Page 2 of Lera of Lunos
“Bloody stars, one of you stop that insane idiot,” a voice full of command bellows across the square. From the sudden commotion around me, I take the approaching male to be the captain of the Citadel Guard, and I curse to myself. But I don’t dare break focus to turn toward him. The voice gets closer. “Mark my words—if that mortal gets hurt on your watch, there will be more blood soaking this grass than you bastards would like. Same if I so much as smell a gaming ledger.”
The two guardsmen from earlier suddenly bracket me, one approaching from each side, their eyes narrowed, teeth bared in resentful anger. “You heard the captain.” The one on the right spits on the ground beside my foot. “Step. Back. You mortal idiot.”
Wonderful.
“You’ve my gratitude for your concern, guardsmen, but the tiger is my quint mate,” I say, summoning a calm, respectful tone on the off chance that I might still talk myself out of a confrontation. “I accept full responsibility for whatever happens.”
The spitter snorts. “Like youraccepting responsibilitywill mend any of our hides.” His leering gaze slithers over me as he cracks his knuckles. Dark, cruel eyes linger on my breasts, where my nipples have peaked in the morning chill and show too plainly through my burgundy tunic.
I step back, my heart stuttering.
Spitter lunges for me, his fingers digging painfully into my shoulders. A full head taller than I am and stout as a wine cask, the male smells of acrid sweat and the eggs he ate for breakfast. Lowering his voice so only I can make out the words, he whispers into my ear, “Whatever reason the magic chose you, it wasn’t for brains, wench. If you like it rough—”
That is as far as he gets before the tiger, sleeping peacefully a moment ago, suddenly launches himself at the pair of us.
I feel the impact of the animal’s shoulders as he hits my hips, knocking into me so forcefully that I fly backwards. My breath leaves me as I land hard on the ground.
A pace away, Spitter screams, his voice wet and ear-piercingly high, as four parallel gashes bloom across his chest. Bright-red blood soaks his green uniform and the tips of Tye’s claws.
Setting all four paws on the ground, the tiger surveys the grass: Spitter, down and bleeding; the second guard—and everyone else—wisely backing away; one mortal female on the ground, trying to scoot back.
The tiger’s attention pauses on me and I freeze as the animal circles. Stops. Yawns. A white muzzle cocks to the side, green eyes full of familiar condescension meeting mine.
Fear dries my mouth, making the sides of my vision waver to blackness. The sun feels too bright, the wind too cold. My muscles tighten, ready to run, even as I can’t bring myself to look away from the approaching predator. Beneath me, the damp grass soaks through my pants in cold spots.
The tiger follows as I inch away. Stalking one step for every foot I move. Probably enjoying the damn game, contemplating whether human meat would be to his delicate liking.
He opens his maw, showing a full set of glistening teeth. When I shudder, he lifts a massive paw into the air, the same one that left Spitter in tatters.
The sight of blood still clinging to those sharp nails shoves all rational thought from my mind. Before I can stop myself, I lunge to my feet andsprint.My boots pound the ground, sinking into the soft earth. Warriors, trees, buildings, everything but the path forward blurs in my vision. I think of nothing but my steps.One. Two. Three. Fo—
The tiger tackles me from behind, flattening me to the ground. Air leaves my lungs again as I fall, the smell of grass and cat filling my nose. I brace for the pain, the sting of slashed flesh.
A large, warm weight settles atop me instead. Seven hundred pounds of feline pinning me to the earth, thick fur covering my face.
Squirming toward oxygen, my head emerges from what I realize is the tiger’s armpit. The weight atop me shifts ever so slightly and settles again. Heavy. Relaxed. Then the tiger opens his mouth and brushes his wide, rough tongue over my ear.
Again. And again.
An insane chuckle escapes my tight throat. Then another, before a string of deranged giggling—the kind that can only be evoked by the absurdity of a bath from a killer tiger—rushes from my chest. “That tickles,” I say, twisting my face. “That—”
Click.
The soft sound sends ice down my spine. I see it a moment later—Spitter loading a crossbow with a barb-tipped arrow. Taking aim. His partner doing the same.
“No!” I bellow into the morning air. “Don’t shoot! For stars’ sake, don’t shoot.”
“You’re as rabid as that thing,” Spitter says—and pulls the trigger.
2
Lera
Aflash of light blinds me, a rush of power filling my veins as the tiger atop me shifts into Tye’s fae form. A hissing heat singes the air above my head. A fraction of a heartbeat later, two hunks of deformed metal thump to the ground. Barbed crossbow bolts melted in the nick of time by Tye’s flex-honed magic.
Whispers ruffle across the grass-covered square, the voices breathless, disbelieving.
“Impossible. Bloody impossible.”
