Page 66 of Hexy Beast

The men circle each other, both of them sucking in deep breaths as they wait for their next opportunity to go in for an attack. Darius looks like he got hit by a Mack truck. He has a probably-broken nose, bruises just about everywhere, and, judging by the way he’s favoring one side, a few broken ribs. Nikos, however, looks like he got hit by that same truck, which then backed over him again before doing donuts on his back. Frankly, going by the number of bruises and the amount of blood, I’m surprised he’s even able to stand—which makes me realize he’s not doing it on his own. His deal with the Council must have included juicing his own power. Why fight fair when he could win?

The shithead proves my point by reaching down and snagging a baseball bat–sized tree limb from the underbrush.

I fight to reach my magic to help when Nikos swings it at Darius, but I don’t even feel the tendrils of power anymore.

Darius ducks just in time and pops back up with an uppercut that sends Nikos flying backward. My wolf stops pacing long enough to send out a triumphant howl when Nikos lands on his ass in the mud. He lies there unmoving as Darius looms over him, and for the first time since we thought we’d walked into town, I can let out a full breath. Yeah, there’s still Kyle to deal with, and the Council werewolves, but their time in an upright, fully mobile and functioning position is quickly dwindling.

“Surrender,” Darius says, looking down at Nikos.

The other man doesn’t say anything. He can’t even open his eyes.

Darius looms over Nikos, still tense and ready for more.

A heavy silence falls over the crowd as they all watch, obviously not sure what to do. The Council werewolves turn to Kyle for direction.

He shakes his head and says, “Bring me the oracle.”

The call for Artemis isn’t much in terms of action, but it’s enough to snag Darius’s attention for the half second it takes Nikos to scoop up a handful of mud. He flings it at Darius’s face and then leaps to his feet. He follows that with another barrage of big swings from the tree limb that mostly just sail harmlessly through the air as Darius bobs and weaves in between, landing some iron-fisted punches of his own.

Watching and not being able to help is maddening. My wolf and I are all ready to leap into action the second we get an opening. However, as it is, I’m breathing hard, I can’t move, and I can’t reach my magic. The foul stink of rotting things is wrapped around me like a heavy rope holding me in place. But it’s starting to loosen as Kyle becomes more and more distracted by the brawl.

If Kyle were smarter, this would be when he takes care of whatever it is he’s planning to do to Artemis and me. Smart, though, is never a word people would associate with the Internet troll turned asshole with delusions of grandeur. Instead, this numbskull has magicked a bucket of popcorn to snack on as he watches the battle between Nikos and Darius.

And that’s when it happens: The end of the rope tying me up and holding my magic down goes slack.

This jerk is about to learn what happens when you fuck with a Sherwood who has impulse-control issues.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Darius…

My jaw aches like a son of a bitch, at least two of my ribs are in the process of restitching themselves back together again (which hurts as much as having hot candle wax poured on my balls—don’t ask, you don’t need to know all the dumb shit I’ve done in my life), and there’s a constant high-pitched ringing in my head since I failed to duck in time to avoid getting clocked by the tree limb Nikos is swinging around like a baseball bat.

“Had enough?” Nikos asks.

Or at least that’s what I think he said. He’s missing a few teeth and he can’t open his mouth very far, so it’s hard to tell.

“Not even close.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says as he tightens his grip on the limb and his gaze dips to my side where my ribs are still healing.

The man couldn’t telegraph his next move any more if he sent an actual telegraph. So before he can even pull back on the limb to wind up for a big swing, I land a solid blow to his solar plexus. He gasps for breath and stumbles back, but not far enough. I slam my fist into his chin, and his head snaps back.

My wolf lets out a bloodthirsty howl as it takes over, and I know this next blow is going to send Nikos literally six feet underground. But before I can deliver the knockout, my wolf turns his attention away from our target and over to Effie. She’s loose from the glowing rope that had been holding her in place, and she’s sprinting toward Formido or Kyle or whatever the fuck the Council asshole wants to call himself.

Overwhelmed with an all-encompassing urge to protect, I pivot without thinking, leaving Nikos a bloody but still-standing mess, and rush toward Kyle. My wolf braces for a fight we won’t lose—we can’t, not when Effie is involved.

The thing is, though, that in the midst of the blood and broken bones in the heat of the fight, I lost sight of who I was rushing to save.

Effie Sherwood doesn’t need me to hold her own with that prick.

The scent of honeysuckle seems to fill the whole woods as a whirlwind of magic surrounds her, sweeping her hair back and making the crunchy autumn leaves at her feet shoot upward and outward like a fountain. Her hands are glowing, and she’s chanting something in Latin that I don’t understand. I don’t need to. I already know she’s about to kick that dipshit’s ass.

Kyle watches her approach, the popcorn in his hand forgotten even though he still has a smug expression on his face. But I can smell his magic, the acrid foulness of it, and I know he’s about to pull some underhanded shit.

“We have to shield her,” my wolf says in my head.

“She doesn’t need our help with the witch,” I tell him.