Wickedly Wonderful (Baba Yaga, #2)(91)

Any of the rebels who weren’t lying bleeding or unconscious on the once pristine sands had bunched up in front of Kesh, maybe to defend him, or maybe thinking he would defend them. Either way, he pointed at Beka and said, “Ignore the Human. Kill the witch. Kill her now.” The three remaining Selkies headed across the beach to where Beka was standing, barely holding herself upright and visibly trembling.

Then Kesh jumped down and faced Marcus, a sly smile snaking across his handsome face like a cloud across the sun. “You’d better let me go and rescue your precious Baba Yaga. She’s looking quite ill; I suspect she may not be up to defending herself. Such a pity.”

Marcus wanted so badly to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off the Selkie Prince’s face, he could feel the muscles in his thighs bunch as he prepared to spring. But he couldn’t abandon Beka. Kesh had the advantage—there was no one in the fight that he cared about; it was clear that he would cheerfully abandon all those battling on his behalf. But as much as Marcus wanted to pummel Kesh, he couldn’t do it if it cost him Beka.

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, not quite taking his eyes off of Kesh, who was poised to make a break for the water, taking one sidling sideways step after another. Once the Selkie got to the sea, he’d be gone for good.

Beka was winded and gasping, bent over with her hands braced on her upper thighs as though she was about to collapse entirely. Two of the remaining paranormals stood in front of her, holding large pieces of driftwood they’d picked up off the beach. The third was circling around from behind.

Torn in agonized indecision, Marcus met Beka’s eyes across the ground that separated them. As he watched, she sank even lower . . . and then closed one eye in an unmistakable wink.

Marcus smothered a laugh, spinning around to leap through the air and tackle Kesh, just as Beka whipped out a knife from each of the sheaths she’d glamoured to be invisible, and plunged them deep into the attackers in front of her, ducking under their flailing arms to sink the blades in. He’d just have to trust her to take care of the third. For now, he had his hands full.

Kesh fought dirty, which came as no surprise. He was supple and slippery, pulling out of Marcus’s grasp time and time again, fingers shaped into claws to try and gouge out Marcus’s eyes or jab at his windpipe. He bit and scratched, twisting like an eel, cursing all the while. Sometimes Marcus was on top, sometimes Kesh was.

Both of them punched and jabbed at each other, connecting more times than not. Sand flew into Marcus’s eyes, and he blinked it away, his feet slipping on the uneven surface. Unwanted memories of other battles flashed before him, but he shoved them down, out of the way. There was only here. Only now. Only one target. Everything came down to Kesh.

By the time they staggered to their feet, facing each other, they were both cut and bleeding from over a dozen places. Marcus was pretty sure one of his ribs was cracked from a flying kick the other man had managed to get in, and the ornate silver knife clutched in the Selkie’s hand cut just as well as Marcus’s more utilitarian model.

“You cannot win,” the Selkie panted, holding his knife out in front of him as he edged even closer to the sea. Tiny waves lapped at their feet, their soothing murmur a sharp counterpoint to the sounds of vicious struggle. “No matter what you do, Beka will die. Already she lies bleeding on the sand. You have lost, Human. Let me go, and perhaps you will still have time to save her. Unless of course she is dead already.”

Marcus didn’t dare turn away from his quarry, as much as his heart yelled out at him to check on Beka, to make sure that Kesh lied. He couldn’t hear anything over the thudding of his pulse and his own harsh breathing.

“If she dies,” Marcus said grimly, “so do you. Count on it.” He took one step forward, and something in his face finally chased away the look of smug superiority on Kesh’s.

“You cannot kill me,” Kesh said with certainty, his back foot ankle-deep in salt water. “I am a Selkie prince.”

Marcus pivoted on one heel, ignoring the stab of his rib as he spun around and kicked Kesh squarely in the stomach. The Selkie doubled over, and Marcus took one more step in, grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his fist into the other man’s face with all of his might. The Selkie dropped like a stone, waves foaming whitely around his crumpled body.

“You might be a Selkie prince,” Marcus said, gritting his teeth. “But no one, not even a Selkie prince, takes out a Marine.”

And he hauled the unconscious man out of the surf and went to find his woman.





TWENTY-SIX




THE WORLD CAME back to Kesh in a blurry haze, half eclipsed by an eye that was rapidly swelling shut. He tried to move, but his arms and legs seemed to have cleaved to each other, and the best he could manage was an abbreviated wiggle, like a newborn pup just birthed into the sea.

A face swam into view, familiar save for the fierce grin that adorned its battered surface; an expression he had never seen before, and one that he would be happier not to be seeing now. Who knew the insecure little witch had it in her? She had been full of surprises from the beginning—not at all what Brenna had said, or what he had expected.

This final surprise was most particularly unpleasant. As was the shiny silver blade she held about an inch from his one working eye. Most insulting of all—the knife was his own. This had not gone at all as he had planned.