Chapter 10

Kit

"The third trial is to be the last," Quinton says matter-of-factly to the two packs now gathered back at the main shelter. As if he and Sethis hadn't disappeared without telling anyone. As if the splatters of blood on Quinton's boots and knife are nothing out of the ordinary. "A free for all combat that will last until a single pack and one female remain. The priests are eager for it. Their current crop of competitors is proving more troublesome than expected."

Hauck pulls me against his chest, his arms draped casually around my body. It feels… good. Welcoming. Especially against the tension that crackles in the air.

Tavias's hand opens and closes at his side, and I can feel him fighting his urge to demand once more what Quinton was thinking when he ran off. Tavias had already asked, and Quinton had given a kind of non answer that made further demands futile.

"Sethis?" Lee asked. "Is he?—"

"He left," Quinton said dismissively. "You are better off without him for the last trial. He understood that."

"But -"

"He left and he cannot return." Quinton's tone became harsh. "There is nothing more to be said on that front. For the time being, our main focus should be the coming trial. I know a route into the Citadel and propose we bring Kitterny inside immediately. The tattoos on our backs will at least prevent anyone from attacking her outside the arena."

"Agreed," Cyril says, forestalling Tavias from once again demanding how exactly Quinton came by the information on passageways. "Concealing her inside would also help keep her true nature a secret longer. Our success relies on a mass reveal of the truth to all Massa'eve elites. Would you happen to know how many priests we have to contend with?"

"Approximately fifty in residence now," says Quinton. "Here." Clearing a patch of ground, Quinton sketches out a layout of the citadel, complete with markers for passageways, dormitories and latrines.

Darren and his pack exchange impressed looks. Even Tavais nods to Quinton with more respect than judgment.

"Weapons?" Tavias asks.

"Minimal in terms of steel. They use magic, but it's different from ours. Rune based. Also, whereas our power comes from within, the priests harness it from an external source. Supposedly some gift from the goddess."

"I wish the goddess found someone nicer to shower with presents," Leesandra says under her breath and Quinton actually chuckles.

The discussion continues, the warriors crowding around Quinton's map and debating strategy. I have little to contribute. Regardless, hours later Tavias has a plan. Everyone hates it—most especially me—but the males all agree that it's our best chance of staying alive long enough to capture the audience's attention. We then disperse to get some rest. I can't sleep though, and each minute of insomnia lasts a year. I hope the rest of Tavias's strategy works out better.

"I really hate this," I whisper into Lee's ear one final time as the moment of departure pounces on us.

"Me too." She gives me a squeeze. "But you are a dragon, Kit. And we are about to have front row seats to watch all the fae's minds scramble with shock. A few hours with each other's packs is a small price to pay."

"You truly don't mind switching places?" The first part of Tavias's plan calls for showing the priests exactly what they expect to see—namely my death. So, instead of me, the crown princes of Massa'eve will stride into the citadel with a different human at their side—Leesandra. Given Geoffrey's attack on her pack, the ruthless narrative fits neatly: I died, and my pack appropriated another female from a weaker set of males, who tucked tail and fled. Or died. No one cares which. And if that's not ten times fucked up…

She winces. "Mostly not. I mean, I'm not totally convinced that your pack won't eat me by accident. But provided they don't, this is going to be epic."

"They are not going to eat you." I say, but then we both eye Quinton. "Well, probably not anyway. At least not by accident."

"Definitely feel better now," she mutters. Her voice drops even further. "What do you think he did with the priest he questioned? Is there a headless body somewhere now, you think?"

"There is not."

Lee and I both jump at Quinton's words. Of course he heard us. And of course he lacked the courtesy to pretend otherwise.

"You left him alive?" I can't hide the surprise in my voice. This is Quinton we are talking about here. "What if he warns the others?"

"He won't." Quinton's face is ice cold as he checks his weapons. "I coagulated the blood in his brain. His body is alive. However little he might wish it to be."

