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Carrying the body of a fourth.

I jolted with recognition.

I knew that body. I knew those limp purple arms, the hanging white hair.

They’ve gone and killed the warden.

I launched myself off of Wyn’s back, my tail already going for the knife at my belt.

Warden Tenn may have been the most insufferable authority figure alive.

But he was still my warden.

“You there!” I shouted, shifting my knife to my hand. “Stop!”

They did not stop. They barely seemed to register me at all, so focused were they on disposing of the warden’s body. I was about to charge at them, when a fifth figure came into view. I hadn’t seen this one before. It was too small, hidden by the bulk of the biggest male.

Shewas too small.

Through the pounding rain and the drenched fabric of my hat, I heard her frantic words.

“I’m here with you, Tenn. We’re going to get you fixed up. Everything’s alright, now. Everything’s alright.”

Perhaps Warden Tenn wasn’t dead, then. But considering that he was currently limp in the arms of these nameless scoundrels, everything was most certainlynotalright.

The group went inside the building. Biting back a hiss, I followed at a run.

I opened the door on total mayhem. Shouts and commands rang out,go here, put him there,no, not there, you dunce!That sort of thing. There was one long table in the centre of the room, and the sight of Warden Tenn’s body being heaped atop it triggered a slew of memories.

This was not a saloon.

It was an operating theatre.

“Who are you?” asked one of the three males – a green-skinned one – when he noticed me.

“I am Zohro, son of one of the greatest Zabrian surgeons in living memory. Get the blazes out of my way.”

The man’s eyes shone white through the strands of purple hair plastered to his face. He looked like he might try to argue. Or physically fight me. But an obviously more sensible man – this one with red eyes and very ugly short hair – dragged the first male away before he could continue getting in my way.

I stepped up to the table. My eyes, trained from the very earliest days of childhood by my father, scanned Warden Tenn’s form, assessing.

Unconscious. Not good.

Bleeding profusely from the side of the throat. Also not good.

Zabrian blood typically clotted quickly. But some wounds were just too deep, and bled too fast, for that to do much good.

Wounds like Warden Tenn’s.

But if watching my father save lives had taught me anything, it was that nothing was over until the patient’s heart stopped beating.

And sometimes, not even then.

“You,” I said, aiming my knife at a blue-skinned, white-eyed male. “Get me a sewing kit.”

26

TASHA