Bay of Sighs
Page 89
“Riley.” Quickly Annika took his hand. “She—”
“Sun’s down, moon’s up. Let’s make sure they can’t get to her, wherever she is. We’ve got this.” He gave her hand a squeeze, released it. Drew both guns.
He took out the leaders, one shot, and the light flared, flamed them.
“On your six!” Doyle shouted, and Sawyer whirled. A second cloud rolled over the west.
“Sasha and I have the west.” Though he’d armed himself, Bran left the gun holstered. Lightning bolted from his extended hands. “Sawyer and Annika the east. Doyle—”
“Some of each.”
Sawyer emptied both clips, dodged a razor swipe of claws as he reloaded. However much he trusted Annika’s skill, he kept her in sight, ready to defend, protect while she shot charges, flipped to kick, spun to shower the light through the dark.
But he saw nothing of Malmon.
“Come on, fucker,” he muttered, ignoring the backwash of blood and ash splattering from Doyle’s whirling sword. “Show yourself.”
Something rushed past him; he caught the dark blur, felt the sudden shock of pain from claws raking his arm.
He turned, tried to follow the blur, hold it in his sights, but it moved like Bran’s lightning, and erratically at that.
But his heart bounded to his throat as he realized that blur was a zigzagging arrow aimed at Sasha.
She released a bolt, struck her target, drew another.
“Sasha! Move, move.”
She hesitated only a second at Sawyer’s shout, retreated two quick steps to the side. He saw the blood bloom on her arm, heard her quick cry of pain.
Because his gun was useless—she was too close—Sawyer ran toward her even as Bran yanked her behind him. Sawyer moved to block her from attack, but the attack changed directions so fast Doyle’s sword cleaved down, met only air.
Now blood seeped from Sasha’s leg.
“Take her in, get her inside.” Sawyer laid down suppressing fire. “We’ll hold them off.”
“No, there’s too many.” Shaking off Bran’s hold, Sasha fired another bolt.
Sawyer saw the blur, the leap of it. Fired. Missed. He saw Bran once again yank Sasha behind him, knew in that instant Bran would go down.
The wolf all but flew out of the dark, its howl fierce and as deadly as its fangs. Another instant, the blur took form, hideous form, raw red skin, bumpy with scales, wild yellow eyes in a long narrow face crowned with nubs.
The wolf sank those fangs into the demon’s shoulder—Malmon’s shoulder—and its scream shattered the air. The demon struck out, its face contorted with rage and pain. The blow sent the wolf tumbling through the air. When it struck the ground, it lay still.
“Keep them off her.” On a one-handed handspring, Doyle flipped to the wolf, sweeping his sword out to destroy the birds that swooped low to attack the fallen.
In seconds the five circled the wolf, forming a wall of defense. Sawyer caught one last glance of Malmon, took aim, but the dark swallowed the demon and the birds.
And the night went still with the silent moon gliding overhead.
“Riley.” Sasha fell to her knees. “Oh, God, Riley. Bran.”
“Let me see her, let me see. You’re bleeding, a ghrá.”
“Riley. How bad is Riley?”
Blood ran down her arm, onto fur as Sasha laid her hands on her friend. “She’s alive. I feel her heart.”
“Stunned, at least. We’ll get her inside.”
“I have her.” Sheathing his sword, Doyle crouched, lifted the unconscious wolf.
With a nod, Bran lifted Sasha. “You’re losing blood, as is Sawyer. Annika.”
“I’m not hurt. I’ll get what you need.”
“I’m all right. Riley first.”
“You’re not all right, no, but you will be. Lay Riley on the table, Doyle, and get towels.”
“Let me check for breaks.” After he laid Riley down, Doyle ran his hands over her, checked legs, worked over her body. “A couple of ribs, it feels like, but Christ, they’re knitting. I can feel the breaks fusing. Heals fast as a wolf. I feel a little . . .”
“Yeah, me, too.” When his legs buckled, Sawyer simply sat on the floor. “There’s a burning, and a weakness.”
“Poison, no doubt. Get the towels, Doyle, and water. Annika,” Bran said as she rushed in. “Help me here. I need to clean out the wounds, but we’ll want the potion, six drops for each. You’ll do that now, and quickly.”
He chose another bottle out of the kit as Annika measured the potion. “It will hurt,” he murmured to Sasha. “I’m sorry for it. Look at me, open for me.”
She gasped as the liquid met the gash, then simply closed her eyes. “It’s better.”
“Almost. And I’ve your leg to do as well. A few moments, just a few more. Sawyer, go ahead and drink that. There now, there, fáidh, they’re clean, and purified. The balm will soothe.”
“Sawyer first.”
“I’ve got him, finish her.” Doyle took the bottle, crouched by Sawyer. “Ready?”
“Go for it. Shit, shit, fucking shit.”
Annika pressed a kiss to his head as the burning seared the gashes on his arm, and he felt Sasha—partner in pain—take his hand.
“He would have done worse, much worse, if you hadn’t warned me.”
