Hunting Ground

“Fine,” she said, and flung out a hand.

And Charles had the very odd experience of seeing himself fall all the way to the floor while he sat and watched. Which was better than the vision he had briefly had of himself falling dead.

“You can’t kill like that,” said Arthur, his voice breaking with sudden fear. He raised the sword between them, as if the blade could hold off fae magic-which, if it were Excalibur, and that appeared to be nearly certain-it might possibly do.

Arthur was right, thought Charles, as he got to his feet. Dana couldn’t kill like that-but she could fling illusions of death all day long. His wound was still sore, but unlikely to open up and let him bleed to death when he moved.

“Can I not?” Dana asked. “What do you know of the fae? Not as much as you believe, I think. If the bargain is complete, give me the sword.”

While she kept Arthur occupied, Charles pad-footed over to the display case. The sword left there was not Excalibur, but it was a fine sword. A replica, he thought, created a long time ago to protect the original. He tore the box open and took the sword to use it for the purpose for which it had been forged.

Arthur spun to see what the noise was and, from his face, he could now see Charles-either the noise had broken the illusions, or Dana had let them drop.

“Arthur Madden,” Charles said formally. “For murder of i

He didn’t have to say anything more because Arthur raised the sword and came for him.

Arthur might have had years of martial arts behind him-but Charles had been trained by his father, a man who had actually used a sword like this to stay alive. Charles was stronger and faster, and Arthur was afraid of him.

All that said, Charles had never actually used a sword in real combat before.

Remember, the memory of his da’s voice echoed in his ears, wolves are not human. If you engage another wolf and hit his blade full strength, you’re going to destroy your sword. If you need to preserve your weapon, turn blows away and strike body, not metal.

His brother’s voice chimed in helpfully, Avoidance is better than a block-less risky.

So Charles slipped away from the first strike Arthur aimed at him. He kept both feet on the floor-ghosting over the hardwood. Rat-stepping allowed him to strike with better balance and to shift direction faster.

The room was small. The swords were short. It meant there was little chance to disengage, and fighting was done close range.

“You’re dead,” Arthur said. “I killed you.”

“You stabbed me with steel and gloated overly much,” Charles murmured, keeping his mind on saving his sword. Sliding blocks, moving aside, turning, letting Arthur do the work for the moment. It visibly u

“I heal pretty damn fast from small wounds like that.” No need to mention pack magic-let Arthur eat fear.

Charles was aware of Dana, who had moved back from the actual fight until she stood just outside the room. He’d made the command decision to ignore her. She was not an ally, not anymore-but it was to her advantage if he won this fight. He didn’t care if she took Excalibur. She might have broken her word, but he, and more important, his mate, had taken no direct harm from it. Brother Wolf was inclined to hold her somewhat responsible for A

Arthur was losing it. The smooth, practiced attacks became random and unfocused. Charles stepped up his pace. No longer just dodging interleaved with intermittent blocks, he also began to weave in attacks: two strikes from the left, and a turn and block; right, left, right, down and again-patterns practiced and refined for years-never forgetting that Arthur’s sword was probably less damage-prone. Arthur failed to completely block a strike and a long red line appeared across his chest.

The pain of it, or perhaps the fear, lent sudden impulsion to Arthur’s return strike, and he hit the other blade squarely. Charles’s sword shattered. He let the energy from Arthur’s blow spin him around. He ducked around Arthur’s unarmed left side and rolled behind, drawing the fillet knife from the back of his pants. With all the force he could muster he stabbed Arthur in the spine, just where it co

Arthur fell forward, his sword rolling away from his hands.

“I-” Arthur said before he lost the ability to speak.

Charles picked up the fae blade and severed the British wolf’s neck entirely. Then, blade in his hand, he looked at Dana.

“Did you know he was going to kill his mate?” he asked.

She smiled apologetically. “He held the sword hostage.”

“Not an answer,” he told her. “But I suppose the life of a human does not matter, not to you. They are so short-lived anyway. What was her life worth? Or Chastel’s-he was a monster, right? What were their lives worth when measured against a sword such as this?”

“Sarcasm does not suit you,” Dana said with dignity.

“No,” Charles said. “I suppose not. He hired you to kill my father?”

She nodded. “I refused until he offered me Excalibur. She was entrusted to me, she is the reason for my existence-and this fool had found her.”

“And my father didn’t come.” While he had the sword, she would talk to him-and Charles wanted to know exactly what she’d done so he could inform his father.

“No. I knew Bran wouldn’t-the elements told me so. But I had to find a reason for that fool to bring Excalibur to me. His fortress in Cornwall is guarded against fae; I needed him to bring her here. I intended to make no bargains with Arthur-just get the sword back.”

“You would not have killed my father?”

“Not if he stayed in Montana. And he did stay in Montana, didn’t he? But then you chose to come in his stead-and you brought something with you that Arthur wanted more than he wanted your father’s death. I was to engineer matters so Chastel killed you. It would have accomplished two things: ensured that Chastel was not at his lethal best when Arthur’s assassins came to call-and your death would leave your mate free for Arthur’s claiming.”

Charles took a deep breath. He had no grounds to convict her of wrongdoing. She had killed no one, spilled no blood-not even Arthur’s. Intent was not enough for him to act against her nor was his dislike of her moral compass.

Suddenly, urgently, he wanted nothing so much as a shower to rinse off the blood, sweat, and dirty deeds of this night. He opened his hand until he held the sword’s hilt by two fingers and held it out to her. “This is yours-he admitted to the theft. Take better care of it this time.”

She took it with her left hand and her knuckles whitened as she sighed like a lover satisfied at last. She held out her right hand. “No hard feelings?”

He looked at the hand and felt no urge to take it. He had hard feelings aplenty.

“Please,” she said.

He took her hand. “My father will talk to you about this. You broke your word to him.”

Her hand tightened on his, and she looked down. “I know. I know. And I can’t have that. No one must know. If no one knows, it will be all right. You understand.”

For the second time that night Charles found himself on his knees with very little idea of how it had happened. He looked at his hand, still in Dana’s grip-blue patterns ghosted down his arm from her hand.

As he collapsed fully on his side, the pain began, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

“If you had been human, you would already be dead,” Dana said. She brushed a strand of hair that had escaped his braid away from his face. “This will take longer, but it will leave no traces that can be followed. Your father will suspect, doubtless, but as long as no one knows my part, it will be fine.”