They weren’t the narrowest beams I’d been on, certainly far wider than a balance beam, so I decided it was worth it.
I pushed up onto my feet and extended my arms for balance. It wasn’t more difficult than finding my center of gravity on a skateboard, and not for the first time, I was grateful I’d never given up that hobby.
I wobbled a few times as I ran—more like frantically jogged—over to the secondary battle, but I never pitched to either side and that was all I could ask for. Once I was in the right spot, I plopped down and resisted kissing the solid beam beneath me so I could keep my eyes open for the next opportunity to help.
It was borderline painful not to watch Paul and Penelope, but me clearing Chris and Jackson to fight with them would be more helpful than anything else I could do, so I forced myself to focus, something that had never been my strong suit outside of hyperfixation.
Each second was a slice against my patience and a needle into my heart, but after less than a minute or so, Chris managed to knock the assassin back into an upended table. The cloaked figure whirled with their silver sword, clearly about to close in again.
Perfect.
I upended the bottle between the two, and this time, my timing was much better. It all landed in front of the attacker rather than half of it splashing on their head. It wasn’t as clean of a fall as it had been with Luther, who had at least a hundred pounds on his crony, but it did get them to their knees. Chrisleaped forward and used the slick floor to propel himself toward the assassin.
It very much was a slip-and-slide moment, but any slapstick about it vanished when the large alpha opened his jaws wide and snapped them closed right where the assassin’s head was.
I braced myself, a gasp tearing out of my mouth as I prepared for an utter bloodbath, but our enemy had brilliant reflexes because they managed to jerk to the side at the last second. Chris’s teeth buried into the assassin’s shoulder instead of popping their cranium like a balloon.
Still, it wasn’t exactly PG, and there was far more blood than I was used to seeing. As nauseating as it was, I noticed an immediate change in Luther, like someone had flipped a switch in him.
He went from pinning Paul to the ground, ax in hand ready to strike down, to standing ramrod-straight like he’d been struck by lightning. My heart leapt into my throat as he whirled, then sprinted toward the remaining assassin as if he were the fucking cavalry.
Which, I guessed, was accurate.
He collided with Chris, straight up shoulder-checking the wolf into the closest wall. Unfortunately, the move also sent the other assassin flying, and Luther hurried to catch them.
It was incredibly strange how his movements and attention to the others denoted caring. Concern even. But there wasn’t a single drop of corresponding emotion. If I had to guess, whoever was controlling him cared deeply about the other assassin and had either given an order to keep them safe, or was watching somehow.
WatchingthroughLuther even?
Although we had his artificer-enhanced prosthetic, that didn’t mean other parts of him hadn’t been altered. What if the masterminds reallywerespying on us through that link?
That wouldn’t do at all.
I would hand it to the VanMarches though; they never let an opening pass them by. With Luther occupied with getting the wounded assassin to their feet, all four rounded on him and began to charge.
Only for the same thing to happen that happened at the funeral. One minute it seemed like we were winning the fight, the next all four of them stuttered like they were Sims who had their task lists randomly deleted.
Shit! Is it that alpha voice thingy again?
If it was, I had no idea how they were supposed to combat that. Really, it seemed like a horrible trick of shifter evolution and an assurance of a losing outcome.
Maybe... Paul had managed to shake it off during the funeral. I’d never asked the specifics of why or how, but maybe I could buy him enough time so he could do it again. And perhaps the second time would be even easier?
It was a meager hope, but at least itwashope. So, for the second time in a single week, I threw myself from a high place down onto Luther VanMarche.
As opposed to last time, when I’d collided with his back and shoulders, this time I landed right on top of them, his head between my legs—and not in the fun way. It hurt, like a punch to my butt and my pubic bone at the same time, but I forced myself to ignore it and squeeze my thighs on either side of his stupidly thick cranium while hooking my feet under his armpits to hopefully prevent me from being thrown.
“Miss me?” I managed to get out before yanking the bottle out of my shirt, flicking off the lid, and dumping it right on his upturned face.
Some people would probably be furious at me making quips during such a serious situation, but it was my way of coping withthe insanity of the entire situation. Surely, if I joked about it, it couldn’t be that bad, right?
That sounded like classic Cherry logic, as Paul would put it, so I rolled with it as I finished dumping my last improvised weapon over Luther.
The mixture of water, sugar, and various spicy seasonings took effect a lot faster than the other concoctions I’d made. Luther’s eyes instantly began to tear, and he jerked forward. He would’ve pitched me off him if I hadn’t hooked my feet in.
It was gratifying, for sure, but my MacGyver pepper spray wouldn’t be enough, so I started slamming my elbows into his skull, ignoring how badly it hurt, while also squeezing my thighs as tight as I could. While I was no Bond villainess who could kill people with her thighs, I hoped to slow some of the blood flow to his brain even if I couldn’t stop it entirely.
To my utter amazement, he staggered back. Despite the odds, I was proving to be a worthy distraction, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Paul get to his feet.