Patricia Briggs: Wolfsbane

Spelled, she thought. It had magic to compel its victims to meet its eyes. It wasn’t just stupidity on her part that had let her be caught by the first howlaa.

Called by the howlaa, she let herself get too close. Only when it moved was she able to break the hold of its eyes. It rose to its hind legs with lethal swiftness and struck. Aralorn tucked her wings and dove to the ground, avoiding the crushing blow by a margin so slim as to be nonexistent.

The wind laughed alternately in thunderous then high tones that hurt her ears. Wind-touched, it said. Howlaa bait. How could you think to approach it unnoticed?

Gerem ran into the courtyard. He dropped his knife and looked at the howlaa. It returned his look, freezing him where he stood. Ignoring Aralorn, it took a step forward, then cried out in the chilling, whining tones she’d heard before.

Alone, so alone without the harmonies its mate provided. She wanted to find the one who brought them to this cursed place and rip his mind away, but the caller was too strong and could not be disobeyed. This child must die first.

Aralorn launched herself from the ground, changing in midflight to her own human form. When she dropped, she landed on the howlaa, much as she had its mate—and this time she had Ambris instead of her knives.

But the howlaa dropped as soon as Aralorn touched her, rolling agilely on the cold ground, making Aralorn scramble to get off it in time without coming within reach of the creature’s talons. She wasn’t wholly successful.

Blood poured down her arm as she backed away rapidly, and she’d lost Ambris; the sword lay on the ground behind the howlaa. It was easily within Gerem’s reach, but her brother hadn’t moved since he’d come to the courtyard. The howlaa stood between Aralorn and her brother—between Aralorn and the sword.

Well, she thought wryly, at least she had its attention. Without a weapon, she wasn’t going to hold its attention long—not unless it was hungry. But—there was help in the stables. She gave a long, shrill whistle as she backed up one slow step, then another.

She was grateful for every second she’d shaved off the time it took to change to icelynx form, for as soon as the howlaa realized what she was doing, it charged.

Aralorn’s vision was still trying to adjust to the difference between human and cat when the howlaa was upon her. She barely managed to avoid the howlaa’s swipe by running underneath it and out the other side. This put her on the right side of the howlaa to retrieve her sword if she wanted to take human form. She hesitated and decided not to risk changing again. It was just possible that the icelynx would have a better chance than a human bearing a sword. As soon as the thought occurred to her, she changed.

She shook her head and tried to ignore the lingering itches and tingles the shift had left her. Tension caused her to yowl irritably at her bulky foe—between its noise and hers, they were going to have the entire keep out here soon. Not that it would be a bad thing to have a few more people to help with the howlaa.

She and the wind demon paced back and forth, Aralorn keeping between the howlaa and its intended prey. That the howlaa didn’t just attack was a hopeful sign. She hadn’t been absolutely certain that howlaas were vulnerable to the poison of an icelynx bite, but the larger animal’s caution gave her hope. She was careful to avoid looking the howlaa in the eye, watching instead for the slight tensing of muscles that would presage a charge.

She had no illusions about her chances for survival. Thank the gods, she thought, that Wolf can break Ridane’s bond if I happen to get my stupid self killed.

Kisrah, who must have taken a safer route through a door, entered the courtyard wearing only a pair of light-colored sleeping pants. When he saw the howlaa, he stopped.

“Aralorn. Which one are you?” he asked urgently.

The sound of his voice seemed to release Gerem from the howlaa’s hold, but instead of running, he took two steps forward.

Sensing Aralorn’s distraction, the howlaa chose that moment to close. It mewled as it ran, somehow a much more chilling sound than the roar of a bear or lion. Aralorn was forced to engage to keep it away from the two unarmed men.

She tried to leap on the howlaa’s back again, but her weakened shoulder betrayed her, and she stumbled at the last minute, rolling frantically under the beast. She thought later that the stumble had saved her life, for the great jaws just missed closing on her back.

Instead, the howlaa caught her with its paw instead, but it hadn’t had room to put much force behind the blow. It hurt, though, landing right on top of the bruises Falhart had left on her back that afternoon. The blow, relatively light as it was, sent her rolling farther under the howlaa.

While the howlaa scrambled to back away, where its size and power better offset her speed, Aralorn used her claws on the icy ground to gain her feet, then launched herself at the nearest vulnerable place she could find. Her fangs sank through the heavy coat that protected its ribs and into the howlaa’s side.

The howlaa shook itself wildly, trying to dislodge her, but it only succeeded in driving her teeth in deeper. Aralorn felt the throbbing of the glands beneath her eyeteeth as they pumped poison deep into the howlaa’s flesh. Unfortunately, it was too far from any major artery to kill swiftly.

The howlaa was almost as fast as the icelynx, and ten times its weight; it was only luck that had allowed her to last this long against it.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, the howlaa dropped to its side, crushing her beneath it. The weight of the howlaa kept her from breathing properly, and she grew dizzy with lack of air. A dull thud sounded in Aralorn’s ears, and the howlaa’s body heaved at the same time.

With a shriek of rage, the howlaa came to its feet, but it didn’t move as swiftly as it had before—neither did Aralorn, for that matter. The wind demon’s cry was answered with a stallion’s high-pitched scream as Sheen, called by Aralorn’s whistle, attacked the howlaa again, teeth bared and front feet flying. Relentless and fearless, the stallion drove the creature away from Aralorn.

On her feet again, Aralorn ran—or rather, hobbled—for her sword. She was glad that she’d been working with Halven, because she wasn’t altogether certain she could have shifted back to human form in the shape she was in without the extra potency that being better centered gave her. She’d done all the damage the lynx could manage; her right arm was too weak to maintain a four-footed attack. She hadn’t had time to take a close look at the damage the howlaa had done to her shoulder, and battle heat kept her from noticing the pain—but, considering the speed with which she had lost strength, she was afraid that it was worse than she had thought.

Exhaustion washed over her in waves as she completed her fourth shift. She noticed, almost absently, that Kisrah was struggling with Gerem and that there were other people in the stableyard now. She took Ambris in her good left hand and turned back to the fight.

A normal horse wouldn’t have stood a chance against such an opponent, but Sheen was war-trained and iron shod. His winter shoes were rough-bottomed like a file for better grip on ice and snow, and the damage they inflicted when propelled by a ton of battle-maddened stallion was not inconsiderable. He was canny, too, taking care to avoid the front end of the howlaa when he could.

Aralorn found the energy somewhere to run, keeping clear of Sheen’s line of attack. The horse sported a dark slash down his ribs, but in the darkness she couldn’t see how bad it was. Squealing, he spun and kicked with his hind legs, but missed because the howlaa collapsed abruptly. Both Aralorn and Sheen drew to a halt, watching the creature warily. Its ribs rose once, twice, then stopped.