The Lykae never averted his predator’s eyes from Jacob, just went eerily still, every sinew in his body coiled to spring.
“I won’t tell you again”—she clapped her hands—“eyes on your mate.”
The wolf blinked as if he’d awakened from a daze, then returned his attention to her.
“That’s better.” She feigned a seductive smile, determined to hold his interest until she reached her knife. A seasoned performer, she could play everything from an innocent lure to a provocative femme fatale. She decided on the latter now.
“If I’m your fated one,” she purred, “then you should get a taste of what I’m like.” She bent forward, grasping the hem of her gown. She eased the material past her slippers, past her calves, closer to her thigh holster.
For her knife-throwing act, she wore daring costumes, so she kept her legs smooth. The Lykae appeared very appreciative of the view, his lips parting, his blue eyes ablaze with lust.
His fascination with her body brought on a heady mix of fear and thrill. But when her fingertips brushed her knife handle, focus suffused her. In a throaty voice, she asked, “Will you have more from me?”
His brows drew together as if she’d given him an agony of pleasure. He seemed helpless not to nod.
He never saw the dagger she threw until the hilt protruded from his chest. Bull’s-eye. Right in the heart.
She cast him a cocky wink. “Got you.”
He scowled at the knife. Snatched it free and tossed it aside. “Joke? You ken what I am.” He frowned when his legs grew unsteady. “Takes more than a splinter . . . to fell . . . a Lykae.”
“That’s why my blade is bespelled to knock you unconscious.” Passed down through her mother’s line, the knife would incapacitate an immortal for hours.
Body quaking, he rasped in bafflement, “Kereny?” Care-nay?
“I don’t mate with your kind; I hunt them. We all do. And we’re quite good at it.” She knew her expression was pitiless. “Cheers to the end of your life, monster. You will never wake up again.”
Disbelief clear on his face, he collapsed to his knees. When he failed to rise, he threw back his head and bellowed with frustration—a gut-wrenching, earsplitting roar to end all roars.
It pained her ears and hit her stomach like percussion. Outside, the lions roared alongside him, the bears growling their upset. The corralled horses neighed with fear.
Shoulders sagging, he finally fell silent. He shot her one last betrayed look, then crashed backward in a cloud of sawdust.
Out cold.
She and Jacob traded an uneasy glance. The hunters’ gazes darted. These were brave women and men, but that primal sound must’ve awakened the entire forest. Would it bring the newlings early?
Making her demeanor brisk, Ren announced, “The banquet will have to wait. Björn, radio the scouts to be on alert, and set up a perimeter watch of the fairgrounds. Six hunters in each direction.”
“Ja, boss.” He hastened away.
Ren retrieved her knife, then swiped the bloody blade across the Lykae’s pants. Though she had hunted all kinds of “Loreans,” as immortals called themselves, she didn’t often kill human-looking ones. Still . . . “Will somebody lend me a sword?”
The sound of a dozen weapons being freed from scabbards filled the big top.
Jacob said, “If we behead the Lykae here, it will get messy.”
True. Decapitated immortals were often slow to relinquish life, making executions a grisly business. At best, the creature’s jugular would spray for dozens of feet, soaking everyone around. At worst, a headless Lorean might make a final kill.
As she debated what to do, Ren absently twirled and flipped her knife with one hand, a series of moves so practiced she could do them in her sleep. “Right, then. Take him to the trench.”
FOUR
“Best wedding I’ve ever attended!” Vanda’s grin lit her eyes. “And what exciting entertainment.”
The tent had cleared out, leaving only Ren, Jacob, Vanda, and Puideleu.
Though Ren’s nerves were jangling as the four made their way to the exit, she cast Vanda a warm smile. “Puideleu’s going to take you back to your wagon now. You two leave early in the morning.” Ren had ordered them to evacuate the fairgrounds ahead of the battle.
Puideleu nodded, the pleated wrinkles on his face deepening as he scanned the blustery night. “The woods are stirring.”
As the wind gusted, the great trees surrounding the fairground swayed. But Puideleu wasn’t referring to the weather.
At any given time, the Cursed Forest was a hotbed of supernatural activity. Invisible spring-trap portals slammed shut behind the unwary, vanishing travelers forever. Rocks wept blood and trees whispered. Monsters haunted every valley and ridge within it.
Yet tonight, the forest seemed alive with movement. Howls, yips, and screams carried from the Carpathians. “I’ve never heard so much activity before.” She flipped and twirled her knife to allay her uneasiness. “Puideleu, after you take Vanda back, check with Björn for scout reports.”