Page 43

“Peter,” Connor growled.

“Okay. Ready.”

“Pull it.”

At first, there was only the scrape and click of Peter pulling the pin. Then the whole machine leaped. A great mule kick that jerked all the muscles in Reggie’s arms and back – Connor’s, too, if his swear was anything to go by.

A moment later, he heard the crack and splinter of wood, alarmed shouts, a pained scream. Direct hit.

On the opposite side of the clearing, he heard a similar commotion, which meant Edward’s team had been successful as well.

“Pitch!” Reggie called, and two Strangers pushed in close with the jugs. They slopped it over the heavy wooden frame. Reggie and Connor stepped clear, and Connor produced a flint.

One strike, two, three – the spark hit, and caught, and then they were all rushing clear.

A whistle of air parting right beside Reggie’s right ear, and a quick pain like a bee sting on his cheek. Another whistle on his left. Arrows from the tower, chasing them back.

Someone nearby grunted in pain. Blindly, Reggie hooked an arm around the man’s waist and helped him hobble along. “Your leg?” he asked.

“Yes.” Hiss of pain. “I’ll live.”

Then, finally, the scorpion went up with a great loudwhump. Hot air shoved at their backs. Reggie stumbled the last few strides, and landed in a heap, tangled with the wounded Stranger, in a holly at the edge of the forest.

“Ouch!” He scrambled back to his feet and turned to see that other Strangers were already rushing forward to help their friend.

Reggie shaded his eyes against the glare of the fire behind them, fiercely orange and hot from the pitch, climbing the scorpion to lick at its empty frame.

Three other fires went up, one after the next, encircling the tower, all the scorpions lost.

Reggie felt movement at his side: Connor coming to stand beside him, chuckling in satisfaction. Reggie spared a quick glance his way, saw the firelight carve the laugh lines and dimples in his lean cheeks, orange light dancing in his eyes. Connor’s gaze cut over, bright and smug, like the two of them shared a secret.

Reggie swallowed hard and glanced away, just as five shadows descended toward the tower, hovering down from above with a leathery clap of strong wings. Alpha roared, and a single, too-bright gout of flame speared down through the dark to scorch the top of the tower.

Men screamed. One even jumped over the edge to his doom.

Alpha roared again, and then Amelia called down, voice ringing from the back of her drake: “Surrender the tower! You’ve lost!”

The drakes hovered, hovered, hovered.

Above the crackle of fire and the cheers of their men, Reggie heard Alpha inhale, a great bellows heave as he prepared to unleash more fire.

The door of the tower burst open, torchlight spilling out across the grass. Sels came out, hands held aloft, weaponless.

Connor chuckled again. “I’d say she’s made her statement, then.”

~*~

Inglewood Manor had been transformed since their return, all the hostages safely in tow, drakes well-fed on Sels, and the rest of the enemy put to the sword, save the captain, whom she’d taken prisoner. Edward had agreed it was a smart idea, and so he’d been wrapped in chains and secured in the manor’s wine cellar, guards stationed at the door.

Everyone was celebrating, and though Amelia didn’t like the thought of letting their guard down, she knew the men had earned a chance to relax and let loose.

The lawns and gardens danced with light from dozens of campfires, and the air was filled with raucous laughter and good-natured shouts. Someone had started up a bawdy song, and it had been picked up by a dozen voices. She’d not grown up on a battlefield, but she knew this was how it was supposed to be – though her pleased grin turned rueful when she saw a gaggle of camp followers go traipsing past in low-cut gowns. Before the battle, the men worked themselves up to it, stressed, and eager, and thinking they might not make it back. The peak of adrenaline ebbed into a euphoria that called for an outlet. Singing, laughing, drinking, eating. Fucking.

Amelia turned back toward the manor, mounted the terrace steps, and went inside.

It was shockingly quiet by contrast. Candles burning in empty rooms, the party atmosphere outside muffled by windows and walls. Her footsteps echoed hollowly through the manor, and for a moment, she was gripped tight by grief.

Once, she would have grabbed a bottle of wine with one hand, and the front of Malcolm’s tunic with the other. Tugged him up the stairs, both of them laughing too hard to kiss, bumping noses, and hips, and squeezing at one another until laughter turned to appreciative hums. He should have been here with her, celebrating; should have been there the first time she swung her leg over Alpha’s back and took to the sky; should have been waiting on the ground to take her by the waist and whirl her around, proud and triumphant afterward. He should havebeen here…but she walked alone.