He’d tried to help her. She’d lived in this forest for seventeen years, and no human had ever tried to help her.
His eyelashes were long. He had a notch out of one eyebrow. Ren ran a finger over that, too. Thunder rolled, his eyes flickered, and Ren imagined she could hear his heartbeat over the roar of the rain.
Ren realized suddenly that she had leaned down very close.
She felt a hand on her cheek. She didn’t know what was happening, exactly. But she did know she didn’t mind. He was cold from the water, and his palm was rough. Ren wondered whether he was close to smiling, and she could just make out a crooked front tooth, beneath his lips.
His eyes cleared.
Click.
Ren jerked back, as—from nowhere—a flame appeared in his hand.
The fire danced, and fear seized her.
What was she thinking? What was she doing?
Her teeth lengthened to fangs as she shot back across the bank, silvery legs lashing out, claws catching the grass. She was a lynx. This was a human. A dangerous, cheating, murderous human. And what if the other humans, the villagers and the hunters, found out she’d just save them like this. . . .
The flame still in his hand, he scrambled backward. With his other hand, he searched the grass. The blood-encrusted blade sparked in the damp.
Ren circled, snarling.
Click.
The flame went out.
She snarled again.
“What are you?” he whispered.
And before she could change her mind, Ren turned and dashed back into the trees.
Tadeusz
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
“YOU COULD HAVE USED THE lighter”—Franciszek gestured to what was left of the cathedral altar—“light it, throw it away—”
Lukasz bit back a curse as Tadeusz wrapped a bandage around his leg. It took every shred of his self-control not to swear at Franciszek. He knew that, for God’s sake. But Franciszek hadn’t been the one trapped alone in a cathedral with a three-hundred-year-old Faustian the size of a house. Back up against the wall, nothing but a few feet of broadsword between him and eternity—
“The dragon will go for the lighter every time,” continued Franciszek, oblivious to Lukasz’s growing irritation. He could never help himself. “Give you enough time to get away.”
They were seated in one of the few remaining pews, shoved up against the side wall. Except for the steady drip of blood on the tile, the cathedral was quiet. After everything, the silence made Lukasz uneasy. He half expected to hear it again. The whisper of scales on stone, the low purr of an ancient engine priming for the kill . . .
Tadeusz yanked the bandage tight.
“God, Tad—!”
“Tsk, tsk.” Tadeusz clapped a hand to Lukasz’s cheek and pretended to be offended. “This is a church, little brother.”
Lukasz pressed his head back against the wall, teeth gritted.
Around them, the pews were splintered, the statues were shattered, and what remained of the choir loft was scattered across the marble floors.
“He did just fine, Fraszko,” said Tadeusz, turning to Franciszek and wiping bloody hands on his trousers. “It barely caught him.”
“But it did catch him,” replied Franciszek, adjusting his glasses. “One day,” he said, in precisely the kind of voice that made Lukasz want to whack him, “you’re going to get yourself in real trouble, Lukasz.”
Less than a year separated them. When they’d been younger, Lukasz had loved having a ready-made partner in crime. But that was changing as they got older. Franciszek was a worrier and a know-it-all.
“Don’t be a jerk,” said Lukasz, “just ’cause your horse doesn’t have antlers yet.”
Franciszek flinched, and Lukasz instantly regretted his words. No one was more aware of the fact that Franciszek had yet to kill anything.
“Fraszko—” started Lukasz.
“Speaking of which, I’ll—uh—collect the antlers and fur,” said Franciszek, not looking at the other two brothers—Lukasz seated, Tadeusz rising to his feet. “I don’t trust the vultures out there for a minute.”
“Fraszko, please—”
But Franciszek was already making his way to the dead dragon. The Faustian was sprawled across the nave, smoke rising gently from its rapidly tarnishing sides. The reporters had taken all their photographs, Tadeusz practically carrying Lukasz through the smiles. They’d been smart to get their pictures quickly. The Faustian’s hide was already spoiling.
Even now, their other brothers circled the perimeter, keeping out anyone stupid enough to come after the hoard in the crypt. Although the dragon had taken up residence almost three centuries before, the cathedral’s devoted monks had never left. Worshipping under such a prescient reminder of hellfire, they had since been dubbed the Order of Faustus and