Page 151 of The Queens and the Kings
Barring something huge happening in the next ten seconds, which were precious seconds of invisibility she couldn’t waste, she had little choice but outright violence. Britt positioned herself behind the Keeper with a grimace. Squatting slowly, she reached for a rock on the ground.
“Sorry,” she mouthed, and slammed it into his temple. A terriblecrackand a moan issued as he slumped to the ground, out cold. She reached down, felt his chest rising beneath her hand, and felt weak relief. She certainly hadn’t wanted to murder him.
Britt collected the remaining keys and shoved them into her pocket. She whirled around, exultant, and skidded to a fast stop. Another Keeper rounded the corner, mid sentence, at the same moment.
“Hey, Si?—”
He stopped.
Britt barely hid her squeak of surprise.
The Keeper stared right through her to his friend on the ground. At that moment, the prickling in her veins began to change. Instead of hot, it became lukewarm, flowing like rainwater instead of magma. Not good. The first sign of eventual withdrawal. They had time, but not much.
The Keeper advanced.
“Sigurd?”
Britt dodged to the side at the last second to avoid a collision. The edge of his sleeve brushed her chest. He paused. Britt escaped with silent, racing feet.
“Sigurd?” he called, louder this time.
She sprinted into the arena. Chest burning, Britt slid to a stop behind the first wyvern she found. The keys jangled in her pocket when she ripped one out, prayed Denerfen would findher, and began the painstaking search for the right one. Minutes later, a shadow whooshed over her. The wyvern stretched its wings out, sunning itself. Two moments after, a Keeper trooped by, muttering. The sound of buzzing flies and rotting meat followed.
“Stupid wyverns,” he barked. “Rotten meat. Ridiculous, messy?—”
A shout from the other Keepers halted this one. He stopped near the wyvern’s wings, close enough she could study the top of his boots. The wings hid Britt from sight, in addition to her venom invisibility.
Carefully, she pressed a key into the lock.
Not a fit.
“Oy!” the Keeper shouted. “What’s wrong over there?”
“Sigurd!” came a distant cry. “He’s . . . out.”
“What do you meanout?”
“He’s on the ground! Bloody temple, bruise, everything. Someone hit him.”
“Who?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
Heavy breathing occupied the next several seconds. Britt tried another key. Not a fit. She bit back the urge to shriek in frustration as her blood cooled another degree.
“Well,” the Keeper called. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Waking up?”
“No.”
“Then . . . leave him.”
A pause, then, “Someone hit him!”
“Who?”
