Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (36 page)

Swift Cloud Woman shied back from Astrid and, with a snarl, stormed away, leaving Astrid alone to twist upon the spikes of fear and hope. She desperately longed to see Nathan, but she knew that the Native woman spoke the truth. Even with Catullus providing assistance, the likelihood that the Heirs would slaughter both men was too great. If it meant never seeing Nathan again in order to save his life, Astrid would readily consent.

But such a choice would decimate her.

 

He'd never faced a more difficult decision. All he wanted—
needed
—to do was race into the encampment and start tearing out throats, slicing men to tatters. Everything within him demanded he do just that.

Yet, as Nathan crouched in wolf form just beyond the boundaries of the Heirs' campsite, watching them, he knew that to do that, to unleash his animal impulses without thought or plan, would not only kill him, but endanger Astrid.

He stifled the growl that wanted to rumble from his throat. A growl of both relief and rage. Relief that she was unharmed. Rage to find her captive. She was there. Standing not thirty feet from where Nathan hid, her back to him. Something kept her immobile, though. He saw it in the rigidness of her posture, her unnatural stillness. He had a strong suspicion the magic-wielding Heir was responsible for that.

Again, he forced down the need to just slam into the Heirs' encampment and start spilling blood. A direct assault wouldn't work, not with men so dangerous and Nathan on his own. His mind spun with plans, strategies. If he went for the mage first, Nathan could free Astrid, then, with her armed, they could both take down the Heirs. But, even though he knew the Heirs wouldn't risk killing Astrid, they had no issue with killing him. Even in bear form, he was just a creature of mere flesh. One well-aimed bullet would see him dead, and Astrid still captive.

How, then, to do this? On his own, there seemed no possible way. He was unarmed, save for his teeth and claws. The Heirs had a hell of a lot more magic at their disposal. One man—or wolf, or bear—against six, plus the Native woman and the enormous falcon. Nathan could not do everything himself.

He needed help. He needed Graves.

A surprising, humbling moment. Nathan had spent the whole of his life acting on his own, guided by only his judgment and impulses. Even when he had left the Earth Spirits to follow Astrid, he'd answered to his heart alone.

Yet he saw now, there was a value in being part of a collective. Knowing that someone else would be there, watching his back, tending to the tasks he could not do alone. It wasn't weakness, but wisdom.

But how long would Nathan have to wait? The Heirs were packing up their camp, which meant they were moving out, and soon. If Graves didn't show up quickly, Nathan would have no choice but to act, and hope like hell he had enough fury in him to see Astrid safe.

 

“Something's troubling Duchess.”

Staunton glanced over to Bracebridge, who was patting and soothing the giant falcon. The bird—seemed ridiculous to call it that when it was the size of an outbuilding—shifted from foot to foot, ruffling its feathers and making chirrups of unease.

“Magic is close,” Bracebridge said.

“You've got a Source literally hanging from your neck,” noted Staunton.

“Perhaps,” the mage allowed, hand hovering over the hawk talon. “All the same, I should make preparations, in case we do have visitors. And you?”

Even though he knew it was there, Staunton touched the pouch that hung from his belt. “I am ready for callers as well.”

“Should be a lovely gathering,” Bracebridge grinned, already anticipating being able to use his newest spell. What the mage had planned made Staunton's gut clench in revulsion, but Bracebridge was always eager to advance his magic use. Better that he should try the spell than Staunton.

With a nod, he left Bracebridge. As he strode to finish breaking down his tent, he was pleased to see a growing look of unease on Astrid Bramfield's face. Good. Her mettle always annoyed him, the fact that she inherently believed herself as good or strong as any man. A poor example of British womanhood—not the docile, ornamental female who dedicated her life to pleasing and serving men, to creating a warm and welcoming haven in the home. Of course, Staunton had little experience with that himself, with no wife of his own and a mother dead in childbed, but in principle it needed to be upheld. An empire was built upon the stability of its foundation, and women were the foundation of everything.

