“Which means what?” Cassandra flared her wings, muscles tensed.
“It means that the Koenig may appoint as many of his own fighters as he wishes.” Wormwood turned to the crowd. “Brethren! Are you with us?”
The roar that burst from the gathered males shook Cassandra’s bones.
“And it means,” Wormwood stepped back, spreading his palms wide, “that your appeal beginsnow.”
Chaos exploded throughout the throne room as a blur of white wrapped around Cassandra, followed by a streak of copper.
Ronin and Mireille’s wolves circled her, snarling and snapping at any Brethren who attempted to breach their line. They paused only once, to let in Silas, whose dove gray wings streamed behind him as he came to Cassandra’s aid brandishing a stone sword swiped from a Brethren.
“This way!” Silas shouted over the din.
Ronin and Mireille held the line, dodging blows from swords, slices from daggers, and swipes from the paws of other beasts as Silas guided them toward the far corner of the room. To a slim, unguarded archway.
Cassandra peered through the circling wolves, searching for Tristan. He hadn’t appeared yet. Was probably waiting for the most opportune moment to pop out and startle their enemies.
Cassandra tripped on the train of her dress, and as soon as her tailbone cracked against the stone floor, a sleek black panther with ice-blue eyes breached the circle.
Jonas.
His jaws snapped inches from her foot, and she kicked out, ripping her dress. She caught Jonas across the muzzle, and he roared, rancid breath and spittle bathing her as she scrambled backward.
Mireille pounced, tackling the panther bi-form out of the circle, but not before Jonas sank his substantial claws into her flank and tore out a chunk of flesh. Mireille howled, and Ronin’s massive wolf bounded over, grabbing Jonas by the throat.
The violence that Ronin wrought upon the panther shifter was savagely personal.
Cassandra’s only wish was that Mireille could have done it herself.
By the time Ronin was finished, Jonas was nothing more than chunks of shredded flesh and tufts of black fur.
Blood soaked the throne room floor.
Everywhere Cassandra looked, prisoners were fighting off Brethren, distracting them from going for her or Ronin or Mireille. A rush of gratitude overtook her as she shucked off her shoes then stood, her bare feet sliding across the red-stained stone.
Silas was at her side instantly as Mireille and Ronin reformed their circle, weeping wounds matting their hides.
Cassandra could tell they were all flagging, though they’d kept the Brethren at bay. They’d caused a fair amount of damage themselves, tearing off limbs and crunching through throats.
In a spectacularly vicious move, Silas used two swords to scissor a male’s head from his shoulders, then roared, “Through the archway!Now!”
They’d managed to back themselves into the corner.
And escape was mere steps away.
But where thefuckwas Tristan? Cassandra refused to leave the hall until she had eyes on him.
The Brethren didn’t let up. Continued their assault and slammed into Silas and the wolves, who held firm, biting and slashing and slicing.
Each time a weapon was dropped, Cassandra scrambled for it. She managed to assemble an impressive little collection: several daggers, a broadsword, and even a double-headed axe.
She held the latter aloft, arcing into limbs and fingers when necessary, and scanned beyond the wall of fur in front of her for the Koenig.
Aedelmar was across the hall. Out of the fight. And smiling.
He raised a brow at Cassandra, then turned andleft the room.
Wormwood was nowhere to be found either.
