“Shit,” she whispered, afraid to move, afraid to look, afraid she’d discover—
A door opened behind her.
A low growl rolled into the hallway. “What the hell’s going on?”
Flinching, she glanced over her shoulder. Blond hair messy from sleep, eyes fierce, Levin prowled into the corridor. Further down, two doors whipped open. A pair of guys exited. Both dark-haired, huge, and wearing angry looks on ridiculously handsome faces.
Getting a load of her expression, Levin held his hand up. The pissed-off pair stopped short behind him.
His brow furrowed, Levin tipped his chin. “Cate?”
Breathing hard, she swallowed, then went searching for her voice. “Rannock’s trying to kill Rathbone.”
“Righteous.” Eerie yellow eyes trained on her, the first guy smiled.
“About time,” the second guy muttered.
“Of course he is,” Levin said at the same time, sounding pleased and somehow casual, as though killing people wasn’t unusual. Nothing but another day in the life of dragons. “The bastard deserves it, lass. Best tae leave Ran tae it.”
She pointed toward the broken railing. “He fell down the stairs.”
“A few broken bones willnae stop him.”
“Thank fuck,” the other guy said, American accent prevalent amidst the Scottish brogues. “Rathbone needs to bleed.”
A string of curses drifted up the staircase.
Horrified, she looked at the trio staring back at her. “Are you crazy?”
Three sets of brows popped skyward.
She huffed. “I mean… seriously? You’re not going to help him?”
Levin shook his head. “Four against one. Not verra sporting, lass.”
“But…” Heart beating triple-time, she forced herself to calm down. Logic, reason, a proper argument—she needed to employ all three if she wanted Rannock’s packmates to move. “You have no idea. Rathbone is… he’s…”
She waved her hands around. “With the lightning stuff and the weird lion snake thing… You guys, Rannock could get hurt.”
The first guy snorted.
The American guy scoffed.
Levin looked at her as though she’d lost her mind.
In truth, it was a distinct possibility and… shit. So much for the proper use of logic.
She’d bungled the explanation, sounding as insane as she felt. Then again, Cate figured she was justified. The last forty-eight hours had thrown one bad thing after another at her. No time to catch her breath. Zero chance to acclimatize. The only good thing about the situation started and ended with Rannock, her dragon, the one person made and meant for her. The guy she’d dreamed of meeting before she knew what true love really meant, how much it mattered, or the lengths she’d go to protect it.
Fisting her hands, she glared at the jerks trying to convince her to be unconcerned. “Well, if you won’t help, I will.”
She spun on her heel.
“Lass,” Levin said, a warning in his tone.
“Screw you, Lev,” she said, using Rannock’s nickname for him, running toward the lip of the stairs.
“And she’s off,” the American said, sounding amused.
“Look at her go, Tempel. She’s quick.”
Levin sighed. “So bloody headstrong. Just like her sister.”
Someone chuckled. “The best ones always are.”
Ignoring the idiotic by-play, Cate didn’t bother to correct the jerks. Nor did she look back. Reaching the top step, she plunged into the gloom. Feet hammering stone treads, she raced down the stairs.
Heavy footfalls sounded behind her.
A horrendous crash echoed from down below.
Shadows grew thicker as the wide spiral staircase curved. No line of sight. Little light to go by. Instinct warned her to slow down. Cate refused to comply. Something beyond the obvious was wrong. She couldn’t hear Rannock anymore. The sound of fighting had stopped. No more cursing drifted up from downstairs.
Alarm skittered down her spine. Fear made her pick up the pace. Moving too fast in too little light, she gripped the handrail and kept running.
Levin cursed behind her. “Cate! Slow down. There’s—”
“Ran!” she shouted, hurtling down another flight. Her foot caught on something.
Debris pinballed underfoot. Metal shrieked over stone, tripping her up. A moment later, she was airborne, tumbling out of control, falling into the jagged jaws of darkness.
27
Both fists raised, Rannock dodged another punch. Up on the balls of his feet, he spun to his left. Precise footwork. Perfect balance. His combat boots slid across the thick area rug, avoiding the debris scattered underfoot as he waited for an opening. Halfway through the spin, Rathbone let down his guard.
Rannock struck fast. Bone cracked against bone as he hammered the male. Again. For the…
Shite. He didn’t know. He’d lost count after hitting the bastard for the third time. Had to give him credit, though—tenacious to a fault, Rathbone refused to back down, countering with a combination.
Jab. Left cross. Uppercut.
Not a bad move.
A less skilled fighter would’ve fallen for the duck-and-cover, been fooled by the quick shift, and nailed in the ensuing confusion. Not Rannock. The Shadow Walker had skill and speed, but Rannock possessed that plus brute force. Considered a heavyweight by his kind, he was a powerhouse in and out of dragon form. Comfortable with violence, accustomed to delivering it, and showing no mercy when he did.
A lifetime spent sparring with his brothers-in-arms had taught him well. Anyone with enough balls to challenge Rannock paid the price. Usually with a trip to the medical clinic to get stitched up.
Kind of unfair, when he thought about it.
Rathbone didn’t stand a chance. Not that he was a bad fighter, simply untrained and rusty. A lethal combination, one Rannock exploited over and over again. Picking his moments. Hitting the male where it hurt most. Humbling the arrogant prick one powerful punch at a time.
Blocking another strike, Rannock slammed his fist into the male’s side.
Rathbone cursed.
He nailed him again—same spot, harder blow.
A rasp exploded from the Shadow Walker’s throat. He swung blindly. Rannock danced out of reach, then waited for the male to turn. The instant Rathbone swiveled, Rannock hammered him with his elbow. Hard bone cracked against vulnerable temple. Rathbone’s head snapped to the side. A cut opened below his eye. The metallic tang of blood suffused the air. Done playing, Rannock moved in for the kill.
Time to end it.
He’d made his point, avenged his female, and exorcised his rage, along with a few demons. Nothing good would come from finishing Rathbone. Despite their differences, the Shadow Walker occupied rarefied air among Magickind. Much as it pained Rannock to admit, the planet needed more of the bastards, not fewer, to heal and recover—to unravel the mess humans continued to make of the environment.
With a growl, Rannock kicked the male’s feet out from under him.
Rathbone hit his knees.
Sliding left, he slipped his arm under, then over Rathbone’s shoulder. He tightened his grip, pinning the male in a half nelson.
Breathing hard, Rathbone bucked. Blood flew, arching off his face, splattering across the floor.