Page 80 of Fortunes of War

The arrow sprouted out the back of his left shoulder; had most likely lodged somewhere in the bone, and the sight of it turned Leif’s visionred.

“Fuck,” Ragnar hissed. “Gods, that bloody hurts. Fuuuuuck. Shit.”

If he was speaking, then he was still alive, and the thump of his heart against Leif’s breast was steady and strong; the arrow hadn’t pierced it, then.

But someone hadshotRagnar. Leif’s packmate.Pack, mine, mate. Someone had dared to shoot what was his.

The anger he’d felt upon sight of Harald down on the ground had been nothing compared to the red, hot, boilingragethat built in him, now. He growled – hesnarled– as he turned around, Ragnar held against him with one arm, the other raised toward their enemies, nails growing to black claws. He could feel the prickle and push of hair along his skin; knew his eyes changed, by the white-faced shock on both the men. His voice wasn’t human when he said, “You’ll pay for that.”

The blond man scrambled to his feet, sword lifting again.

Vidar started growling, following his alpha’s lead.

Overhead, a high, shrill shriek ripped through the sky, and a sudden, forceful breeze gusted down from straight above, sending dry leaves scattering, blowing their hair into their eyes, stirring the branches so they swayed and cracked. It was like a cyclone had dropped down on them from out of a clear, blue sky.

No, not a cyclone. Leif knew that sound, and it echoed again, a cross between a scream and a whistle.

A drake.

Leif tipped his head back and saw a wide, black shape blot out the sunlight. The tree tops bowed, and he heard one snap, as the wind intensified, and the shadow lowered.

“Shit,” one of the men said.

Shit was right: the beast was landing.

“Move,” Leif barked at Vidar. “Take Harald and move!”

He saw his wolf rush to comply and he concentrated on dragging Ragnar back out of the way. He earned a curse, and a hiss of pain, but Ragnar got his feet under him and kept conscious. Leif drew him back, and back, through a holly bush that scratched their skin and tore at their hair.

In the place where they’d all stood, the shattered top of a tree plummeted down and stuck in the damp ground like a thrown spear. The snap of branches was loud and rapid-fire. He glimpsed black claws, and sleek, black legs, and another tree was uprooted; it tipped sideways and went down with a great crash, dragging saplings and low limbs along with it. Dirt kicked into their eyes, and Leif swiped it away with the back of his hand, grimacing against the wind, blowing right in their faces, now.

There was a loud thump, and a rumbling that moved through the ground.

The wind cut off, suddenly, with a sound like a snapping sail, and with a chittering, grumbling, growling vocalization similar to that of the cold-drakes, but quicker, and more aggressive.

He blinked grit from his eyes and beheld a drake so black it gleamed green and violet where the sun struck it. Glowing red-gold eyes, and sharp horns, and a long, serpent tail that whipped back and forth in agitation, snapping off yet more branches and flicking leaves from bushes.

It was bigger than Percy, and when it lowered its head to scan the forest around itself, Leif saw smoke curling from its nostrils. This one, undoubtedly, wouldn’t be breathing ice.

A shock of bright red drew Leif’s gaze to the animal’s back, and it was only then that he noticed the black leather and silverwork of a bridle, and a harness, and a saddle. And in that saddle sat a rider, in smooth black armor, and gleaming mail, with a black helm crested by a dyed horsehair tail of blood red.

He'd grown used to Percy, and Alfie, and Valgrind. Didn’t trust them, necessarily, but wasn’t alarmed by the mere sight of them. Didn’t feel the urge, as he did now, to crouch down on all fours, press his back into a corner, and growl.

“Holy gods,” Ragnar breathed beside him, wheezing from the pain. “Look at – it’s –holy gods.”

The drake’s head whipped around toward them, stretched out on its neck so Leif felt the forceful exhale of hot air, breath that smelled of blood.

Leif snarled.

The drake snarled back, knife teeth flashing as its lips peeled back.

A clear, feminine voice called out, “Alpha, no.”

Alpha.

The word struck Leif like a slap. He felt it reverberate through Ragnar as well, the way he shuddered in the loop of Leif’s arm.

Only Leif’s pack used that term, and in their voices, it carried the heft, the warmth, the reassuring, satisfying awareness of his status. Burden and pleasure both. He was in charge; the pack was his to lead and protect.

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