Yes, there he is.

Pushing that disturbing image from my mind, I go to say goodbye to my mates, leaving Lee the privacy to do the same with her pack. Hauck pulls me over to him mid-stride and takes my face into his hands. His breath, a mix of pine and the faintest trace of mint, brushes over my scales. "I'll see you soon, turnip. Just stay put and don't do anything I'd do."

"I won't." I promise and let him cradle the back of my head. His fingers tangle in my hair, grounding me to the moment, to him. As he leans forward to kiss me, the scratchy stubble on his cheek scrapes against my skin in stark contrast to the softness of his lips. Once his mouth covers mine though, he takes me with urgency that's possession and plea all mingled into one. I can taste the bittersweet tang of concern and determination that flows through our lips and bond in equal measure. Just when I think he is letting me go, Hauck slips his free hand to my waist and pulls me closer still.

"Move it along," Quinton growls. "We've barely half a day left."

Hauck's tongue strokes mine one final time before he gives Quinton a crude gesture and yields me to Cyril.

Instead of pulling me into an embrace, Cyril grips my shoulders, his deep blue eyes intense on mine. "You are far too brave and too giving, nymph. Promise me that no matter what happens in that arena, you'll put yourself first?"

"My job is literally to stay low and hidden until you call for me." I smile for his sake. "Not exactly a dangerous assignment."

Cyril's brows narrow, his clamping scales betraying that he doesn't buy my nonchalance for a second. "I mean it, Kit. You are the future of the dragons. You are my mate. No heroics. Not today. Please."

"I'll be careful," I promise.

My mate looks at me for a moment longer then lets out a long breath and envelopes me in his arms. I feel Cyril's heart beating steadily against mine, anchoring us together. When he draws back, Tavias is there to take his place.

I feel his mind brush against mine before his fingers touch my skin.

Can you hear me? I think toward him.

"You are ready for this," Tavias says. "We all are."

Well, that answers my question. Not that I should be surprised. Mind speaking hadn't worked for me again since the bear's den.

"You tried mind speaking?" Tavias guesses.

"No."

He gives me a knowing look, then kisses my forehead. "These things take time."

"Luckily we have that in abundance." The frustrating thing is that mind speech came so naturally and easily when we lay together, and yet the minute I actually need the skill it's nowhere to be found. "If I could just?—"

"Don't," Tavias orders sharply. He takes my chin into his hand, his grip as unyielding as his amethyst eyes. Despite the familiar scent of evening fire, of pine and hickory, the Tavias standing before me now is the Massa'eve general. "You are what you are. And you are enough. Understood?"

I nod hesitantly and Tavias squeezes my shoulder in approval, his face softening. "In truth, wildcat, you are more than enough. You are glorious. And soon all of Massa'eve will know it."

I nod bravely.

"Stay safe," Tavias commands.

"You too."

"Always."

"Let's go." Quinton says, impatient as he shoulders between Tavias and me. He is to escort Lee's pack and me to the citadel, and looks ready to shove us bodily into the cold if we linger another moment.

Darren gives Lee a final kiss and exaggerates a bow in Quinton's direction. "At your leisure, my prince."

Quinton's lips pull back, showing his canines.

Hauck snorts.

Right. "Let's go." I step outside, and suddenly all four males surround me in a protective circle. "I'm?—"

"You are our queen," Darren says. All hints of amusement are gone from his voice now. "You will not come to harm on our watch."

For the next two hours we trek a winding path that loops around the citadel. The worst of the storm has settled and one of the males nudges a small wind to cover our tracks in the snow. When a pungent scent hits me hard enough to make me gag, Quinton quickens his pace. For a moment, I think he wants to get past the dead rotten thing as swiftly as I do, but I soon realize he is leading us directly toward the stench.

"It's an abandoned sewer system," Quinton says curtly. "When the plague swept through here a few centuries back, the priests used it to remove the less savory waste from the citadel."

