Quentin used the brief moment of peace to quickly collect his daggers. He wiped them on the now-ruined comforter before slipping them back into his baldric. From the dresser, he pulled a fresh tunic, tugging it over his blood-splattered shoulders.
Delaynie just stood, nearly as still as a statue in the corner. Even set into a wolf’s skull, her pale eyes were wide, unseeing.
Shock. If she were a human, he expected that she would be going into shock. It was only the instincts of the beast whose skin she wore that kept her standing now.
He slowly approached, hand stretched before him. She tensed, shifting back on her haunches, lips lifting in the earliest hint of a snarl.
“It’s me,” he murmured, as soft and calm as he could. “Delaynie. Little wolf, it’s me. It’s Quentin.” He spread his hands. An offering.
Gently, hesitantly, she leaned forward and gave him the barest sniff.
Something in her snapped. The tension melted off her massive frame, her ears drooping back against her skull. A soft wine slipped from her, so afraid and desperate and raw.
Quentin swallowed, fighting back the urge to rush into her. To bury his hands and face in what he was sure was delicately soft fur, to assure her that this would be okay. That they would be okay.
But Quentin also didn’t like to lie. Especially not to her.
“I know, little wolf.” He swallowed. “I know. But it’s not over yet. There will be more coming. We’re going to have to run for it. Can you do that? For me?”
Their eyes locked. He could almost feel the way she was pulling herself together, the way she was fighting back the desire to fall apart right there. Fighting back the shock, the horror, the disgust.
He knew. He’d battled those same feelings once, too. Taking your first life was never easy; especially when the taking was so brutal.
Delaynie was strong. Stronger than any of them knew. When she stood to her full height—eyes nearly level with Quentin’s—and gave him the subtlest of nods, he knew she was ready.
He ran his hands over his baldric, taking comfort in the weight of his daggers.
“Stay together, stay calm, and if anyone gets too close, bite their head off.”
Chapter 77
More men waited in the street.
That wasn’t a surprise to Quentin. They’d sent ten men to collect two people. He’d doubted that would be the extent of their reinforcements.
His first dagger was thrown true, sinking into the back of the pirate's neck before the rest of his crew even saw them. He dropped like dead weight and his companions whirled, metal whistling as they drew their rapiers.
Their jaws slackened, though, when they saw the great cream and red wolf slink from the shadows at Quentin’s side, maw snarling and stained with blood.
A few of them—the smarter ones—tossed their swords to the ground and ran.
The rest died as swiftly as their friends upstairs.
Quentin again collected his knives from the bodies, slipping them back into his baldric. He faced the empty streets—though it was almost noon, it seemed the residents were getting a late start.
The stillness on the streets only made it easier to hear the stomping of boots.Manyboots.
Way more than what they’d just dealt with. Enough to send a fresh jab of fear shooting through Quentin’s chest.
He turned to Delaynie. The cream wolf waited in the shadows, icy eyes trained on him.
“Run.”
They flew up the winding streets. The Kizar Islands were lush mountains jutting from the sea, and the one on which Tenevra had been built was no exception. They climbed up and up, away from the bustle of the port, toward the thick jungles and wilds of the island. Quentin could feel the boots behind them growing closer—could feel the angry cries echoing off the buildings as they found their comrades’ bodies, could hear the clanging of steel as they rallied for revenge.
If they were caught, they weresofucked.
So, best to not get caught.
