Rein: A Tidefall Novel Page 2

  Krynica grasped Oliviana's wrist with a tentacle. A tugging sensation cascaded over her body, then she was submerged in the lake. That quickly, Krynica Ported her to her quarry.

  Krynica had placed her within arm's reach of her Reiner, who sank like a stone in the dark, murky water. She snagged him under his arms and kicked her way to the surface.

  She started to swim toward the shore, straining to keep one arm around his wide chest.

  "Fat ox," she groaned as she hauled him through the cold water, using her talent to Move them farther along as she kicked.

  Once in the shallows, she dragged him to shore, his ass scraping against the pebbles. She flopped onto her back next to him in the mud and stared up at the moon. She bloody hated the thing.

  Thank the gods—the Wolfkinder gods—that she and Krynica were a Hand and an Eye that Unamene ignored. Indeed, she was fortunate. Oliviana had no need for divine intervention. She got on just fine on her own.

  She gazed down at her Reiner and reassessed. Perhaps calling him an ox was cruel. The man sported the solid mass of a race horse, being roped with muscle that powered his frame without bulking into excess.

  Half drowned and half frozen, he still radiated an unnatural appeal. Mud coated his dark hair which usually curled about his shoulders in soft waves. His lips were parted, pulled open by his slacked jaw, and his teeth flashed in the moonlight. Lying there in nothing but his small drawers, the man looked like a statue carved by the Ancient Greeks.

  Come to think of it, he lay still as a statue as well.

  Swearing, Oliviana scrambled over to the man and placed her hands on his chest. His skin was so cold, it burned her hands on contact. His chest remained unmoving beneath her palms. Hell, the fool had managed to drown. She straddled him, and her hands pulsed as she rhythmically compressed his chest. Over and over she pumped his lungs until he heaved and vomited lake water.

  She rolled off him, sitting on her ass in the mud as she recovered her own breathing. Hitto—she swore in Finnish—she had almost lost him. He would meet his End when she decided and by no one else's hand—or tentacle—other than her own.

  His weak moan drew her back to the moment. Her body no longer flagged, so she trudged over to the water's edge and collected Krynica back into the flask that held her spawning water.

  "Spot on, Krynica." She winked, yet the Eye said nothing as she slipped back into the flask.

  She tried to ignore the sting of disappointment. No matter how she joked or played, Krynica hadn't laughed with her in years. Not since they lost Teodor.

  Returning to her Reiner, she placed a hand on his shoulder and Moved them. One instant they were by the lake, the next up along the tree line. If they had been observed, it would have appeared that they blurred in and out of existence as they flickered through the sparse woods. Each place she landed, her boots and the limp body of the Reiner left an impression on the frosted ground. That would set false tracks for his pack, forcing them to scour the entire woods to pick up her trail.

  She hoped it led the pack on a merry chase for the rest of the night. She needed time alone with the man who’d Reined her father.

  Once at her camp—not her true camp, but a decoy spot—she shackled her Reiner's hands in irons and started a small fire. The man continued to tremble, so she tossed a coarse blanket over him.

  The Moves had exhausted her. Whisking her Reiner away using her ability had saved her time, not effort. Her body still ached as if she had dragged his ass the entire distance.

  With shaking hands and chattering teeth, she changed out of her own sopping wet clothes, only keeping her hernest on. Krynica's flask rested in the oiled pouch, its familiar, hard shape nestled between her breasts. She dressed again in her disguise—a long tunic and open fronted cherkesska coat with ornamental cartridge loops, plus britches and tall black boots. Most humans took her for a Cossack boy, but she knew her efforts would be wasted on her Reiner. One hint of her scent, and he would know she was a Wolfkinder and a woman.

  Her Reiner groaned again, this time cursing under his breath as he coughed. The chains clanked with his movement. His own accelerated healing—a Wolfkinder trait that she also possessed—hastened his recovery.

  Time to get started, then. She grabbed her ax and began splitting the logs that she'd already gathered.

  A few strokes into her work, her skin started to tingle—an alarm that she'd learned to heed. It meant he was watching her. Giving herself a mental shake, she adjusted her grip on the ax handle and carried on.

