No, not at Elias. Athim.
“Fuck,” Cason muttered under his breath.
Brela took off down the hill in a sprint.
“Four hells,” Elias hissed. “We need to keep her in control.”
Cason didn’t hesitate. “I’ve got her,” he growled, shoving his reins into Elias’s hand. “Keep Serill safe.”
The man didn’t argue. “Keep the blood inside your body, please. And try not to stab her for this untilafteryou kill those men.”
“No promises,” Cason growled, drawing his sword as he sprinted after her.
Brela already had two throwing knives in her hands, eyes trained on the broken gates at the front of the manor. The men weren’t trying to disguise their approach, kicking and banging their swords against whatever debris remained outside the walls. And Brela wasn’t hiding her approach either, running down the middle of the street as if she didn’t care if she faced them head on.
Cason picked up speed, wondering how this woman could dislike running when she was unnaturally fast. Thank the gods he had a few extra inches of leg to propel him faster. When he was just a few paces behind her, he stretched his senses toward the gates.
Before he could warn her that they were out of time, Brela darted right, and Cason nearly stumbled, forcing him to move left instead. His back slammed into the stone wall of an abandoned shop, muscles and lungs barking with the impact and effort. Gods, he regretted this already.
Across the way and pressed against the wall of another shop, Brela blinked at him in surprise, as if she had been so focused on the men she hadn’t realized he was following her and not Elias.
She flashed her teeth in a snarl and signed.
Oh, shit, what did that mean again? The first and third sign were familiar…
Why follow?
As if he wouldn’t follow and leave her to take on these men alone. He rolled his eyes and thrust an obscene gesture her way. He immediately regretted that gesture, because he knew the look she returned. Felt it low in his gut.
Leave it to him to fall for a woman who was aroused in a moment like this. And, four hells, some twisted part of him actually felt a little bit of that heat, too, looking at her wicked grin.
Voices snapped him out of his inappropriate thoughts. He repositioned and inched his head out as the men turned through the gates. Thirteen, as he sensed, two pulling a cart already littered with scraps and treasure, the others wielding swords and clubs. Cason sent a quiet thanks to whatever gods were watching them. Only looters.
A stubby one—earth-blessed with strength, judging by the stench he gave off—swung his club against the metal gate, leaving a massive dent and a painfully sharp ring in the air.
The light-haired one leading the charge paused a few steps inside, sword resting on his shoulder as his gaze narrowed down the row of houses. “Which of you fat lards is going up that hill?”
Cason’s gaze flicked to Brela… to where Brelahadbeen.
Four hells, where had she gone?
“But Ivan,” a tall, scraggly-looking one whined, “the house has been destroyed for decades.”
Ivan flipped the sword from his shoulder and pointed it at the man. “Then it’s been decades since anyone checked it for goods.” The tip of his blade pressed into the man’s chest. “And it appears you are the first volunteer.”
Cason sized up the rest of the looters. Dull swords, the men pulling the cart unarmed, and no magic wielders that could cause any large issues. His grip tightened on his blade, calculating the steps he’d make to eliminate the thirteen—
There were only eleven men standing now, which meant two had peeled off. His gut clenched, senses flaring wide to find them as he looked toward the gates… and saw their bodies crumpled on the ground, blood spilling onto the stone.
Shit, Brela was that good.
He didn’t have time to admire that Brela had silently downed the two men taking up the rear. Didn’t have time because he had no idea where she was when a third dropped with a wet, choking noise.
“What the—“
The thin one carrying the cart didn’t finish his sentence. Cason stiffened as the two men flinched at the same time, faces drooping as they fell forward with knives embedded in the backs of their necks.
And then he saw her, perched on the side of their wagon with her left knee raised and her elbow resting on top. Calm fury remained on her features as she twisted a throwing knife between the fingers of her right hand, her left loosely clinging to Night Carver.
