The pain was distant, but Alistair was losing blood fast. Ordinarily, he’d try to break and run for it, but with his injured leg that wasn’t happening. Hell, even if he hadn’t been hurt, the damned bird could just fly after him to continue its assault.
Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Fabiano advance on Sullivan’s hiding place, her men laying down a blanket of cover fire. Roars and barks sounded, accompanied by screams. The tiger had taken down one of Sullivan’s people, while the dog faced off with a wolf.
“You thought you’d won, didn’t you?” Fabiano yelled at Sullivan. “Figured you were King of Chicago. But instead of a king, Chicago will have a queen!”
The heron kept advancing, and Alistair kept backing away. He had to think of something quick, but with his bum leg and the blood loss, his options were running out.
Unless he could turn that to his advantage.
It was stupid, desperate, but the only thing he could think to do. Still growling, he began to slowly lower himself to the ground, as if his strength had already given out. Triumph shone in the heron’s eyes, so—battling every instinct in him—Alistair collapsed entirely and left his throat exposed.
Time seemed to slow, all his attention locked on the heron’s movements. It took the last two steps needed to reach him, neck coiling back, body tense?—
Alistair lunged. If his timing was off, the beak would go through either his throat or his skull. Either way, he’d be dead.
Instead, his teeth closed where the base of the beak met the flesh of its head. Though the top half was sheathed in brass, the bottom wasn’t, and his lower fangs sank into the soft underside of its jaw.
It thrashed madly, but there was no way in hell he was letting go. He sank the claws of his good leg into its back, yanking it to the ground and kicking with his hind legs even as it battered him with its wings.
Something gave under his jaws, the fragile crack of bird bone. The heron’s struggles became even more frantic…then slowed…then stopped.
He knew his opponent was dead when Fabiano screamed.
He’d once felt exactly what she was feeling now—the horrible pain, physical, mental, spiritual, as the bond with her familiar was torn out by its roots. It was all-encompassing, the universe reduced in an instant to a hollow point that threatened to swallow the world. Fabiano bent over, clutching at her chest, her gun forgotten, everything forgotten but loss.
In one smooth motion, Sullivan swung out from behind a headstone, though bullets flew through the air all around him. He held his pistol outstretched, pulling the trigger the instant it found its target.
Fabiano’s scream cut off.
Silence fell, broken only by the ringing in Alistair’s ears from all the shooting. He let go of the heron’s body, his mouth full of blood and feathers. Fabiano’s soldiers stared aghast as she slumped to the ground, a single bullet hole piercing her skull.
The world seemed to pause on its axis. Would the firefight resume, Fabiano’s men out for revenge, or would they accept their loss and go?
In the silence, Sullivan rose to his feet. Turner tried to motion him down, but he ignored the gesture, instead stepping out to face what remained of Fabiano’s forces. The breeze picked up, flapping Sullivan’s black coat out behind him.
“Your boss is dead,” he said, voice ringing out across the cemetery. “The war is over. Swear loyalty to me, and I’ll find you a place in my organization. Or continue to fight and join her in death.”
Alistair’s breath caught in his throat. It was bold, almost insanely so. Only one man had to decide to shoot, and Sullivan would be as dead as his enemy.
The first combatant lowered his gun, stepped forward, and went to one knee. “I swear to be loyal to you, boss.”
One at a time, then all at once, the others followed suit. Sullivan smiled, but his eyes were cold.
He’d won.
Sam flung himself at the mouse familiar as she hefted the bottle bomb. Flames licked up the makeshift wick—it would reach the vodka in seconds. He grabbed for it even as her arm came forward?—
His fingers just grazed the glass as it left her hand. Not enough to stop it, just enough to divert it from its intended path. Instead of arcing toward the heap of broken furniture she’d been aiming for, it went toward the bar.
The floor behind which was swimming with alcohol.
Sam didn’t wait for it to hit, but flung himself blindly in the other direction, even though it put him in the middle of the fight between Wanda, Tim, and Doris. He slammed against a solid body covered in fur—he didn’t know which one—heard a surprised sound?—
Then the bottle bomb bounced off the bar, hit the pile of broken bottles behind it, and shattered.
A huge whumph of flame erupted as the pool of booze went up. The stained glass above the bar that spelled out The Pride’s name exploded outward from the force. Flames instantly raced across the wooden bar, following the spill of alcohol across the floor and into the kindling that had once been tables and chairs.
For a second, everyone froze. The bull shifted into his human form, opened his mouth and shouted, “Ru?—”
