A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(42)

“Let’s find that key and get out of here.” He glanced at Melisande and she nodded, but when he held out his hand to her, she ignored it and set out ahead of him as if she were determined to get them out of here. Or determined to keep him at a distance. Probably both.

Truth be told, he was as anxious to get out of here as she was. Kara needed them. They sure as hell couldn’t rescue her trapped in a place like this. He wondered if Lyon and the others would find themselves trapped in here, too. He wouldn’t mind the help in finding the way out. But, goddess. What if all of them wound up wandering this godforsaken place for the rest of their lives? Lives cut short by lack of radiance unless they were actually close enough to the stronghold . . . and Kara . . . even here.

Side by side, they wandered the seaside village, drawing more and more attention. An attention that was beginning to claw at his nerves. How many more eyes would he draw if he suddenly went feral? If only he could be certain they weren’t in any kind of real world of the past. Giving himself away as inhuman could bring down disaster upon the entire immortal world.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at us,” Melisande said quietly.

“Me either. Just keep walking.” Unable to resist, he ran his hand down that silken braid.

She threw him an enigmatic look but said nothing, and he curled the braid around his hand, loving the feel of it wrapped around his fist. Releasing the long, golden length, he watched it fall down to the curve of her back, swaying to mimic her hips.

With effort, he tore his gaze away, concentrating on their surroundings, on finding the key.

The air was cool and damp against his cheeks, a far cry from the late May temps they’d left behind in the mountains.

But when he shivered, it was not with cold. His gut was delivering up another truth.

“This way,” he said, eyeing an intersection up ahead, knowing they needed to turn right.

Melisande glanced at him but said nothing, her gaze on the people who were beginning to throng the street, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

True humans couldn’t hurt them easily and would never overcome either of them one-on-one. But an angry mob could kill even an immortal. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to cut down humans, but he’d not allow either of them to be taken. He couldn’t, whether or not this place was real. And if that meant shifting into his animal, so be it.

All at once, the humans . . . dozens of them, now . . . pulled knives and swords out of their cloaks and sheaths, turning on them as if a puppet master had given the order to attack. And he probably had.

Melisande drew her sword.

Fox grabbed her free hand. “Run!”

He took off, pulling her with him. Now wasn’t the time to stand and fight, not unless they had no other choice. No, this was the time to get the hell out of Dodge and hope his gut would lead him to the key. Or to safety. As the cold drizzle fell on their heads and slicked the cobblestones beneath their boots, they dodged assailants, street carts, even a goat.

That intersection. They had to reach the intersection.

“Sooner or later, we’re going to have to stand and fight, Feral,” Melisande said beside him.

“Not if we’re lucky.”

“Let go of my hand. I can run faster.” She tugged her hand free and he let her go, knowing she was right.

At the intersection, he turned right, not even looking first. This was the way they needed to go. He knew it. The cobbled street tilted precariously downward toward the waterfront. A vast expanse of water lay beyond. What would happen, he wondered, if they were to steal a boat and sail away? Would they eventually come to the edge of this magical world and be forced to turn back? Or was the bay even part of the world to begin with?

Side by side, they started down the hilly street, a street blessedly devoid of people or assailants of any kind. Escaping that mob had been too easy.

Too easy.

No sooner had he acknowledged his disquiet than vines began to seep up from beneath the cobblestones, dozens of them, reaching for his ankles, his legs.

Fox pulled his knives and began hacking at them. Beside him, Melisande did the same, but the vines were too quick, too strong, and even as he hacked, they curled around his legs and feet, until he couldn’t move, then began to climb up his body.

“Fox!” The thread of panic in Melisande’s voice tore at him, but there was nothing he could do to help her when he couldn’t help himself. The magic was too fecking strong!

As he fought and hacked, the vines curled around his torso, his arms, his hands, his neck, yanking him back, pulling him down until he was flat on his back, sealed to the cobbles like Gulliver in Lilliput. With a furious roar, he went feral, but neither his claws nor fangs could find purchase to cut at the vines.

“Fox.”

He managed, barely, to turn his head, to look at Melisande who was tied to the street as he was, not four feet away. In her eyes, he saw a raw terror that made him crazed . . . and that helped pull him down because, goddess, she needed him this time. She was struggling against the hold of the vines, her eyes bright with tears that were beginning to leak down into her hair.

“Mel,” he said around the fangs still protruding from his mouth. He wanted to offer her comforting words and had none to give. They were caught, ripe for the slaughter.

“I can’t be captured. I can’t, Fox. I can’t.”

He didn’t want to tell her that capture was the least of their worries. Except, when he managed to glimpse back over his head, the mob was gone. They’d driven them into the trap and served their purpose. Why? So the Mage could come collect them?