She chanced a look at James. He was alone, which chilled and warmed her in equal measure, because it meant that the Shaes had escaped at least. They would be protected by their magical forest. Would they go on, or would they go back to the Royal City to regroup, maybe recruit more fighters? Mercenaries this time, fighters that Brella respected more than soldiers. They would go on, and she and James would die and there would be no one left alive to grieve her.

She squared her shoulders, and—

There came a loud squelch and a wet, choking noise as something red erupted from Hester’s throat. He glanced down, hands gripping haplessly at nothing, blood dripping from his open mouth. Then he fell, a heap of blood and limbs and nothing, on the forest floor. His arms twitched once, twice, and he lay still.

Brella stood in the clearing. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, and her warm brown skin had taken on an unpleasantly sallow shade of yellowy gray. When she met Scratch’s eyes, she sank to her knees.

“I killed him.”

Scratch moved without thinking, rushing to Brella’s side and scooping the larger woman into her arms. Brella fell into her, pressing her face into the shoulder of Scratch’s shirt. Hot tears worked their way into the weave, dampening her skin. Brella grasped wildly at her, and questing fingers demanded more, closer, tighter. Her hands roved like spiders as she squeezed at Scratch, her tears turning to sobs, her sobs to wails.

“I killed a man. I killed a man with a fucking Pokie.”

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Relief hit Scratch in a rush, momentarily freeing, then suddenly exhausting. Her hands shook.

“It’s all right, Brella,” she mumbled. Her tongue felt thick and heavy. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not all right.” Brella shivered. Her trembling lips had gone pale. “He was going to kill you. So I killed him. I killed him. Oh gods, I killed him.”

She wasn’t the only one wailing. A few feet away, Vel huddled over James’s wounded leg. Every time he touched the bloody mess, James shouted, his scream piercing the air like the call of a dying prey animal.

Scratch desperately met Vel’s eyes. What do we do?

He wiped away a tear. “Brella, we have to.”

“No!” she shrieked. “We can’t. There isn’t time.”

“His leg is b-broken.” He was shaking, his fingers coated in blood. “He’ll die without m-medical care. And then there’s . . .” He indicated Gultin, breathing shallowly on his stomach. He bled freely from the back of his legs, not even attempting to get up. “We need to figure out what to do about him.”

“Don’t kill him,” Brella cried, high-pitched and warbling.