Magic Stars (Grey Wolf #1)(19)

The wild within him roared. The thing that nearly turned him loup—the one he kept at bay with monthly trips to the woods, with meditation, with exertion, with running until his legs could no longer carry him—that thing broke free and it was hungry.

“Choose a side,” the hunter said.

Her voice rang, her words defiant. “I choose the Wolf.”

“Then you die.” The hunter pulled the bow off his shoulders.

Not today. Derek leaped over the iron rail. He landed among the hounds and opened two throats, tusk to tusk, before they realized he was there. Blood gushed—glorious, hot blood, straight from the heart. The wild sang within him. The third beast tried to gore him, but he hurled it aside like a rag doll. It hit the wall with a loud thud, whimpered as it slid to the ground, and lay still.

An arrow whistled through the air. He grasped the fourth beast by its neck and jerked it up, holding the struggling animal like a shield. Arrows thudded into it—one, two, three—and sank deep. He hurled the creature at its master. The horse reared, screaming. The hound met the hunter’s fist and fell, knocked aside. It scrambled to its feet and ran to Derek, limping. The remaining hounds, two slashed and bleeding and one favoring its front leg, rushed him. He dodged the first, letting it rush past him, and landed on its neck and bit. His teeth closed around the spinal column and crushed the cartilage. He tore a mouthful of flesh and bone and let go. A tusk dug into his hip. He snarled at the pain and punched the creature’s thick skull. It shuddered and he punched again, driving his fist in with all his wild strength. The bone broke. Brain wet his fur. The last hound attacked, unsteady on its feet. The wild roared inside him, so loud he could hear nothing else. He carved the hound’s throat into pieces.

An arrow pierced his thigh. He ripped it out, slashing the wound open before the silver could spread.

The last beast fell. The bird swooped down at him. He snatched the raptor out of the air and tore off its head. Only the man was left. He walked to the hunter. There was no need to rush.

The hunter drew his bow and fired. Derek knocked the arrow aside. Another arrow. He dodged. It grazed his thigh. The burn of silver spurred him on. Derek leaped and took his opponent off the horse with a swipe of his paw. The big human rolled to his feet, two blades in his hands. They were almost the same height: the hunter nine inches over six feet tall, and he fully seven feet in his warrior shape.

Derek licked his fangs. Delicious blood coated his tongue and dripped from his mouth, but he was still hungry.

The hunter became a whirlwind of blades. He sliced and stabbed and cut fast, very fast. Derek blocked, stepped inside his guard, and kicked him in the chest. The hunter flew backward, rolled to his feet again, and charged.

They collided. A blade pierced Derek’s chest, sliding neatly between his ribs, almost nicking his heart. The pain tore at his insides. He buried his claws in the hunter’s gut and tore a handful of intestines out. The hunter twisted the sword, trying to carve his way to Derek’s heart. Derek stepped back, pulling himself off the blade, and the hunter chopped at his right arm with the other sword. He took that cut, because he had no choice—it nearly cut through the bone—and raked his claws across the hunter’s face. Blood poured into the hunter’s eyes. The big human lunged, his right sword striking. Derek moved to the left, letting the blade whistle past, locked his right arm on the hunter’s wrist and smashed the heel of his left hand into the man’s elbow. The joint snapped, breaking. He jerked the blade from the hunter’s suddenly limp fingers and rammed it into the hunter’s mouth.

It was a good sword, sharp and solid. It made a lovely sound as it split the hunter’s mouth, then his throat on its way down. The hunter’s heart fluttered like a dying bird, then stopped.

Derek raised his head to the sky. Above him the moon watched through the massive gap in the roof. He opened his bloody jaws and sang. The high-pitched howl rose up, riding on the moonlight, rolling through the night, and all who heard it would know he had made his kill.

He shook the corpse, hoping for more fight, then took the dead man’s head into his mouth, but the hunter didn’t move. His heart was still. He tossed the dead hunter aside.

There had to be something left to kill. There was still one heart beating.

He turned and saw her sitting in a circle. She looked . . . good.

He walked to the circle. She didn’t move. She just watched him with pretty brown eyes.

He ran headfirst into a wall. He couldn’t see it, but it was there. He looked down and noticed a white chalk line between him and her. Magic.

He circled the ward, probing it with his claws. The invisible wall held all the way around. He stopped in front of her and crouched, so they were level. His voice was an inhuman, ragged snarl. “Let me in.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Let me in.”

“Maybe in a little while,” she said. “Once you cool off.”

“I’m all cooled off.” He wanted into that circle.

“In a little bit.”

He backed away and ran full speed at the circle. The wall held.

“You really can’t skip the hunt,” she told him.

It took another four tries before he decided he couldn’t break through the wall. He kicked the corpses for a while, but they didn’t put up a fight and the horse had run off. He thought of tracking it down, but he would have to leave her and he didn’t want to. He finally settled for stretching out by the circle and looking at the moon.