  "Wwzənšăm." Her Reiner greeted her in Circassian, a language primarily spoken in North West Caucasus.

  She gritted her teeth, irritated that his presumptuous greeting was rather on point in regard to her dress. Suppressing a snarl, she kept chopping wood.

  He chuckled dryly. "I seem to be chained up."

  She sighed. Gods, she should have known he would be an idiot.

  "And I really shouldn't be chained up," he continued. "See, I'm a Reiner. I won't hurt you."

  He spoke to her knowingly, one Wolfkinder to another. She had wondered about that. When she last saw her Reiner, she was a child. Had anything changed about her? Would he now know she was a Hand? Teodor had said, based on sight and scent, Hands were no different from other Wolfkinders. She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that the Reiner hadn't ferreted out her nature.

  The irons clanked again. When she glanced at him, he sat there shivering as he tested the shackles. She wasn't worried. She'd salvaged the irons from a nearby prison. They would hold him. Probably.

  "Perhaps I should review this with you again," he said, continuing to speak Circassian to her. "I am a Reiner. I won't harm you. I only hunt Mad Ones."

  In response to his 'review,' she hefted her ax, tested its balance, and then swung with a well-practiced stroke to split a hunk of wood. All the while, she envisioned his charming head toppling from his solid shoulders.

  "I'm a Secundus." He leaned forward, as if to get a better look at her.

  She tamped down a blustery sigh. This was his best effort? Had he no training for a scenario such as this? She'd watched the man infiltrate numerous human cities and military camps posing as a human mercenary. His pack had assumed an alias—the Wolf Masters Mercenaries—to let them roam freely amongst humans. Wherever the Wolf Masters went, she followed, trailing after them like a stray pup—all to stay close to her Reiner. All so she could orchestrate his End.

  Despite stoking the campfire, she knew he saw her clearly. Just as she could see him, and she hated the earnest, patient look on his face. She also hated that he assumed correctly about one thing, that she was Solitarius. She'd been raised that way, hidden amongst humans, but he wrongly assumed that she didn't know the Wolfkinder ways of things.

  "I understand this." She told him in Wolfkinder Latin and kicked the chopped wood aside. She positioned another log. "But it won't matter for much longer."

  He nodded, as if pleased that she revealed good sense by speaking in their native language. "Truly, you have nothing to fear. You're not Mad, so I won't harm you."

  She turned toward him and scowled. How could he make bloody light of it, as if being Mad were no more than being left-handed or green-eyed?

  "Obviously," he hastened to say. "Obviously, you're not Mad."

  "Obviously."

  "You can see my confusion." He rattled his chains as if emphasizing his bafflement.

  "I do." She started to stack the wood and hoped the daft arse knew a pyre when he saw one.

  "And since you're young, I thought it'd be helpful to review all this with you again."

  His flattering tone bristled her. She hated people who pandered.

  "I'm not that young," she stated flatly. She had seen more than five decades.

  "But you're confused."

  "I'm not confused." Before she Ended him, she had hoped he could clarify one thing. "Tell me, what do you know of wolf's bane and moonstone?"

  Wolf's bane and moonst
one were the last items scattered on Teodor's workbench. Wolf's bane, a poison to humans and animals, left a Wolfkinder in agony for weeks, and moonstone was a worthless rock that desperate Wolfkinders would pay a king's ransom to acquire. She knew not what to make of it. Teodor left no notes about his last project.

  Her Reiner huffed. "Superstitious shite is all. There's no cure for Madness."

  She jerked, as if wounded, at his disparaging tone. Well, he had not pulled his punch when sharing his opinion.

  "Fools muck around with those," he said. "Tis pure tripe."

  She glared at him. "Did you just say 'tis'?"

  His cheeks colored—a rather lovely shade of rose—and he dropped his gaze while mumbling something.

  A prickly, uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  Her Reiner eyed her, hesitantly raising and lowering his gaze, then said, "I hunt Mad Ones, you know. I won't hurt you."

  Bloody hell, he'd returned to his basics.

  She'd had enough. Despite his ignorance, he had hurt her. Terribly. "You Reined my father."

