Page 10 of Mated in Flames

Then I hear voices and all my muscles. That is not the dryad.

There are two voices, low and rough, too quiet to hear if they were male or female. I creep forward further, carefully picking up the shovel leaning against the side of my house as I go.

“…home,” one of them hisses. “…to leave…”

“No,” the other says, voice slightly louder, sounding angry. “We need to get what we came for. That Peryton will fetch an incredible price.”

My mouth falls open. Poachers! I don’t know why I didn’t expect this, but perhaps I just thought that this farm was so well hidden that no one would ever be able to find us. It’s also an incredible surprise to find that there are poachers out there who know about all these creatures, though it probably shouldn’t be.

Still, regardless of what they know or how they knew it, they were on my farm, attempting to steal one of my animals. My hand tightens around the handle of the shovel and I step forward.

Crack.

I freeze as a twig snaps loudly beneath my feet, my heart pounding in my throat. Fuck.

There’s no use pretending any more. I dive to the side, rolling behind the hay box, and I’m glad I did when I gunshot sounds out, ringing through the night. Crap. They have guns and I just have a lousy metal shovel.

But the shots are loud. Hopefully someone will hear. Unfortunately, my property is a long way from anyone else; even if my neighbours heard, it would take far too long for them to get here. The only ones who had a chance of arriving on time were Warwick and the other man who lives with him, and that’s only if they did hear the shots.

I hear crunching footsteps and I scramble to my feet and run to the barn, taking advantage of their surprise and the encroaching darkness to flee before they can shoot. A shot follows me but misses wide by a mile, and I take shelter in the shadows, huffing.

I take back everything I said about maybe missing the action of Doctors Without Borders. I definitely don’t miss being in this kind of danger.

“Hey!”

A loud voice shouts out and I look around to see two figures racing up my long driveway. I recognise Warwick’s copper hair and, as he gets closer, I can see his eyes almost blazing with anger. Behind him is the other man, his hair redder than Warwick’s, his body just as broad and muscled. My heart leaps. They must have heard the shots and come to help.

After that, everything seems to happen far too quickly. With no apparent concern for their own safety, my neighbours dive into the fray, running straight at the two gunmen. I surge out from behind the barn, still clutching the damn shovel to myself, ready to help them defend my property. There are shouts and shots, and it’s all such a mess of confusion. I won’t be surprised if someone hears the commotion from town and calls the police on us.

I catch one of the poachers, coming up behind him and startling him so that Warwick can strike him, making him drop to the ground in an instant. He grins wildly at me, all teeth and danger, and he looks so wild that I stare.

Behind us, another shot rings through the night.

I watch as my ears ring, my eyes widening. Warwick’s housemate jerks back, gaping, and red blooms on his shirt, directly over his heart. My mind dashes forward, cataloguing his injury, clinically diagnosing him; a single shot to the heart means instant death.

Warwick roars and leaps. In moments the gun that killed the other has scattered away and the poacher has joined his unconscious friend. But my eyes are still on my neighbour, unable to believe what I’m seeing as he slumps to the ground, blood slowly collecting in a pool beneath him and his eyes wide and unseeing in death.

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