Curse of Ferreus

19 - Time to Go

My reaction is as swift as a bird startled to flight.

I've never moved so fucking fast in my entire life.

My body moves of its own accord, every action like lightning, as instinct guides me.

I slash the knife across Gale's throat, determined to finish what I started and not let the impossibility of my family ruin my progress, and shout, "Get down!"

Within the instant, I throw myself at Rowan, shoving him to the ground. We land in a heap, the breath crushed from our lungs. I cover him as best I can, pinning him down, and his form goes tense beneath mine.

"Trust me," I manage, shoving my knife into its home against my ankle as the lichtenberg figures inch a little further.

And above us, all hell breaks loose.

Gas canisters and spark grenades hiss through the shrubs and explode, sending waves of light and fog smothering everything. Screams and cries and whines cut the air in two. Bullets and arrows hiss and meet their marks with wet thuds and yells of agony. A throwing knife grazes my back, right across my shoulder blades. A strip of fire makes me hiss in pain, but I know it's not fatal. Just a graze. The next one could be worse.

Without giving myself time to think, or the hunters time to close in and trap me, I grab Rowan's wrist and haul him to his feet. My family is here, and our choices are running or death. Everything else must wait.

The feud is a distant memory and wolves from both sides throw themselves at blurred forms in the fog, distracting them for long enough for the others to escape in the shrubs. Damning themselves for friends and foes alike.

I dart for the town, branches scratching at my face and roots tripping up my feet, and I do not let go of Rowan's wrist. I tug him along coughing and gasping orders to his pack to retreat. Everyone scatters. We leave behind a cacophony of mayhem.

Every shrub is a familiar shadow, every branch a hand I know, every scream we leave in our wake is a thunderclap of agony in my chest. My head is a maelstrom of chaos, throwing around potential ambush positions and forcing my legs to take hasty misdirections in an attempt to lose them.

They're here. It's impossible. I can't breathe.

We explode onto the car park, into civilisation, but I do not stop. I drag Rowan through alleys and down side streets until my lungs burn and tears sting my eyes. We disappear into an alcove away from prying eyes between a closed bar and an old thrift store, where Rowan slips from my grasp and collapses in a coughing fit on the cobbled ground.

Fervently, I check him over for injury. There's no blood, but he's shaking violently and tears stream down his face. I catch a hint of sizzling on the air. Aconite or powdered silver in the smoke. Of course.

I'm moving too quickly for sense to catch up, for anything to catch up, and I'm at once wrenching the fire escape of the bar open and stalking into the shadows. The place is empty, mercifully, with chairs stacked up on tables and the air thick with silence. I find myself in the store room soon enough, filling my arms with water bottles and rushing back outside.

I drop them in an unceremonious heap next to Rowan. He's gasping and shuddering and his skin's all red and irritated from the smoke, so I crouch before him and open a bottle and thrust it into his slackened hand.

"Drink," I order, doing all the work as I hold it up to his lips.

He does so without complaint and, as he gathers enough strength to hold the damn bottle himself, I rip another open and dump it over his head and over his arms and any exposed bit of skin I can find. He melts against the wall with a heaving sigh and, as the irritation starts to fade from his olive skin, I release a shuddering breath and let the breakdown descend.