  He leaned away from her. He didn't gape but studied her with a serious expression. She found that she missed the gleam in his eyes and his coaxing smile.

  "Then he must have been a Mad One," he said softly. "I am sorry."

  He might as well have kicked her in the chest. He was sorry?

  She gripped the ax handle tighter. "He didn't have to be Reined."

  "I'm very sorry."

  His words were wholly insufficient. Then again, she didn't want his apology, did she? She wanted his End.

  "You know," she contemplated aloud. "I've seen our kind shot, stabbed, impaled, drawn, hung, disemboweled, burned, drowned, and starved."

  The Reiner bobbed his head, as if making a mental list. "How old are you again?"

  "I've observed that we can recover from most anything, if given time to heal. Even a few moments make a miraculous difference." He nodded, keeping pace with her. Good, then. She continued, "So, I've found decapitation the most effective, followed by drowning and burning."

  "Most effective?"

  "To End us." She ran a thumb along the edge of the ax blade.

  "Ah…"

  "And for Teodor's sake, just to be certain," she glanced back at him, "I'll use two out of three."

  He jerked, sitting upright as his eyes widened.

  "I know you." He inhaled deeply. "You're Teodor's daughter—"

  He sprung up, the blanket dropping away as he lunged for her.

  She drew her knife, but she still didn't move fast enough. She had gotten distracted. When he inhaled, she breathed deeply as well and caught the scent of his pack. She would have known that scent anywhere, having followed the Wolf Masters for the better part of two years.

  Yet, her Reiner didn't tackle her. His trajectory was all wrong. No matter. She used his momentum, spinning him to face the woods as she pressed her knife beneath his chin.

  That's when she felt it. The hard shaft of a crossbow bolt was embedded in his back. That bolt had been meant for her, hadn't it?

  With a snarl, she pulled her Reiner backward so that she had a solid tree at her flank and him as her shield.

  Into her small camp came the four members of his pack—two wolves and two men. The two Runners stalked forward in their massive wolf skin, followed closely by the Scout, who had nocked another arrow. The Prime came last with his cloak over his shoulders and his swords drawn.

  She drew in a startled breath. Hitto. The time had passed too quickly. She never intended to pit against his pack or worse, go head-to-head against Marcus, the Prime. When she first started hunting her Reiner, the Prime's natural dominance and menace always reached her, even when tucked into her covert positions.

  "It's all right!" her Reiner cried out. "No. No. It's all right. She's not Mad."

  She growled in response, giving his hair a vicious yank, angry that he joked.

  "Well, she's mad. Not Mad," he obligingly corrected himself.

  Oliviana heard the emphasis in his tone that Wolfkinders used—Mad versus mad, like Mate versus mate.

  "She has my Secundus by the throat," Marcus growled and the shadows that flickered over him appeared to pulse. "I'd call her a damned fool, if nothing else."

  Her Reiner held up his hands, shackle-free. "See, I'm unharmed."

  Bollocks! She hissed in his ear, "How?"

  "I'll tell you later," he said, glancing nervously about.

  "Tell me now." She pressed her blade harder against his skin.

  He winced. "Hairpin!"

  "Hairpin? I don't wear hairpins."

  He mumbled a reply. She pulled on his hair again.

  "I do!" he cried. "I bloody do."

  She didn't answer straight away. "You wear hairpins?"

  He cringed and said sheepishly, "I don't wear wigs. They're itchy. I need the pins for the curls and—"

  A slight growl from Marcus brought her back to the current hostage situation, wherein her hostage was a barking arse that got himself shot by his own rescuers and who apparently wore hairpins.

  "I just keep them on hand, that's all," he finished lamely.

  Of course, he kept them on hand. She had fished him from the lake, nearly naked as the day he was born, yet she had never thought to pat-down his hair.

  It galled her to think, after all her planning, that tonight was not the night she had hoped it to be. Tengis had been unforeseen when she had developed her plan. But to be undone by a hairpin…

  She needed to take the loss and regroup.

  In one swift motion, she pulled her knife away from his neck and planted the sole of her boot into the small of his back. Leveraging off the tree, she pitched him toward the Scout, then spun around the tree and sprinted away into the dark.

