That’s worse. The rhythmic noise was a warning.
“Nothing,” Mikaela whispers, her hands tight on her own knife. “It’s completely... wait.”
Her breath hitches sharply.
“The east tunnel,” Mikaela relays, solely speaking aloud for my benefit. Her words come in a rush. “The passage leading toward the meat drying racks. Hunters. At least three.”
I press my back harder into the stone. That tunnel is narrow, and it connects close to where we are. My fingers clench around the hilt of the bone knife, a lump rising in my throat.
“They’re moving fast,” Mikaela says, her voice dropping. “They’re dropping straight down the vents.”
Dropping.
The drop down those vents is at least forty feet of jagged, unforgiving rock.
The sound hits us a fraction of a second later. It echoes down the narrow stone shafts. The sickening thud of bodies colliding, followed by the scrape of claws tearing into flesh and stone. They aren’t just dropping. They’ve already engaged the warriors Kol stationed up there. The fighting is right above us.
“They’re splitting up,” Mikaela says, her eyes flying open.
Splitting up. Of course they would split up.
My stomach drops. My human brain is frantically trying to catch up while blind.
“They must have found another entrance,” I say. “Tell him.”
“They already know,” Mikaela says. “Sarven is moving to intercept.”
Her hands press together as if she’s silently praying.
I stare down into the cavern. The erratic gold light on Kol’s broad back flares suddenly, a blinding spike of pure heat. He is waiting.
I trust him. The shape of him anchoring the cavern is the only thing keeping the terror from swallowing me. I know he will not let them through.
But I let out a shaky breath anyway, as the sheer, helpless frustration begins to crawl up my spine.
I am deaf. I cannot hear what they are saying. I cannot hear Kol’s commands. I cannot hear where the enemy is bleeding through the lines until Mikaela has the breath, and the presence of mind, to whisper the translation aloud.
It is exactly like trying to play high-speed, competitive chess by telephone. During a home invasion.
Another few seconds of silence pass. In the darkness below, Kol shifts his stance. He looks like three hundred and fifty pounds of pure, patient violence. Beside him, the three other warriors are completely, terrifyingly still. They wait in the absolute dark, their long claws resting lightly against the stone, eyes fixed on the black tunnel opening ahead.
“Mikaela,” I whisper sharply. “What did he just do?”
“I don’t know,” she hisses, her face going shuttered. “Sarven is trying to block me but... oh god, it’s still bleeding through. There’s blood. Someone’s chest just got torn into. Oh my god, they’re using the shadowmaws and—” Right before my eyes, she recoils, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her temples. “It’s just red. Everything is red in his head.”
I grab her shoulder. “Who is down?” I push the panic out of my voice. “Whose chest?”
“Not Sarven,” she breathes out, fighting to keep her grounding as the violence bleeds into her brain. “I think it’s Sorn. He threw himself on top of one of the shadowmaws to save Haroth.”
My vision actually edges with white, helpless rage.
“When this is over,” I grind out, my teeth chattering as the freezing draft hits my face. “I am getting access to the mindspace. I cannot be blind like this.”
Beside me, Mikaela’s eyes snap open. She looks at me in the dark.
“You have to mate with a Drakav for that,” she says quietly.
“I’m aware.”