Movement in the corner of his eye snared his attention. The Native woman was pacing like a metronome, back and forth, glancing between Astrid Bramfield and Bracebridge. Or, more specifically, the totem around the mage's neck. Swift Cloud Woman looked ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. He wasn't sure what to do about her. Now that the Heirs had Astrid Bramfield and one of the totems, they had no more use for the Indian female.

He'd have to get rid of her somehow. Either pay her off, or something a bit more drastic. A shame, really. She had more intelligence and understood him better than most of Staunton's men. Which made her dangerous.

Staunton surreptitiously checked his pistol, ensuring it was loaded, then again touched the pouch at his waist. Whatever happened, he would be sure to be ready. His goal of mastering the Primal Source was too close, and he would be damned before anyone got in his way.

 

A faint rustling nearby. Nathan tensed, then let out his breath.

“I smelled you coming,” he whispered after shifting into his human form.

Graves, crouched low, face shining with perspiration, grimaced as he neared. “At this point, none of us are particularly crisp. Even me.” He glanced down ruefully at his once-pristine waistcoat, now grimy and torn, and the scuffed toes of his formerly gleaming boots. Thank God it was dark, or else the man might have been so dismayed by his appearance he'd be inconsolable.

“You made good time,” Nathan said in an undertone.

A handkerchief, somewhat less than snowy, appeared from Graves's pocket, and he used it to clean his spectacles and mop his brow. “Thank God I take exercise every day, else I'd be whimpering in a ditch somewhere.” The square of cambric returned to his coat. “I half expected to arrive and find you already paws-deep in Heirs and bullets.”

Nathan softly snorted. “Came damned close.”

“Glad you didn't,” answered Graves. “You might have the makings of a Blade, after all. If that's what you want,” he added.

“I can't think that far ahead,” Nathan rumbled. “Only now matters.” The wait for Graves had destroyed what patience he had, so now he was a bundle of lit fuses, ready to detonate. His only consolation was that his wounds had more time to heal. He jerked his head toward the encampment. “They're pulling out, which doesn't give us a lot of time.”

Graves, peering through the undergrowth, surveyed the scene, lit by firelight. “Four Heirs. Two guides. The sodding big falcon. And that Native woman—she looks like a viper.” He studied Astrid and cursed. “Bracebridge has our girl in a binding spell.”

“How do we break it?”

“Either he breaks the spell on his own, or we need one of his teeth.”

Nathan's smile was feral. “That won't be a problem.” He and Graves turned to observe the camp. Nathan spoke low and quickly. “I've made a survey of the area. We've dense forest all around us—should provide some good cover—but it hinders maneuverability. Two paths lead out; they'll be taking the southern one. There's nothing in the camp we can use for protection. Even the tents are being taken down. All the men are armed with at least one pistol and plenty of ammunition.”

“Very good, counselor,” murmured Graves with admiration.

It surprised Nathan that he actually enjoyed Graves's approval. “And you're the tactician. So, what kind of plan can you formulate?”

After they quickly came to an agreement on their tactics, Graves smiled darkly. “Much as I love science, there's nothing quite so inspiring as an old-fashioned fight.” He silently loaded his shotgun and closed the breach.

“Tonight, you'll have plenty of inspiration.”

 

She couldn't abide helplessness, yet there was nothing she could do while Bracebridge's spell held her tight. Only watch as the camp was broken down. The tents were collapsed, the pack animals loaded.

Staunton paced toward her. “I believe it's time for us to leave, Mrs. Bramfield. Rather a shame your Indian and Graves didn't show. I was hoping to tie up those loose ends, but,” he said regretfully, “we can't have everything we want.”

“I know,” she answered. “Otherwise I would have gutted you long ago.”

He opened his mouth for a retort, but the words never came.

Instead, Astrid's heart leapt into her throat as a familiar wolf sprinted out of the darkness, her rifle gripped in his jaws.

The camp burst into a frenzy of excitement as men whipped out their guns. A volley of shots from all around, but the wolf ran straight through the encampment, between the men, so that none could take aim without risking shooting their comrades. Nathan cast her one quick glance, weighted with everything, before disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the camp.

All the guns turned to the direction in which he'd vanished, opening fire. A storm of bullets chopped into the brush. Astrid's stomach seized in terror as she seethed at her imprisonment. If only she could grab someone's gun—help balance the odds.

