Before either of us can make another move, the thunder of hooves reaches us. Not just hooves. Gunfire too, rapid bursts that echo off the canyon walls.
The others. They're still fighting, which means she's still in danger.
I don't have time for this.
I put on the face again. The glassy-eyed mask of terror and vulnerability that makes other alphas so uncomfortable, and soften my voice as I say, "And here I thought you only killed alphas."
Confusion momentarily eclipses his smugness, and his deranged grin falters. "And what the fuck are you?"
"They didn't tell you?" I ask, my voice breathy and strained as I squirm in a halfhearted attempt to get out from under him. My scentdoesshift when I'm in such close proximity to another alpha. Usually, willpower is enough to mask it, but at certain times, it pays not to fight it.
The way Valek grimaces and shifts so we're in a slightly less intimate position without letting up on the whole head-sawing thing suggests this is one of those times. His nostrils flare and I can tell he's scenting the air. "What the?—"
The distraction is all I need. I bring my knee up and throw Valek off me with strength born of desperation, sending him tumbling down a steep ravine. He calls me every filthy word that exists inVrissian on the way down until I hear an impact. Pretty sure I hear him hit a tree, hard.
Hope it went up your ass.
His motorcycle sits abandoned mere feet away, engine still running. I don't think, just move. In seconds I'm on it, gunning the engine as I tear off toward the sound of combat.
The scene I find defies all logic. Whiskey's back on his horse somehow, with a semi-conscious Plague strapped to his back like the world's most reluctant backpack. Nikolai faces them down with the golden gun I gave him, aimed steady despite the chaos. And Whiskey, the absolute madman, has his rocket launcher trained on Nikolai.
"Not so fast, lover boy." I draw on Plague as I skid to a stop, keeping the bike between me and any stray rockets.
Whiskey's head swivels toward me, and his eyes narrow. "Oh. You."
"As much as I appreciate a big man with an even bigger gun," I say, letting my gaze drift appreciatively over his bare torso because clearly, discomfort is a powerful weapon and I'm a master at wielding it, "I'm going to need you to put it down. Unless you want me to redecorate the desert with your prince's brains?"
Whiskey's jaw works like he's chewing on particularly tough jerky. But slowly, grudgingly, he lowers the launcher. The fact that it takes him that long speaks to either remarkable stupidity or remarkable confidence. Possibly both.
"I had it under control," Nikolai snaps. "Didn't need your help, peacock."
Peacock. That's a new one.
"Would it kill you to just say thank you for once?" I demand, fighting the urge to shoot them both and be done with it. "Where's Cosima?"
"She's with Geo." At least Nikolai has the decency to answer quickly, his eyes never leaving Whiskey. "Last I saw, he was heading for cover."
Relief floods through me, so intense my knees almost buckle. She's alive. She's with Geo. I'd rather them be miles away from this war zone, but it's better than the alternatives racing through my mind, all of which lead to me flinging myself into a well.
Why is a well always my plan B? Probably a question for a therapist, but somehow I always end up shooting them.
Of course, that's when Whiskey decides to fire his launcher at the ground near us. And near him, for that matter.
The blast is deafening. The world explodes in a shower of sand and rock, the shockwave lifting me clear off the bike. I hit the ground hard, ears ringing anew, vision white at the edges. Somewhere in the chaos, I hear a horse's terrified whinny and the crash of bodies hitting earth.
Stupidity it is, then.
When the dust settles, we're all sprawled across the sand like discarded toys. The horse has wisely fucked off to safer pastures. Whiskey and Plague are a tangle of limbs nearby, both groaning.
I suppose that would wake you up.
"Itoldyou not to fuck with the rocket launcher," Plague mutters, achieving consciousness just in time to bitch about his mate's tactical decisions.
Whiskey rolls over with a groan, his cheeks stained with soot from the blast. "Nice to see you too, babe. You're welcome for the gallant fucking rescue."
The domesticity of their bickering would be adorable if my entire body didn't feel like it had been put through a blender. Twice.
Nikolai hauls me to my feet, though his grip on my arm is firm enough to leave bruises. Just in time as Whiskey and Plague get back on their feet. We draw on each other simultaneously, including Plague, who's somehow managed to steal a knife off the holster strapped to Whiskey's thigh in the time it took him to get up.
