Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(87)

Things snapped inside of her, explosions of more searing pain in the ruins of her internal landscape. Her breath came in on a high thin whine.

Blackness surrounded her as shadow wolves attacked. Even more pain flared as the first one sank its teeth into her shoulder. She shrieked and convulsed into a shapeshift, reverting to her human form that wore the Elven armor just in time before the others arrived. Some hung by their teeth off the Elven armor. A few burrowed in between the plates, looking to chew through the armor’s fastenings.

None of it mattered as her attention narrowed to accomplishing one thing. The only way to stop her now would be to kill her.

Galya moaned as she tried weakly to pull herself out from underneath Aryal’s body. Clearly the witch was hurt, but she wasn’t hurt badly enough, as she gathered her Power to throw another spell.

Aryal punched her in the face. The witch’s gathering Power splintered. Bone crunched as the witch’s head rocked back, and blood spurted from her mouth and nose. It felt so necessary, Aryal punched her again. Vaguely she realized that crazypants had taken charge of the fight.

The two blows alone might have killed the human, but the shadow wolves still swirled around her, and crazypants was determined to be thorough. She saw her short sword lying tilted in the sand a few feet away, along with her abandoned bow. She crawled to the sword and grabbed it. Something was wrong with her hand. It wouldn’t close around the hilt properly. It was almost too difficult to crawl back to the witch’s sprawled body, but she managed it.

The largest shadow wolf lunged desperately at her arm as she raised the sword, but the Elven armor held against his gnashing teeth.

She plunged her sword into Galya’s chest.

Multiple screams echoed in her head. All the shadow wolves snapped out of existence.

Crazypants pulled out the sword and stabbed the witch again. She said hoarsely, “That’s for what’s-her-name who died in prison because you put her there.”

And again. “That’s for Quentin, who better not be dead.”

And again and again and again, driving the sword into the body as her breath sawed raggedly. She raised and angled the sword, and in one wide sweep that set her overstrained back ablaze with agony, she cut off Galya’s head. Then she picked the head up by the hair and flung it into the water. “That’s for me and each one of my wings, you f*cked-up, perforated bitch.”

Somewhere nearby, someone coughed, a deep hacking sound.

Quentin said in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice, “Remind me to never piss you off so badly.”

He seemed to pause to think about that. Or maybe he was just gathering his strength so that he could utter another word.

“Again.”


Quentin lay on his back. He had no idea his body was capable of producing so much pain.

He felt like he was still on fire, all across his chest and shoulder and up one side of his face. Even his lungs felt burned, and he couldn’t see out of one eye.

All told, he was pretty happy. He hadn’t thought he was going to survive.

Movement drew his attention. He rolled his head to one side and squinted as Aryal crawled lopsidedly toward him. One of her legs dragged uselessly behind her, and she was drenched in blood. She collapsed in a huddle beside him.

He coughed again. Red stars bloomed at the back of his eyes with every excruciating hack. “Any of that blood yours?”

“No,” she said. “Not much, anyway. But I’m broken up six ways to Sunday.”

“All you still got is bitching and moaning?” he said. “You’ll live, sunshine.”

And thank all the gods for that. When he had seen her throw herself off the bluff, he felt as if his brain might rupture and leak out his ears. He dragged his hand across the sand toward her. Her fingers closed over his.

“And you?” she asked urgently. “You look really bad, but you’re no longer glowing in the dark. That’s good, right? Tell me that’s good.”

Galya had thrown a corrosive spell. At first he had been able to block it, but it had eaten through both the armor and his defenses before he could neutralize it. Dizzy and lightheaded, he tried to cough again and whispered, “There’s something wrong with my lungs.”

Fear strangled her voice. “I had to jump overboard and swim too, and I forgot to grab my bag with the food and the healing potion. Where’s yours?”

“End boat, first pier.”

His pain was receding, along with consciousness. He wondered if he was going to wake up again. Whatever the reality would be, he was glad it had held off so he could party a little bit.

Although he would have preferred something booked at Sardi’s, with Aryal on his arm—okay, at his side—and alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

Maybe if he lived, he could talk her into wearing a miniskirt if she paired it with a switchblade and combat boots. One corner of his mouth tried to lift up. Be worth that fight to look at her killer legs and anarchistic smile. Damn, she was a hell of a ride.

He squeezed her fingers and fell into darkness.

Liquid gold trickled down his raw, burned throat. He swallowed reflexively once, twice, then erupted into coughing, and that hurt so bad it brought him back awake.

“Goddammit,” somebody said miserably. “It’s all about you again, isn’t it? Wake up and drink this right now, do you hear me? I hurt so bad, and I’m so tired, and all I want is another hug from you, AND YOU CAN’T DIE ON ME, QUENTIN, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE THE FINAL FUCKING STRAW! I SCREWED UP MY WINGS EVEN MORE TO SAVE YOUR LIFE, YOU ROTTEN SON OF A BITCH. PARAGLIDING IS A STUPID IDEA, AND I’M DONE, I’LL BE SO DONE IF YOU DIE! DONE!”