Then, the sharp crack of returning gunfire from the darkness. The Heirs, their mercenaries, and Swift Cloud Woman all scattered, looking for cover, before shooting back. But the muzzle flash of Nathan's rifle kept revealing his location, so that no sooner did he get off a shot than the Heirs traded fire. Even if Nathan kept changing position, sooner or later, the Heirs would find him and cut him down. He couldn't possibly hold them off on his own—and she was no help to him.

A shotgun blast boomed from the other side of the camp—opposite where Nathan sniped. Yet there wasn't time to wonder where the blast came from. The encampment suddenly filled with blinding light. A flare. And Astrid had a very good idea who was responsible.

She smiled as the camp shattered into chaos.

 

Nathan allowed himself one vicious smile as Graves's flare turned the encampment into brightly lit anarchy. Knowing the flare was coming allowed Nathan to shield his eyes, and as soon as the light flashed, he seized his chance.

He shot into the camp and managed to frighten the already terrified horses. The animals bolted into the forest, taking the Heirs' gear with them. At the same time, Graves, stationed opposite him, fired his shotgun, clipping the arm of an Heir. The falcon shrieked.

One of the mountain men spat and swore. “I'm gonna get that son of a bitch,” he snarled and charged into the woods, heading straight for Nathan. The mercenary's pistols blazed. Hot trails of bullets whizzed inches from Nathan.

Enough with the damn weapons. Nathan dropped his rifle and felt the surge of massive strength through his body as he shifted. The mountain man had just enough time to lurch to a halt before screaming. But by then, it was too late.

 

Catullus, creeping closer, heard the scream, followed by the bear's bone-chilling growl. Everyone in the camp froze in terror as the scream turned into a wet gurgle. Even Catullus shuddered at the sound.

The other mercenary panicked. With a yelp, he bolted into the forest—right toward Catullus. Just enough time for Catullus to flip the shotgun and swing it like a club. The butt of the shotgun collided with the grizzled man's head. He sprawled, insensible, in the scrub, hardly uttering a groan. Catullus surveyed the mercenary at his feet dispassionately after taking his pistol. If the mountain man ever did regain consciousness, he'd be rewarded with a blistering headache.

Four Heirs left, including the goal, the mage. Catullus slung his shotgun over his shoulder and drew his pistols. His plan with Lesperance seemed to be succeeding. Which meant it was time to create a diversion.

 

Astrid couldn't duck as pistol shots rang out from the forest, but she trusted Catullus's aim—for that's who it had to be. A spark of elation flared within her. They were both here. Catullus and Nathan. And despite the frenzy of bullets and shouts around her, she couldn't have been more glad to hear the sounds of gunfire. If only she could join in rather than stand around like a useless statue! This was beyond infuriating.

In the confusion of gunfire, no one saw Nathan in human form spring from the darkness. He launched himself at Bracebridge. The two men grappled together, rolling in the dirt. From Nathan, a hail of punches and blows, direct and fierce, eyes glittering. Astrid gaped at the sight. She'd seen him fight in his animal forms, but never before as a man. He spared nothing for the mage, but Bracebridge fought back, as adept with his fists as he was with magic. The mage plowed his knuckles into a barely healed wound in Nathan's side, and Astrid sucked in a breath to see Nathan wince in pain.

Blood darkened the dirt around them as they brawled. Whenever one of the Heirs tried to throw themselves into the fray, shots from Catullus forced them back. But when there was a snap, and the hawk totem suddenly skidded in the dust, both Richard Halling and Swift Cloud Woman threw themselves at it.

Heir and Native scuffled, each struggling for the totem. Hate for the other twisted their faces. Halling didn't care if his opponent was female—he threw punches as if she were a stevedore, not a woman. And for her part, Swift Cloud Woman fought back just as viciously, digging her fingers into the soft, unprotected parts of Halling's body. The man howled when she jammed a knee between his legs, but he retaliated with an elbow to her throat.

“You'll pay for that, too,” panted Halling.

“Not if you die first,” rasped Swift Cloud Woman.