“No!” Suliko waved her arms. “A future!” Her accented voice vibrated with urgency. “Do not always to be this way. One possibility!”
She yelled something at Hugh in a language I didn’t understand. The man moved between her and Hugh, shielding her.
“You lied!” Suliko screamed.
Her partner ushered her out. The musicians fled.
“No matter how much you fight, you are what you are,” Hugh said to me. “Your boy knows it too, don’t you, Lennart?”
“Enough.” Curran growled. “Enough bullshit, d’Ambray. Let’s go. You and me.”
Lorelei got up and walked over to our table.
“Big talk,” Hugh said. “Can you back it up?”
I stood up and held my arms out. “Ladies, you’re both pretty. We still have a job to do. Last I checked, we were still guaranteeing Desandra’s safety.”
The two men glared at each other. They obviously didn’t give a rat’s ass about Desandra.
“I challenge you.” Lorelei pointed at me.
I put my hand over my eyes.
“Sit the fuck down,” Hugh told her.
“She’ll kill you,” Curran said. “Go sit down.”
Lorelei opened her mouth.
“Sit down!” Curran roared.
Lorelei’s face turned red. She shrank away. She must’ve rehearsed this, and being ordered back to her seat wasn’t part of the fantasy.
A second Lorelei walked through the entrance.
Hugh swore. The first Lorelei gasped.
The second Lorelei winked at Curran and walked toward us. Her body flowed like molten wax, reshaping itself, and twisted into a new body, male, lean, and bald. Saiman held up a document and placed it in front of Curran.
“As requested. What did I miss?”
Curran took the document and scanned it. “George?”
George stepped toward him and examined the document. “Yes. Signed and notarized. It’s legally binding.”
“Show it to him.”
George walked over and placed the paper in front of Jarek Kral. His eyes bulged. “What is this?”
“This is a contract between you and Lorelei Wilson, in which you promise her you will kill the Consort so Lorelei can take her place,” Curran said. “In exchange she’s supposed to provide you with one of our future children.”
Everyone spoke at once.
“You bastard!” Desandra jumped to her feet. A mix of foreign words and English spilled out of her. “You sonovabitch. You would take his child over mine?”
“He’s a First,” Jarek roared. “It will be a child fit to rule. Not dirt like you.”
Desandra’s dress tore. Shreds of fabric fluttered to the ground and a huge werewolf in a warrior form dashed over the table toward Jarek. Damn it.
“No!” Doolittle yelled. “Not the half-form!”
Desandra leaped forward, landing in a crouch on the table. Jarek stood up, his face disgusted. His body expanded, fur sheathing his limbs. “You wouldn’t dare—”
She swiped, huge claws like scythes. A chunk of Jarek’s throat went airborne. I caught a glimpse of his spine, bloody and torn. Blood gushed. The enormous werewolf that was Jarek Kral leaped over the table at his daughter.
George’s voice rang out. “Challenge accepted!”
Renok and the bald-headed guy jumped to their feet. I leaped onto the table and pulled Slayer out. Oh no, you don’t.
“Interfere and die,” Curran said.
Jarek’s people halted.
The two werewolves rolled across the floor, snarling and biting. Jarek bit Desandra’s left arm. She hammered a vicious punch into his face and rolled on top of him. Jarek tried to rear. Desandra raised her hand and smashed it into his chest. Ribs snapped like toothpicks. Desandra thrust her hand into her father’s chest, tore out his heart, and threw it on the floor.
Everyone stopped.
“Rot in hell, you bastard.” Desandra straightened, her monstrous clawed hands bloody. “Anybody else want to take my children? Anybody? Come on!”
She spun, pointing her hand at the Belve Ravennati, Volkodavi, and Jarek’s people. “I’m waiting!”
Nobody moved.
Desandra’s monstrous face jerked. She fell back, changing in midair, and landed on her back. Bulges slid across her stomach. “The babies!”
“She’s going into labor,” Doolittle said in a clipped voice. “I need access.”
Renok jerked a sword off the wall and jumped, aiming for Desandra. As I cleared the table, I knew I was too far.
Andrea’s bolt sprouted from Renok’s neck. He ignored it, swinging at Desandra.
I sprinted, trying to squeeze speed out of every fraction of a second.
The sword rose in a gleaming metal arc and came down like an executioner’s axe. George thrust herself between Renok and Desandra. I saw it in slow motion, as if time froze: the glint of the metal blade as it traveled down, the angle of the strike, and the precise moment the razor edge cut into George’s right shoulder. Crimson blood washed the blade. It cleaved through the shoulder joint, passing through muscle and bone with ridiculous ease.
George’s arm slid off her body and fell down.
I stabbed Slayer into Renok’s chest and cut a hole in his heart.
George grabbed Renok’s neck with her left hand, squeezed, and pushed him back. He flew and crashed into the table. George slid on her own blood and fell next to me.
Mahon roared. His face twisted, his eyes mad, and the massive Kodiak charged the fallen werewolf, almost mowing me down.
Curran landed next to me, picked up Desandra, and jumped over the table, putting distance between us and the raging Kodiak. Derek swiped George and her arm off the floor and followed him. We ran to the back of the great hall.
Mahon crushed Renok and ripped into another werewolf. Jarek’s people went furry in a flash of teeth and claws.
“Damn it all to hell,” Hugh growled. “Do not engage.”
The Iron Dogs backed away.
“Form a perimeter!” I barked, and pulled my sword out. Andrea stood next to me on the right, Raphael next to her, Eduardo and Keira on my left. We became a semicircle, shielding Desandra. She screamed.
Aunt B ripped a banner down and dropped it on the floor. Curran lowered Desandra onto it, turned, and jumped, changing in midleap. A moment and he tore into the werewolves next to Mahon. The remaining two packs moved away, hugging the wall to avoid being caught in the carnage.
George moaned in Derek’s arms.
“Hold on,” he told her.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” George said.
“I need clean water,” Doolittle called out. “Beatrice . . .”
“It’s under control,” Aunt B said. “Not my first time reattaching a limb.”
“Can I be of assistance?” Saiman asked.
“Have you ever delivered a child?” Doolittle asked.
“Yes, I have.”
“Good. We have to perform a C-section. One of her unborn is trying to kill the other.”
“Fascinating,” Saiman said.
A werewolf dashed our way. I sliced his legs, Raphael slit his throat, and Andrea shot him through the heart.
Isabella marched to us, her sons in tow. “I will see—”
“Don’t,” I warned.
She opened her mouth. Eduardo shifted, gaining a foot in height and another across the shoulders, and bellowed at her. Isabella took a step back.
Desandra howled, a sharp cry of pure pain.
At the other wall Curran and Mahon raged, tearing werewolves apart. The last of the shaggy bodies stopped moving. Curran and the giant bear were the only two left standing. Mahon swung and hit Curran, huge claws raking a bloody trail along his gray side. Curran roared. Mahon rose on his hind legs. Curran lunged forward, locking his arms on the bear, and took him to the floor.
“It’s me,” he said.