Alterant (Belador #2)(80)

The man seriously needed anger management.

She had to help him calm down. “Who is Petrina?”

“My sister!” Tristan raised his fists, shaking them at an empty tunnel where the soldier spirit had just vanished. He yelled, “You’re a dead bitch, Kizira!”

Evalle stood very still, anticipating any sudden change or attack. She didn’t want to end up a dead bitch, too.

Thunk . . . thunk, thunk.

She turned at the noise.

Bricks were piling on top of each other, forming a wall. She jerked around, looking past Tristan to where rough-cut beams that could be railroad ties began piling to form another barrier.

The Maze of Death residents were barricading her in with Tristan . . . who would be a full-blown beast in another minute.

Would being in this maze cause him to lose control of his beast?

“Calm down, Tristan,” Evalle warned.

His neck thickened, veins sticking out. He swung his head back and forth, finally seeing the walls forming, and roared a vicious curse, then slammed his body against the stack of railroad ties. The wall didn’t give an inch.

He started pounding the wooden barrier, his body still changing.

“Stop!” she yelled at him. “You’re making it worse.”

His shirtsleeves split when his arms lengthened. The back of his shirt ripped where his neck bulged. He’d be half again as big and twice as deadly within seconds if he didn’t stop shifting into a beast.

“Tristan!”

He swung a face distorted with rage at her that would scare a demon.

Bones in his jaw cracked and muscle stretched to accept a double row of fangs. He snarled at her. Saliva dripped from his lips.

Not the controlled beast she’d met in the jungle.

She couldn’t survive fighting him in her human body and doubted changing into her Belador battle form would make any difference. Not with his extra kick from the Kujoo highball.

Tristan dropped his head back and bellowed a blood-chilling scream. His fingers lengthened into sharp claws.

How could she reach him? What could make him stop when he was this far out of control? Didn’t he realize he was wasting precious time they could use to save the three Alterants?

And his sister?

His sister.

She pointed a finger in Tristan’s face she hoped wouldn’t end up snapped off by those fangs. “I will not help you save your sister unless you stop changing right now!”

That must have gotten through, because he stilled every movement but heaving, labored breaths.

Evalle pressed her point. “Take a look around at the walls closing in on us. I need you able to think.”

Tristan’s chest expanded and contracted quietly. He stared at her through green eyes burning with fury, as though she had been the one to hand his sister to the Medb.

Maybe he wasn’t cognizant of anything in this form.

Maybe he wasn’t as in control of his beast as he’d have her believe.

“Come on, Tristan, get a grip on yourself unless you want to leave your sister at Kizira’s mercy.”

Several tense seconds passed before he slammed a fist into the pile of railroad ties, then dropped his arms to his side. He finally began to change back and withdraw into his normal body.

She gave up the breath she’d been holding. For the first time since coming into this place, she enjoyed a moment of relief. Odd how facing down something she knew could kill her had taken her mind off the mere threat of what might be in here.

Returning to his normal body didn’t completely take the edge off Tristan’s anger. He stomped back and forth in front of her, growling when he wasn’t spewing threats. “That bitch! I’m going to kill her if she hurts my sister. Rip her head off.”

Evalle gave him a minute to vent in hopes it would help him calm down more, then said, “We can’t do anything without your guide service. You scared off the soldier ghost who knows how to get us there.”

Tristan stopped pacing and absorbed her words. “Fuck!”

“Shouting ran him off the last time, and it’s wearing on what little patience I have left, so cut it out. Not to mention that cursing isn’t helping your case either, since a Civil War soldier is from an era when they didn’t talk like that in front of women.”

That brought a wry twist to Tristan’s lips. His eyebrow lifted in a derogatory arch. “I doubt he’s concerned about offending the sensibilities of a woman wearing tight jeans, boots and a shirt short enough to expose her midriff. Not that I have any complaints about you being down to two buttons left on your shirt, but you’re far from the image of a lady.”

Had he just dissed her? “Fine. Go shout your head off and curse every ghost in here if that makes you feel better than saving your sister from the Medb.”

That slapped the arrogance off his face, along with some of his color.

She hadn’t intended to give him a verbal kick in the nuts, but she was running out of time and, at this point, so was Tristan.

And she’d had enough of his hardheaded attitude.

“You’re right,” he admitted, wiping an agitated hand across his blond hair, raking the short hairs out of shape. “We have to find the soldier’s chamber, and fast. I wish he’d at least have had a sense of time so we’d know when Kizira might start killing Alterants.”