The great room was a mess of broken furniture, blood and chaos. Conal sat directly below her, chained to a chair. One of the werewolves was using claws on his bare, broad chest. Horror-widened eyes stared at the ceiling as he arched in agony, bloody face contorted, the cords of his muscled throat stark as he fought not to scream.
Fangs, digging blazing furrows into her belly…
Helena forced her gaze away from Conal to count his captors. Nine wolves, no guns. Not surprising, since ordinary bullets didn’t do much to the Direkind. They could heal damn near any injury just by shifting, so you had to destroy their heads or hearts to take them out. It was tough to hit targets like that with a seven-foot monster jumping down your throat. She and Tim sure hadn’t been able to manage it.
Seven wolves stood around the room watching. An eighth held a cell phone pointed at Conal and his torturer, apparently shooting video.
Helena peered down in disbelief. “Are they Livestreaming this? Like those Warlock’s Wrath psychos?” The splinter group of werewolf terrorists had videoed themselves murdering an actor the week before. They’d broken into Elizabeth Reeves’s house, shifted on camera and torn the poor woman apart.
Which was a hell of a way for humanity to discover that, yes, Virginia, there really were werewolves. Especially since most Direkind were decent people just trying to live their lives. They did not need Wrathers making them all look like monsters from a horror flick.
“Idiots,” Liam murmured. “Let’s sacrifice the whole lot to Darwin.”
Conal screamed again, and Helena’s lips pulled off her fangs. “Let’s.” Magic burst in her hand as he transformed into the mutant shotgun again. Normally, shooting a werewolf with any kind of gun wouldn’t do much more than piss them off. Liam was another matter. True, his usual magical bullets would do no more damage than lead, but a death deity always had options.
Helena trained the shotgun on her target. As Liam dropped his stealth spell, she fired. The blast slapped her sensitive ears as the gun jolted between her hands. The projectile slammed into the top of the torturer’s skull and detonated, obliterating his head in a rain of crimson. Direkind might be immune to magic, but nobody was immune to explosives.
As the startled shouts began, Helena coolly turned the gun on the idiot with the cell phone, who gaped up at her in shock. BOOM! Another shower of blood and bone fragments. Roaring, one of the seven remaining werewolves charged across the room toward Conal. Helena vaulted over the railing to land between the two and blasted him right between his open jaws. BOOM!
Blood pattered as the corpse hit the ground and skidded.
“Bitch!” Something slammed into her side so hard, Liam flew right out of her hands. She hit the floor with a gray werewolf astride her, snarling and snapping. From the corner of one eye, she watched the shotgun slide across the floor. Got to get that gun! Liam was helpless otherwise -- and she wasn’t much better.
Claws flashed toward her face. She blocked, and punched the werewolf in the muzzle. He lunged for her face, but she slammed a knee into his gut, grabbed his hairy gray shoulders and rolled, kicking him off her.
“Helena!” Liam shouted, as she flipped onto her hands and knees and scrambled toward him. A furry arm wrapped around her waist, and she drove an elbow back into her captor’s head. Pain cracked up her arm with the impact, but something crunched as the wolf yipped and let go. She bolted to her feet, but a big red dire wolf landed directly in her path. Two more closed in, hulking and huge. If I don’t get Liam, I’m fucked. She was good in a fight, but taking out five male werewolves was pushing it.
“Smell that?” Big Red made a show of sniffing the air as he stalked her. “The bitch is in her Burning Moon.” He gave her a slow, vicious smile. “This is going to be fun --”
She lunged before he got the rest out of his mouth. He was apparently used to women more easily terrified than Helena, because his block was slow. Her claws tore into his face even as red-hot pain exploded through her other arm. Twisting, she saw a brown wolf had his fangs sunk into her forearm. His talons raked her belly. Swearing, she went for the wolf’s glaring orange eyes. He jerked away in a shower of her blood. Then all five were on her, and she was too busy punching, kicking, clawing, and biting anything that got close -- fighting like the animal she was.
* * *
Conal convulsed as the werewolves closed in on his would-be rescuer. His chains rattled. Any full-blooded Sidhe would have made short work of them -- the supposed Fairy allergy to cold iron was a myth -- but he just didn’t have that much power. Twisting his wrists, he groped for the link he’d been trying to burn through. Torture made it tough to cast spells.
Blood loss, shock and pain had taken a toll on his abilities, but the sight of the female werewolf going down under her attackers sent a wave of blessed adrenaline through his body. Magic flared between his fingertips, and Conal gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain the shield that protected his skin as the link blazed hot, then finally parted. He wrenched with the last dregs of his strength. Metal rattled as the ends of the chain dropped to the floor. Panting, he struggled to unwrap the loops. Finally the last of them fell away, and he heaved out of the chair. The room spun, but he steadied himself, tried to take a step… and fell on his face. He’d forgotten the chains binding his ankles to the chair legs. The impact jarred his savaged chest and belly, sending black spots dancing in front of his eyes. The darkness closed in…
Liam Neeson yelled in his ear, “Get up, boy, before they kill her!”
“The… fuck?” Blearily, he managed to open his eyes and turn his head toward the sound.
A shotgun lay on the floor about a yard away. “I said, get up!” the voice bellowed, coming from the weapon. Must be using the same speech spell as Essus. It still sounded like the Taken guy. The light finally dawned. That’s not an actor, that’s Maeve’s pet death god. Which meant his werewolf rescuer was Helena Baker. “Pick me up!” the gun demanded. “The geas only lets me use my power if someone’s touching me.”
Which suggested Maeve didn’t trust the fucker. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but Conal didn’t care. Even as another blazing wave of pain slashed his shredded belly, he groped for the gun with a shaking hand and managed to grab Liam’s fat barrel. It felt hot under his fingers. “My ankles are still chained.”
Magic swirled around his legs. “Not anymore.”
His feet fell away from the chair, which now lay toppled across his butt. He kicked it away, gasping as agony ripped through him. “Can you heal me?”
“What part of ‘death god’ don’t you get?”
Damn it. He gathered his strength and forced himself to hands and knees. Teeth gritted, he braced his hand on the fallen chair and managed to stagger upright, dragging the gun with him. Conal remembered an unpleasant rumor. “Don’t kill me.”
“Fine! Just save Helena!” Was that fear in the god’s voice?
Steadying himself, Conal raised the weapon. Christ, Liam was heavy. One of the kidnappers, red as an Irish Setter, staggered back from the knot of battling werewolves, clutching a sliced throat. Conal fired, bracing himself against the shotgun’s ferocious kick. It almost knocked him on his ass, but the red werewolf’s head exploded.