

Swift Cloud Woman sat up, a look of terror and hate crossing her face as she gazed into the forest. Then Catullus understood why.

He didn't think he had ever been happier to see so many wolves.

 

Staunton spat out a clot of swearing as twenty wolves leapt into the encampment. They snarled, baring acres of gleaming teeth. The Heirs cringed. One of the wolves Astrid recognized as Iron Wolf, even bigger and more menacing than the others. At least, she thought with a bubble of giddy relief, the wolves were on her side.

“Don't worry, Staunton,” Astrid said. “They won't kill you. That's
my
job.”

“I wouldn't plan your victory celebration just yet,” Staunton retorted. He reached for a pouch at his waist. “Be sure to set some extra places at the table.” Then he flung the contents of the pouch onto the ground in a hail of numerous small, white objects.

One landed at Astrid's feet. It was a rune—a little bone tile with an ancient symbol chiseled into its surface. She had only a moment to wonder what Staunton planned on doing with the fortune-telling stones when they all sank into the dirt as if being drawn under by unholy gravity. The ground shook.

Astrid staggered back as something began to rise up out of the earth, where each of the runes had disappeared. At first, she thought they were worms—pallid, thick worms that writhed in the dirt. But then the worms grew, and she saw something was attached at the base of each worm, a larger, fleshy object connecting the worms together. Then she sucked in a horrified breath. Those weren't worms. They were fingers. Attached to hands. Which were connected to moldering arms. That were anchored to shoulders, and torsos. What looked to be scraggly weeds poking out of the earth pushed up in mounds, and then she realized the weeds were hair. Hair that patchily covered heads rising up from the dirt. Bits of skull showed between thatches of braided hair. The smell of decomposed flesh choked the air.

The creatures shoved and groaned their way out of the crumbling soil. Their skin held on to their bodies in rotted clumps, revealing gleaming bone beneath. Most of them were missing parts of their faces, their noses eaten away, cheeks either sunken or gone, eyes nothing but staring orbs in lidless sockets. All of the monsters wore crumbling leather armor and clutched rusty, heavy swords. A few held shields embossed with Celtic knotwork.

The creatures' awful moans settled like sickly vapor in the clearing. With shambling, shuffling steps, they started toward the wolves.

Astrid stared, horrified, at Staunton, who grinned wildly.

“The undead?” she rasped. It was disgusting, a violation, and the Heir couldn't have been more pleased.

“A good hostess should always be prepared for unexpected guests, Mrs. Bramfield. Quite sorry we don't have Quinn's body, or even your husband's. Otherwise we could have resurrected them both and had them join the festivities.”

His taunt chopped into her. She had once wished so desperately for Michael to be brought back from the dead. Oh, she would see Staunton suffer. But first, she was going to have to do something about the zombie in her path.

 

In Nathan's animal form, the reek of the undead warriors struck like a blow. But their smell wasn't the worst of their arsenal. Though the creatures moved slowly, they were relentless. As wolves darted and snapped, the zombies pressed forward, swinging their huge, heavy swords. A yelp of pain announced that one of the undead had struck its target.

Nathan couldn't count the number of undead summoned—close to four dozen, at least—but they outnumbered the wolves. Worse, nothing seemed to stop the warriors. No sooner would a wolf rip out a creature's innards than it would rise again. Short of tearing the zombies into tiny pieces, there seemed no way to defeat them.

A host of guttural growls rolled from the darkness. When a group of fifteen bears appeared at the edge of the campsite, Nathan rumbled his own greeting. Among their number was Yellow Bear Woman, who had once captured him and Astrid and had been prepared to kill them for trespassing. Now she let out a quick growl of surprise to see him in bear form. But she and the other bears wasted no more time. They lumbered into the fight, and here at last the undead warriors found their match.

The wolves pushed zombies right into the path of the oncoming bears. With deafening roars and tearing claws, the bears shredded the creatures, even knocking one or two warriors' heads clean off. Yet the warriors fought back, hacking and slashing with their hefty swords. The encampment became a loud, frenzied battleground—wolf, bear, hawk, undead, and human.

More humans. Yelling war cries, human Earth Spirits ran into the encampment, brandishing war clubs and battle-axes. Men and women, and all fighting expertly, facing off against zombies without a break in stride. Including, Nathan saw with a start, wizened little He Watches Stars, who wielded a formidable ax and darted, quick as a lizard, into the storm of animal and undead bodies.

But there was more here than animal and human. In the middle of the camp stood a werewolf. Distracted for a moment by an assault of wolves and humans, Bracebridge whirled back to Nathan. On powerful legs, the mage hurled himself at Nathan, and they grappled, a mass of claw and tooth.

“A fine rug you'll make,” snarled Bracebridge.

Nathan responded by tearing deep gouges in the werewolf's back.

A bird's shriek sliced the air. Not a hawk. Falcon. The Heirs' huge familiar had taken to the air, chasing hawks. It snapped at the smaller birds. Nathan watched grimly as one hawk screamed and fell, blood and feathers accompanying its descent. He shoved Bracebridge away and, shifting to wolf, leapt to intercept its fall.

Nathan just managed to catch the hawk on his back before carefully easing it down to a sheltered spot, where it made soft sounds of distress. A promise in his eyes that he would see to the hawk's wounds, but something first had to be done about the falcon.

With a vault, Nathan sprang into the air, changing into his hawk. He pushed his wings, forcing himself up, dodging bullets shot by the Heirs' marksman and the swords of the undead. As he rose higher, he cast a quick glance down. Below him, the battle was a churning throng of animal, human, and other. Astrid feinted and slashed at two advancing zombies. Graves sprinted toward the marksman, sidestepping attacks. Both Blades fought with precise skill, veteran warriors.

He neared the falcon, then joined the skirmish. The falcon stabbed with its massive beak and screamed its thirst for blood. Several hawks whirled away, carried off by injuries, thinning the numbers of Earth Spirits.

Nathan darted forward until he was just underneath the falcon. He flew beneath it, weaving from side to side to avoid its talons. He dipped a wing and rolled onto his back. He'd never flown upside down, and felt the challenge of staying on course. He heaved himself up and dug his talons into the falcon's chest, then shifted into his bear.

The falcon screeched as his weight pulled them down from the sky. They spun toward the earth, the falcon frantically tearing at him with its talons and stabbing with its beak. But Nathan's huge jaws and claws held more power. With a growl, he plunged his teeth into the bird's neck, his claws into its chest, and tore.

Blood and viscera rained down onto the battle.