Page 33 of Killian
A second explosion shook their little house, dust falling from the ceiling. They both sprang out of bed and ran to the window.
“That smells like cordite and TNT,” said Moira. “Those shouldn’t be here, should they?”
Killian shook his head and grabbed for some pants. Moira was already pulling on her shirt. Then came the sound of gunfire. Moira dropped her boots and ran barefoot from the bedroom. Killian did the same. They sprinted to the front door, and Killian realized too late that a half-wolfed-out person might cause some concern, but it was too late to do anything about it.
Once outside, he could smell burning and something horrible, dark, stinky, and familiar. It reminded him of pot mixed with diesel. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why something like that smelled familiar.
Flames licked up into the night from the direction of the level gate, and Killian could hear screaming. The guards were staring toward the fire but spun as Moira banged through the front door.
“Time to go, fellas!” Moira yelled, charging past them.
“No, wait!” protested one, but the other was already running after Moira. Once again, Killian wanted to laugh. He was pretty sure his mate did not even know the meaning of the wordwait.
“But we’re supposed to…” said the other one as Killian ran past. He heard the poor elf make a very unhappy noise and then start running too.
When they reached the main gate to the village, they saw a group of elves, shields down, facing a black-clad contingent of humans. The elves were using an interlocking shield method to hem in the humans, but the humans were toting guns. The warlocks fired a heavy barrage, and the line of elves faltered. A sheen of blue, forcefield-like magic coated the elven shields, but the bullets were pinging holes in them. Killian’s memory said the bullets were likely to be covered in something poisonous. Moira hesitated on the edge of the open square, surveying the situation.
Killian barked sharply, and she looked back at him. He pointed to himself and then pointed up. She frowned at him, puzzled. He pointed to her and gestured toward the left, where the elf line was getting pushed back. If the warlocks made any more progress, they’d be able to turn down the side street and enter the town. The battle would get more complex, and more people would be in danger. Moira was still staring at him in puzzlement.
He shook his head and felt his facial bones rearrange in a violent clunk.
“Ow! Also, go left. Keep them from getting into the town. I’m going to go up and get behind their line.”
“Good plan!”
“Don’t get shot. The bullets are poisonous. Those are warlocks.”
She looked surprised but then nodded.
“You two,” he said, jabbing a finger at the two guards, who were looking wide-eyed, “when I attack, tell your people to push forward.”
They nodded, and Killian shook his head again and felt his wolf return to the surface.
“Hotness,” Moira said, her gaze raking his entire body. He snorted and shook his head at her, but she only grinned. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of that, but he liked it.
He jumped up, grabbed the edge of the nearest gutter, and swung himself up. Sprinting up toward the crest of the roof, he found that he needed more claw. And then there were claws. His feet shifted, his legs bent, elongating between one stride and the next. He was… what was he? Was this werewolf form? It felt strong. He could feel that if he pushed further, he would become all wolf. But at the moment, he had twice the strength and all the wolf senses but without the sometimes overriding wolf instincts. His human was still in control.
He leaped from the roof to the arch and then dropped down behind the group of warlocks. Up close, they smelled even worse. He could see Moira had reached the gap in the line, just as the warlocks did. She grabbed one by the collar and flung him in Killian’s general direction. The man screamed and then landed in a heap. The result was that the rest of the warlocks turned their attention to Moira.
He’d set the plan that way on purpose, but he did not like it one bit. He had wanted them to forget about the elves, but that didn’t mean they were allowed to hurt Moira. He wanted to roar, but wolves didn’t really do that. They killed first, celebrated second.
Instead, Killian seized a warlock and spun him around so the man could get a good look at Killian’s face. The warlock gave a loud scream of terror, and Killian picked him up and hurled him back toward Moira, knocking down three or four more on his way to the ground. It was like warlock lawn bowling. He saw Moira laughing as she punched the warlock nearest to her and bounced his head off a wall. Killian grabbed two more and threw them over the edge of the boardwalk into the dark water of the lake.
With a shout, the elves pushed forward, shields interlocked and spears lowered. Killian wished there was music playing as he grabbed another warlock and tossed him down the boardwalk. He wanted a beat. This was why early armies had a pipe and drum section. The elves shouted and advanced again.
Killian wrenched a gun from the nearest warlock, hit him in the face with it, and then threw it at the next warlock. A warlock charged at him, firing. Killian ducked low and dove in fast, cutting the distance. He came up swinging claws and ripped across the man’s chest. Blood gushed forth, and Killian found that he felt only satisfaction. Murderers. Killers. Rapists. Racists. Filth. The litany of hatred marching across his mind surprised him. He seized the next one and headbutted him. The next, he threw over the edge.
The elves were advancing more swiftly, pushing the warlocks back into him. He grinned at the next warlock.
“Fuck!” the man yelled, swerved, and sprinted past him toward the long path across the lake, his face a mask of terror.
“Retreat!” bellowed one of the warlocks, and they all began to stampede toward Killian. He grabbed as many as he could, flinging them into the lake. But it was actually harder to stop a fleeing crowd than it seemed. The last one paused on the plank pathway, the flames lighting up his pale skin. He was a younger blonde man with his hair clipped down to an aggressive flat top.He wore tall white-laced work boots—a skinhead fashion. He lifted his pistol at Killian, and Killian snarled, daring him to pull the trigger.
There was a quick step of feet, and Moira heaved a spear at the man, forcing him to dodge as he pulled the trigger. The bullet disappeared into the dark as the skinhead went in the opposite direction.
At last, a sort of calm descended, punctuated by the wicked crackling of flames. Killian stood at the gate and peered out into the darkness. He could feel the vibration of feet on the planks of the boardwalk, but they were getting further away. The smell was also retreating, but not fast enough for his liking. He shook his head and returned to fully human form, hoping that his smaller human nose would smell their stink less.
He and Moira turned back to find the elves watching them.