I hold my sleeve up to cover my nose and mouth. "You didn't mention this part."

Quinton moves a slab of stone aside, uncovering an entrance to the underground sewer and unleashing even more stench into the air. Stars. I didn't think I'd ever long for my human senses, but being less aware of my surroundings would have been nice just now. Trying not to breathe, I follow the descent down to the uneven floor of the sewer.

Quinton closes the slab behind us, enclosing the tunnel in darkness before taking the lead position again and moving forward with a sure step. Only my hand on Quinton's back tells me where to go, just as Darren's hand on me guides him and the rest of his pack.

"How do you know the way?" I ask Quinton, trying to speak without inhaling too deeply.

"I walked it before getting you."

Of course he did.

"How can you see anything here?"

"I can't."

"Then how do you?—"

"I counted the steps," Quinton says. "You should too. To yourself. Silently."

Yes, there is the Quinton I know and love. And occasionally even like. We continue in silence. Something, likely a pack of rats, skitters around my ankles. At least I hope it's rats. Who knows what a place like this might breed. Miniature baby piranhas maybe. That thought alone turns up the stench, and suddenly I'm sure these are baby piranhas, and my heart pounds, my breaths coming too quick.

BOM. BOM. BOM.

It takes me a second to realize the sudden sound is coming from outside me, and another second to identify it for what it is—a distant ring of a gong. Shit. My weak hope that maybe I was imagining things dissipates with the soft curses of the males around me.

"They are calling the competitors to the arena now," Darren says.

"We are supposed to have twelve more hours," I whisper. "This is…" I trail off. Wrong? Unfair? As if any of that means anything to the priests of Orion.

"Inconvenient," Quinton supplies. He's stopped and I can feel him turning around to face us. His pulse echoes through me, and I don't know whether it's the magic or Quinton's proximity that makes me feel it. All the things he isn't saying flash in the darkness around us. That the priests will lock him out of the arena if he doesn't get back to the pack in time. That the stands will be flooding with people now. That if any of us are caught, the whole plan will crumble.

That if the priests catch me now, they'll kill me—and the last hope for the dragons will die with me.

Quinton says none of that though. "We are ten paces from the ladder up," Quinton says, rattling off curt directions on how to get the rest of the way to the arena, which Darren repeats back to him. Quinton makes a quick sound of approval. "Go," he orders. "Take cover. Protect her."

"With my life," Darren replies. "With all our lives."

And then we move off into the darkness alone.

Voices. A lot of voices. That's what hits me when Darren's pack carefully brings me up the final ladder and into the underbelly of the spectator stands. Clearly, the priests' change of schedule is a surprise only to the competitors. The full impact of the crowd settles over me as I scent ale and excitement, sweat of bodies and the freshness of wind that still clings to their clothes. Most of all though, I feel the presence of hundreds of people all gathered together to watch bloodshed. In this moment, I hate them nearly as much as I hate the priests who've orchestrated this slaughter.

"Rand, scout the eastern side," Darren orders. The underside of the stands is a labyrinth of support beams and storage rooms. For our plan to work, we need to find a hiding spot that offers both concealment and easy egress for when it's time for the grand reveal. We'd planned on doing that when the stands above were empty, but here we are. "Broker, you take west. Kit and I go north."

"You'll do none of that actually." A low voice states and a dozen guards in the royal colors of the Massa'eve king emerge from the shadows. Ettienne. I know it is him even before he steps into the sliver of light and gives Darren—who pushes me behind him—a condescending glare. Ettienne sighs dramatically. "Whatever you are thinking, pup, please do not act on it. I would hate for such poorly constructed plans to go even more awry."

My hand tightens around the dagger Quinton gave me. Not that I know what I am going to do with the little weapon against a dragon, but at least it's something.

Rand steps up beside Darren, adding to the wall between the king and me.

"Move, please." Ettienne levels his sword at Darren with lazy ease, the tip drawing a line of blood across his throat. "Your pack's services are no longer necessary."