The Vampire's Bride (Atlantis #4)(40)

"Kick him," she commanded through gritted teeth. She dug her booted toes into the wood planks and rolled her hips. Slowly, with every roll, she inched backward. "Don't let him latch on to you."

Another team member slapped into her back, and she nearly lost her hold again. So much for team players. Somehow she managed to maintain a solid hold this time, even as the minotaur flailed to avoid the laughing merman.

Layel appeared beside her, startling her. She glanced up, embarrassed that she needed help but happy to see him all the same. He didn't touch her or say a word as he kicked his leg into the hole. His foot slammed into the bull-man's face.

"What are you doing?" she shouted, rain filling her mouth.

The minotaur sobbed and grabbed for her wrist with his other hand.

"Let him go."

"No!"

Layel kicked the bull again.

Strong arms suddenly latched on to her waist, a thick leg whizzing past her temple and connecting with Layel's chest. The vampire soared backward and her helper gave a hard tug, pulling Delilah to her feet and the minotaur the rest of the way to safety. She glanced up, panting, and saw Tagart.

His eyes were grim, his face cut and bloodied. Water trickled from his cheeks in little rivers. "Let's go." He turned and was off, unwilling to wait for her.

She rubbed her shoulder and stumbled forward. As she moved, a flash of black drew her attention to the left. Layel had regained his balance and now kept pace beside her on his side of the gauntlet, watching her through eyes red with fury. Time seemed to slow, the dragon and minotaur racing toward the finish line and her other teammates rushing past her, her labored gait too slow.

Determined, she increased her speed. Every step jarred her shoulder and lanced her with fresh pain, but she didn't care. She dodged the spikes and jumped the holes without missing a beat.

Layel, she noticed, simply floated above the gaping holes. He never fell behind her, nor did he inch in front of her. Truly, what was his purpose? He could have maimed her, slowed her down and won, but he hadn't.

A pendulum swung at her and she ducked, soon realizing there was a rhythm to the game. Step, step, duck. Step, jump. Step, step, duck. Again, she quickened her movements. Twice, she skidded across the slippery ice, but both times she managed to stop herself before she slid straight into the water.

Where was Nola? Had the girl already reached the end? She looked, slipped.

Concentrate. Ducking nearly to her stomach as the lowest lance yet whizzed overhead, Delilah's gaze connected with Layel's as though tugged by an invisible chain. He'd already made it past the spike and was standing off to the side, next to a hole.

One of his teammates dangled under it, she saw, hanging on with only one hand. Gaze never leaving her, Layel stepped on the creature's fingers. There was a pained cry. Then nothing. Then a splash. Then another cry. Her mouth fell open in shock. Why had he done that? He had hindered his own team, sentenced them to lose.

To show her that he had no remorse when it came to killing?

To help her win?

The thought was heady. Shameful, but heady. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, feel him embrace her. Hear him proclaim to all the world that she was his, belonged to him, and he would stop at nothing to ensure her happiness.

Someone grabbed her arm, and she cried out at the renewed agony in her shoulder. Her attention skidded to her tormentor. Tagart.

He tossed her a dark scowl. "You're the last. Hurry!" With that, he jerked her forward.

She tried to pull back. Foolishly, she didn't want Layel to lose. But it was too late. In seconds, they were at the end. She saw every one of her teammates hunched over, gasping for air. But they were there, which meant her team had won. Cheers soon rent the air, louder even than the crashing thunder.

She turned as Layel reached his own team. They were hunched over and gasping, as well, but they didn't cheer when they saw the vampire. They snarled in rage. He was the reason they had lost, and they knew it.

"You'll pay," Brand snarled.

"You kicked him!" a centaur roared. "You kicked Irren."

Irren, the formorian in question, limped to the finish line a short while later. His only arm clung to its socket with thin strips of crimson flesh. Like all of his race, he possessed only one leg. That leg was missing hunks of muscle. Both of his wings were broken, barely able to flap, but keeping him upright. Injured as he was, he still attacked Layel from behind.

Frowning, Layel reached behind him, latched on to the creature and flipped him overhead. Smack. Irren hit the wood, causing the entire platform to vibrate. The formorian didn't rise. He just lay there, panting, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You could have helped me," Irren choked out. "You could have helped."

"But I didn't," Layel replied coldly. He was peering at Delilah as he spoke, as if his every action was for her benefit.

Did he think she would turn away, repulsed by him? Did he hope that she would?

Violence was not abhorrent to her. She had done much worse over the years.

Not knowing what to make of him, Delilah tore her gaze away and searched for Nola. She found the girl in the corner, scowling over at her. Blaming her for the loss?

Having none of that, Delilah lumbered toward her. Just before she reached her target, however, everyone on the losing team disappeared. There one moment, gone the next. At first, Delilah glanced around in confusion. Then her stomach clenched as realization set in.