Page 68 of The Dead Queen

The foxhounds are relentless, their teeth bared and copper eyes wild. They limp and skitter around us like injured rats. Part of me pities them for their miserable existence, spending their entire lives locked up in a dark dungeon, starved and tortured by the king.

They should take this opportunity to flee, but they don’t. They’re too blood-crazed to run. They close in around us in a circle of dark orange and filthy white.

Beside me, Tristan is a whirlwind of motion, his movements precise and deadly. Two foxhounds lie on the ground at his feet, their fur matted crimson with blood. Tristan moves with surprising speed, his fists flying. He lands a solid punch to a foxhound’s snout, sending it sprawling. Another leaps at him. He twists, using its momentum to throw it to the ground.

As I watch, several foxhounds suddenly startle away from him, whimpering and limping. One crumbles to the ground, twitching in what appears to be pain. My eyes travel up to Tristan’s hands. The smoky mist of shadow power seeps from his palms.

I don’t have time to stop and stare for long before another foxhound leaps at me with hungry, feral eyes. I fight with everything I have, using every trick I learned in the borderlands. My knife flashes in the early morning light.

One foxhound knocks me to the ground, its weight pressing me into the dirt. Its breath is hot and foul against my face as it snaps at me, saliva drips nauseatingly onto my cheek. I struggle, my hand scrambling for my fallen knife. I grasp its bronze handle just as a blur of movement knocks the creature off me.

I look up to see Tristan, his eyes fierce with determination. He offers me his hand.

I grasp it, pulling myself to my feet. I grip my knife tightly. Tristan stands beside me, fists clenched, ready for the fight. He’s strong, but I can see the strain in his eyes. My knife is slick with blood, and my arm aches. Tristan is panting, his punches becoming more desperate. We’re outnumbered, and the foxhounds show no signs of stopping.

Tristan growls as a foxhound latches onto his arm. It sinks its teeth into his bicep. He pries it off, slamming his fist into its head. The foxhound whimpers and falls, but more are closing in.

Another one lunges at him, but I drive my knife into its throat. Hot blood gushes over my hand. A third snaps at Tristan’s leg, and he kicks it away with a grunt. We’re surrounded, the foxhounds pressing in from all sides.

For a moment, it seems hopeless, but then I catch Tristan’s eyes. There’s a fire there that steadies me. We can’t give up.

“Wrap your arms around me,” Tristan says.

I whirl on him, certain I heard wrong. “What?”

“Just do it, Red!”

It’s either the Wolf or the hoard of hungry foxhounds, so I choose the Wolf. I grab him around the waist and hold on for gods-knows what’s next. His body is firm, and he smells surprisingly like cedar and salt. An unexpected thrill flutters in my chest.

A soundless, purple-tinged shadow explodes out of Tristan’s palms. I duck my head into his chest, thinking this isn’t the worst way to die, if I had to choose. Everything within a twenty-foot radius of us blows away in a silent burst of power. My eyes are wide as they readjust to the dissipating, misty shadow that follows in its wake.

Not a single surviving foxhound remains.

When all is silent, I slowly release my grip from around the Wolf. He turns to look at me, his gray eyes fierce with emotions I can’t read. I feel a thrill of something deep inside me. Admiration? Yes. Curiosity, absolutely. But also something darker. Something akin to jealousy or maybe even desire.

Tristan’s knees buckle, and he sinks to the ground. His head hangs low, his dark hair falling over his face.

That’s when I notice his blood-soaked sleeve. I kneel to the ground beside him and rip the fabric to reveal the torn flesh beneath. The foxhound ripped muscle from bone.

Tristan looks up at me through his curtain of dark hair. Sweat drips down his face and he’s breathing heavily. I wonder if Wolves can succumb to burnout the way we can if we use too much power all at once. This was certainly a large display, but one that saved both of our lives.

“Can you move it?” I ask, touching his shoulder above the wound.

Tristan shakes his head.

“I can help you.”

He just nods.

I close my eyes, breathing deep to steady my racing heart. With practiced movements, I coax the power up and out of my sternum. It travels through my body, pooling golden light into my palms. Gently, I place them on the Wolf’s wounded arm, healing and easing pain through my fingertips.

The tension in Tristan’s face dissolves as he watches me. He’s never seen my healing power before, since he was unconscious when I saved his life in the kennels. As the power dissipates, withdrawing back into my depths, Tristan’s eyes meet mine. Slowly, he reaches up with his healed arm and cradles my face in his deadly palm.

“You are …” he hesitates, a look of amazement in his eyes.

The snap of a twig makes us both turn to look. Hunter stares at us, the reins of both horses in his hands. The gray mare snorts, sniffing at his golden hair affectionately. Hunter’s eyes are wide as he takes in the foxhound corpses surrounding us.

In Hunter’s face, there’s a mix of fear and distrust. “You mean to tell me you’ve had the power to kill all along?”