“I couldn’t get a clear shot. He’s too fast, and then you were too close.”
“Sun’s down, moon’s up. Let’s make sure they can’t get to her, wherever she is. We’ve got this.” He gave her hand a squeeze, released it. Drew both guns.
He took out the leaders, one shot, and the light flared, flamed them.
“On your six!” Doyle shouted, and Sawyer whirled. A second cloud rolled over the west.
“Sasha and I have the west.” Though he’d armed himself, Bran left the gun holstered. Lightning bolted from his extended hands. “Sawyer and Annika the east. Doyle—”
“Some of each.”
Sawyer emptied both clips, dodged a razor swipe of claws as he reloaded. However much he trusted Annika’s skill, he kept her in sight, ready to defend, protect while she shot charges, flipped to kick, spun to shower the light through the dark.
But he saw nothing of Malmon.
“Come on, fucker,” he muttered, ignoring the backwash of blood and ash splattering from Doyle’s whirling sword. “Show yourself.”
Something rushed past him; he caught the dark blur, felt the sudden shock of pain from claws raking his arm.
He turned, tried to follow the blur, hold it in his sights, but it moved like Bran’s lightning, and erratically at that.
But his heart bounded to his throat as he realized that blur was a zigzagging arrow aimed at Sasha.
She released a bolt, struck her target, drew another.
“Sasha! Move, move.”
She hesitated only a second at Sawyer’s shout, retreated two quick steps to the side. He saw the blood bloom on her arm, heard her quick cry of pain.
Because his gun was useless—she was too close—Sawyer ran toward her even as Bran yanked her behind him. Sawyer moved to block her from attack, but the attack changed directions so fast Doyle’s sword cleaved down, met only air.
Now blood seeped from Sasha’s leg.
“Take her in, get her inside.” Sawyer laid down suppressing fire. “We’ll hold them off.”
“No, there’s too many.” Shaking off Bran’s hold, Sasha fired another bolt.
Sawyer saw the blur, the leap of it. Fired. Missed. He saw Bran once again yank Sasha behind him, knew in that instant Bran would go down.
The wolf all but flew out of the dark, its howl fierce and as deadly as its fangs. Another instant, the blur took form, hideous form, raw red skin, bumpy with scales, wild yellow eyes in a long narrow face crowned with nubs.
The wolf sank those fangs into the demon’s shoulder—Malmon’s shoulder—and its scream shattered the air. The demon struck out, its face contorted with rage and pain. The blow sent the wolf tumbling through the air. When it struck the ground, it lay still.
“Keep them off her.” On a one-handed handspring, Doyle flipped to the wolf, sweeping his sword out to destroy the birds that swooped low to attack the fallen.
In seconds the five circled the wolf, forming a wall of defense. Sawyer caught one last glance of Malmon, took aim, but the dark swallowed the demon and the birds.
And the night went still with the silent moon gliding overhead.
“Riley.” Sasha fell to her knees. “Oh, God, Riley. Bran.”
“Let me see her, let me see. You’re bleeding, a ghrá.”
“Riley. How bad is Riley?”
Blood ran down her arm, onto fur as Sasha laid her hands on her friend. “She’s alive. I feel her heart.”
“Stunned, at least. We’ll get her inside.”
“I have her.” Sheathing his sword, Doyle crouched, lifted the unconscious wolf.
With a nod, Bran lifted Sasha. “You’re losing blood, as is Sawyer. Annika.”
“I’m not hurt. I’ll get what you need.”
“I’m all right. Riley first.”
“You’re not all right, no, but you will be. Lay Riley on the table, Doyle, and get towels.”
“Let me check for breaks.” After he laid Riley down, Doyle ran his hands over her, checked legs, worked over her body. “A couple of ribs, it feels like, but Christ, they’re knitting. I can feel the breaks fusing. Heals fast as a wolf. I feel a little . . .”
“Yeah, me, too.” When his legs buckled, Sawyer simply sat on the floor. “There’s a burning, and a weakness.”
“Poison, no doubt. Get the towels, Doyle, and water. Annika,” Bran said as she rushed in. “Help me here. I need to clean out the wounds, but we’ll want the potion, six drops for each. You’ll do that now, and quickly.”
He chose another bottle out of the kit as Annika measured the potion. “It will hurt,” he murmured to Sasha. “I’m sorry for it. Look at me, open for me.”
She gasped as the liquid met the gash, then simply closed her eyes. “It’s better.”
“Almost. And I’ve your leg to do as well. A few moments, just a few more. Sawyer, go ahead and drink that. There now, there, fáidh, they’re clean, and purified. The balm will soothe.”
“Sawyer first.”
“I’ve got him, finish her.” Doyle took the bottle, crouched by Sawyer. “Ready?”
“Go for it. Shit, shit, fucking shit.”
Annika pressed a kiss to his head as the burning seared the gashes on his arm, and he felt Sasha—partner in pain—take his hand.
“He would have done worse, much worse, if you hadn’t warned me.”
“I couldn’t get a clear shot. He’s too fast, and then you were too close.”
