Page 58 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6
Pitch folded his hands behind his back, feigning coolness. This encounter was fast becoming irksome. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had enough of being on my knees today, if you’re hoping for a fuck.’ If this bastard so much as took a step to try to touch him, Pitch would not need his flame to tear him apart. He had teeth and nails, and scars. ‘Now do be a good chap and hand over the coat.’
The hunter’s expression did not change, despite the taunt. ‘Spend a lot of time on those knees of yours, I bet. But your hole ain’t what interests me here. Your clothes on the other hand, now there’s something I’d like my hands on. These threads will fetch a fine penny, I’d say, and who knows what a gentleman like yourself has in his pockets. Coins, no doubt. A silver comb for those pretty curls, perhaps. Come on then, strip them off. I ain’t mucking about.’ He tossed the coat back over the trunk, and with the gun still trained on Pitch, he searched the folds of material.
Pitch was busy watching for the moment when the man would be distracted enough for him to lunge. The hunter’s gaze darted to the coat, his hand sinking into a pocket, but just as quickly his attention shifted back to Pitch.
‘What have we here, then?’ The hunter pulled his hand free and held up his prize. Tilly’s stupid bloody earring. ‘Now ain’t that a lovely thing. You one of them freaks then, who likes the ladies’ things?’ His toothless grin sent a lick of cool fury through Pitch’s veins. And when he moved to tuck the earring into the folds of his own attire, it was too much.
Pitch ran at him. ‘Give that back.’
The sudden move shocked both of them.
The hunter’s eyes widened, and the gun wavered for a brief second. Enough for Pitch to reach him, strike at his arm, and knee him hard in the balls.
The gun went off.
Right at Pitch’s ear.
The noise stunned him, had him staggering. But the hunter was faster to gather himself. He struck out, pistol-whipping Pitch across the side of the head.
Deafened and seeing stars, Pitch’s balance was nearly nonexistent. He staggered backwards, clutching at his head, oblivious to where he was stepping.
The trap slammed shut around his ankle.
An agonised cry tore from him, a sound deadened beneath the ringing of the gunshot.
Down he went, his arse striking the ground first, his shoulders hitting hard enough to wind him. His trapped foot could not move with him, and Pitch’s leg wrenched at an eye-watering angle. The sound that clawed up his throat was unearthly. He saw more stars, more flashes of white. And felt nothing but pain.
No stirring of chaos, of wildness rising from where it was hidden deep.
The hunter shouted and stood over him, fury lighting his face. His fucking gun still poked toward’s Pitch’s face, his other hand covering his offended balls.
‘Fucking cunt.’
Pitch heard that much.
The hunter drew back his arm, the revolver’s dull grey metal contrasting the lighter shades of the woods behind. Another strike to the head and Pitch may be knocked unconscious– not so terrible, considering the pain he was in– but he had no intention of waking up naked and trapped like an animal.
He brought the flame to hand, having to concentrate far harder than he would have liked. Too much effort for so little result. A humiliating experience all round.
But one that caught the hunter’s attention.
‘What the fuck?’ His raised hand wavered.
The glow of the flames played at his face, which made it plainer to see when his gaze suddenly shifted away from Pitch. The hunter peered out into the woods, eyes narrowing.
Pitch turned his head, following the man’s line of sight. Something solid moved through the undergrowth. He caught a glimpse of twisting branches atop a massive moving shadow before they were set upon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PITCH COVEREDhis head with his hands, and sent the flame spilling beneath his skin. The trap’s fangs dug in as instinct saw him curl away from the rushing shape.
The hunter shouted at whatever charged forward. ‘Back, you bastard. Go on with you!’
His warning went unheard, and his cry was cut short by a heavy, unforgiving thump. The trunk rocked in its mulch cradle. Another weighted sound came, like a tossed hay bale meeting the ground.
Then, just silence, almost complete save for a soft exhale that shifted Pitch’s hair. He peered through the gap between his forearms, and the pair of legs he saw was not what he’d been expecting at all.
Not human. Animal. For a moment he thought it was the doe he’d rescued, but these forelegs were thicker, the brown hue of the fur darker. A damp nose touched his arm, and more heated breath flowed, warming his skin.