  She Moved immediately, so she didn't streak off in a straight line—not making herself an easy target.

  A fleshy thunk reached her ears.

  Her Reiner grunted. "Damn all!"

  Ah, they must have shot him again. Or, rather, he shielded her again.

  Why would he—? But she shook the thought aside as she Moved and ran, her mind already churning with much better plans.

  Chapter 2

  Prussian Winter Camp, Silesia, Austria

  Winter 1742

  (Present)

  Nikolas sulked as he followed his men through the bombarded city of Dresden. Due to the acute shortage of able-bodied men in Silesia, his packmates did their best to look like veterans. However, since they lacked missing limbs, people would be bound to suspect them to be spies, or worse, war profiteers. They spoke with country accents, dressed in shoddy but serviceable gear, and limped along as if wounded but not grievously so.

  All the while, Nikolas continued to worry that Oliviana had not stabbed, shot, poisoned, stampeded, or set him afire in the past few months. Ever since that young Wolfkinder woman somehow managed to snag him away from a rampaging Eye all those years ago, she had been his constant shadow, throwing death at him the way flowers were tossed before a military procession.

  He actually felt a bit lonely.

  "Do we have accommodations?" he asked Artur.

  As Oliviana's attentions waned, Nikolas had become increasingly dependent on his Scout. Artur, a compact brawler, stood a hand shy of two meters in height. He reminded Nikolas of a cannon ball. A snarky, slightly unhinged, ruddy cannon ball.

  Artur ushered them through the door of a seedy establishment. "We're here, Sec."

  Always 'Sec' from Artur, never Secundus.

  Nikolas looked up and swore.

  "Artur," he drew out the name in ire. "This is a brothel."

  "Sure as hell is." Artur grinned as he sauntered further into the taproom.

  Philip, practically stepping on Nikolas's heels, said in a rush, "We thought this would be… That it could help."

  "I didn't think so," Olwen said, who, when not a black wolf, appeared tall and lean. He took a pointed step back and headed for an empty, corner table.
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  "I did!" Artur shouted from across the rowdy taproom, already pulling a woman onto his lap.

  "Help me with what?" Nikolas turned on Philip, the only one foolish enough to stay close to him, most likely because he was the youngest and drew the short straw.

  Philip took a step back and averted his eyes. "It's just, that we've noticed you sticking your neck out too often."

  "Too often?"

  "Well, in battles and when on patrol and during tavern brawls and such…" Philip shifted on his feet.

  Nikolas glared at the Runner. "You're calling me reckless, Philip?"

  "We thought that perhaps you've been strung through the gauntlet for too long." He gestured as graciously as he could to their surroundings. "We thought a bit o' skirt would…"

  "Would what?" Nikolas growled.

  "Ah, be the thing, sir."

  "Be the thing?"

  "You know, get you right again. Before the Prime has no choice but to take action." Philip leaned forward, as if to take Nikolas into his confidence. "It's not natural. You only smile when you're bleeding."

  "Bollocks." He bared his teeth at the Runner.

  "I don't agree," Olwen said from the corner, opening a book.

  "I wholeheartedly agree!" Artur called from his chair, playing a game of 'find your coin' in the woman's bodice. She shrieked in delight.

  "I'm not 'sticking my neck out,' Philip." Gods, they thought him crazed? But he protested too loudly, because he got odd glances. "I'm looking for her."

  "Her!" Philip took him by the elbow and moved away from the center of the taproom.

  Nikolas bristled at Philip's assertive manner, but he couldn't quietly reprimand him for his brashness. Almost all eyes in the taproom had focused on Nikolas. The women looked amused, and the men waffled between antagonized and intrigued. The attention he always garnered dogged him like a curse; he always stood out.

  "Nikolas." Philip tempered his voice. "It's just a matter of time before we Rein her."

  "What? Never. We only hunt Mad Ones."

  "And how long do you think her sanity will last?"

  Philip's earnest argument sickened Nikolas. "We never Rein on suspicion, Philip. Only Mad Ones. We all swore an oath."