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Only, apparently I was wrong. Because even as I twisted upwards and lashed out at the attacking shifter with my newly materialized sword, someone behind my back noted, “Not too bad on the reaction front.”
Meanwhile, another voice was less approving. “Still not good enough to be an Atwood wolf.”
So I was being judged. Or hazed. Or perhaps there was really no difference between the two motivations. Because the wolf-form shifter in front of me didn’t pull his subsequent attack one iota. Instead, he dove under my sword so rapidly that I was hard-pressed to force him back.
Or I would have been hard-pressed had Gunner’s blood not fueled my footsteps. As it was, my feet pivoted and lunged faster than I’d thought possible, my muscles flexing even more quickly than kitsune strength should have allowed. Unfortunately, the boost could only do so much against an uncountable sea of attackers.
Because I was no longer facing a single werewolf intent upon disemboweling me. No, there were dozens of ozone-tainted opponents, their sharp scents biting into my skin as I whirled to stab at a werewolf leaping toward my unprotected back.
Instinct told me to play dirty and end this, to lower the odds against me by hook or by crook. To that end, I could have twisted my sword to the right and turned a scratch into a serious injury, taking my opponent out of the fight for good.
But, instead, I pulled the thrust after it skimmed epidermis, uncertain whether I’d lose my place in the Atwood pack if I disemboweled one of these wolves. If this was a test, I intended to pass it. Too bad evading my attackers without causing serious injury was akin to fighting with one arm tied behind me.
There were so many opponents moving so quickly now that I could barely make out anything beyond a blur of fur and fangs. Speaking of fangs, one set bit down into my ankle, knocking me off my stride. Instinctively, I pushed a shard of magic out of my sword and into an ankle cuff to protect me. Was relieved when my opponent erupted into humanity, his dull incisors glancing off my skin.
“You bitch,” the shifter growled, wiping my blood away from his mouth with the back of one hand. “You’ll regret...”
I didn’t have time to listen to further recriminations, however. Because the other Atwood shifters were still four-legged, still slobbering with the urge to fight. And they now appeared to be banding together. Joining up into pairs and trios in preparation for hitting me from multiple fronts.
As much as I hated to change my tactics, Kira’s face rose in front of my mind at that point. When given a choice between dying or killing, I had to choose the latter for my sister’s sake. I couldn’t simply surrender and hope for the best.
So I took a deep breath and selected my first quarry. I’d start with the small wolf on my left side, proceed to his partner then work my way through the wolf pack.
Before I could put my plan into action, however, warm skin slid up against my naked backside. Large fingers settled over my sword hand, clenching down and freezing my weapon into place.
Once again, someone had slipped through a gap in my defenses. And this time I was quite thoroughly caught.
***
“IT’S ME. LIAM,” MY jailer offered as I tried and failed to elbow him in the kidneys. Then, when my tensed muscles proved I had no clue who he was referring to, the male sighed and elaborated even as he released my sword-bearing hand: “Elle’s brother. I have your back.”
Right. My brain unfroze as terror slid off my shoulders. For some reason, Liam’s name was eminently forgettable, but I found myself glad that Gunner had disregarded my orders to keep everyone watching over Kira and had instead sent his cousin to ensure I made it through the day intact.
Because it was ten times easier to fend off attackers using teamwork, especially since a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye promised that Liam had come prepared with a weapon much like my own. For thirty seconds, we both attacked and parried, the yelping of wounded four-leggers proving that my sword mate wasn’t being as sparing as I’d been with his slashes. Apparently I’d misunderstood the level of injury allowed within a pack.
“Since when do werewolves carry weapons?” I asked after a few moments, when my panting had eased into regular inhales and exhales. Meanwhile, without looking back over my shoulder, I twisted counter-clockwise to jab at a white-furred shifter who was attempting to sneak up on Liam’s right side.
“Since Atwood tempers made fighting in fur form a threat to pack cohesivity,” Liam answered, pivoting right alongside me while his words flowed as easily as his sword hand had.
“You’re an Atwood? Related to Gunner and Ransom on your father’s side?”
I’d meant the questions to be idle conversation, but something about the silence behind me suggested I’d struck yet another nerve. Yes, great idea. Insult your sole ally, I berated myself, kicking out at one werewolf while swiping a great puff of fur off the back of another. “I’m sorry,” I offered as I riposted. “None of my business. I’m just glad you’ve had sword training and are willing to help me out.”
I half expected that to be the end of our partnership. But, to my relief, the close-mouthed shifter accepted my apology and opened up to me far more than he’d ever done before. “Gunner, Ransom, and I are double cousins,” he offered. “Two sisters married two brothers. Very romantic...until you ask yourself who ended up with the consolation prize.”
The haze of fur, I noted, now came from my human companion as much as from the werewolves behind us. “Liam...” I started, trying to remember every trick I’d developed to soothe ruffled lupine fur over the last three months spent in wolf company.
But before I could put my new skills to the test, yet another shifter stepped out of the trees beside us. I was half-turned away from him, yet I still recognized Ransom by his size and bearing one second before the pack leader opened his mouth to berate us.
And despite my best intentions to stand tall, my shoulders hunched against the tongue-lashing I knew would be forthcoming. After all, our brawl had made a significant proportion of the pack—not just myself—quite definitively late. Meanwhile, Liam had just told me that Atwoods couldn’t stomach being disrespected....
Sure enough, the pack leader flattened his underlings against the soil in a wordless burst of pure, unadulterated rage. Then, turning to face me—the only one still standing—he demanded, “Why do you disrupt my Hunt?”