THE BURDEN OF BLOOD

Chapter Eight: The First Assassin

Like a stopped breath, the moonless night pressed against the complex.

Heath had not slept. With his back to the wall and Savannah's hand still loosely curled in his, he sat on the floor next to the healer's bench. Her calm, steady breathing had evened out hours ago, but each time he closed his eyes, he saw crimson eyes and silver chains drowning in agony.

Outside the longhouse entrance, Scarlett had assumed the first watch. With six of their best, Vance stalked the wall. The remaining members of the pack slept with knives hidden beneath pillows and one ear open.

The rule was silence.

Then it broke.

Thatch with a hint of leather. Too controlled a breath. The slightest change in the roof beams' weight.

Before his mind could keep up, Heath was already moving, gliding across the floor with one hand clamping over Savannah's mouth as she jolted awake. The air in the room thickened, about to burst, and her eyes sprang wide, blazing in the dark and bright crimson.

Heath gave one headshake. Power crackled like static along her skin as she froze.

A board creaked above them.

In complete silence, Heath opened her mouth, put one finger to his lips, and stood up. No scent, just night air and oiled steel, no heartbeat betrayed him, the assassin was good. However, ever since he could walk, Heath had been pursuing murderers.

He went to the middle of the space, right under the loose beam, and bided his time.

A slender, black sword that was pouring clear poison slipped between two roof slats. After searching for a while, it started to descend toward the bench where Savannah was lying.

On the way down, Heath grabbed the wrist.

With his cloak flaming and his second blade already flashing toward Heath's throat, the assassin fell through the roof like a shadow given weight. Heath spun and gave the man a teeth-rattling smack onto the floor. The dagger clattered away, poisoned.

Except for moans and the damp sound of fists striking flesh, they rolled, clasped together, and were silent. The assassin, a Shaded Pine elite who had been trained since puppyhood, was quick. Elbow to skull, knee to Heath's ribcage. In front of Heath's eyes, stars exploded.

With shadows twisting around her like living smoke, Savannah sat up, prepared to rip the intruder to shreds.

Heath looked into her eyes and gave another abrupt, frantic shake of his head. Not quite yet.

The killer scrambled to his feet, wrenched loose, and pounced toward Savannah.

Heath stopped it and stabbed him in the shoulder with the second blade. Despite the excruciating pain, he used the momentum to push his forehead against the assassin's nose. Crunched cartilage. It sprayed blood.

Behind the black mask, the man stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise and then recognition.

"You're dead," he growled in a hushed voice. "The moment you took her, Beau marked you."

Through blood, Heath grinned. "Tell him to send more effectively."

He took hold of the assassin's wrist, twisted it till the bone broke, and then slammed him into the wall. With his fangs digging into Heath's forearm and his knee to the groin, the man battled like a devil. With a yell, Heath threw him around and slammed him to the ground once more.

He did not let go this time.

He put one arm behind him, locked it with the other, and squeezed the assassin's throat.

The man's heels drummed the flooring as he raged. At his belt, his free hand fumbled for a secret vial of silver dust, which is deadly to any wolf.

Savannah went more quickly than she had anticipated. Shadows struck out, crushing bone as they wound themselves around the assassin's wrist. The vial broke without causing any damage.

Her voice, low and awful, filled the room.

"You came to get me."

The killer's eyes widened. He attempted to talk, but all he could produce was a gurgling.

Looking like death's own bride, Savannah got up from the bench barefoot and with rags dangling from her. Now the torches turned dark blue as waves of power rolled from her.

Heath tightened his grip as he sensed her behind him and the impending storm.

"Mine," was all he said.

The killer became limp.

To be safe, Heath held on for ten more seconds before releasing the body.

Quiet.

Savannah's chest heaved as she gazed at the body. Shadows continued to writhe about her fists.

With blood streaming down his arm, Heath turned and cupped her face with both hands, being cautious not to break her.

He said, "Breathe."

After taking one trembling breath, she fell on top of him. With ease, he seized her, dropping them both to the ground amidst the toxic pour and broken roof tiles.

With a sword raised, Scarlett stormed through the door, followed closely by Vance.

Heath remarked in a harsh voice, "Too late." However, send runners. Beau is aware that she is awake.

Vance gazed at the assassin who had died, then at Savannah, who was shaking in Heath's embrace.

"He only sent one man?" Incredulous, Vance inquired.

Heath gazed down at the body, which was still wearing a mask and had a black cloak embroidered with Beau's silver pine.

"One was meant to be sufficient," he stated. It implies that Beau is not as strong as he would have us believe.

Scarlett dropped to her knees and removed the mask. The assassin was young, just twenty years old, and coldly attractive. His throat was encircled with a small silver chain (slave mark).

She whispered, "Suicide vial, silver dust, poisoned blade." "He had no intention of returning."

Savannah's head came up. Now her voice was firm, with a hint of cold in it.

"He never does." Beau is not fond of loose ends.

Heath encircled her with his arms. "You are no longer his."

Something passed between them as she met his gaze (crimson on crimson), recognition, promise, the first hint of something none of them had time to identify.

The pack awoke to the alarm, and torches flashed outside. Shouts of anger, terror, and inquiries reverberated.

Vance pulled the corpse over to the door. At daybreak, we burn this one. Return the ashes with a note.

Watching Heath hold the lady who could level mountains, Scarlett lingered.

"Are you okay?" she said softly.

Heath did not raise his gaze. "What does okay mean?"

Savannah's fingers located the deep, poison-blackening wound in his shoulder. She touched it with her palm. Clean, wild, searing heat flashed. The darkness dissipated, knitted flesh.

Heath took a deep breath.

Scarlett's gaze expanded.

Gazing at her own fingers as if they were someone else's, Savannah withdrew her hand.

She muttered, "I... healed you."

Heath swiftly and fiercely grabbed her wrist, turned her palm up, and planted a kiss in the middle.

Against her flesh, he murmured, "You did more than that." "You picked us."

Now, the alarms were louder (this time, the riders were closer on the ridge).

Scarlett pulled out her blade. "Company."

Pulling Savannah up with him, Heath stood. The shadows curled protectively over her shoulders as she swayed but remained upright.

Vance stuck his head in again. Ten riders. Shades of shadowed pine. A white flag is being flown by them.

Heath had a toothy smile.

He declared, "Beau wants his sister back." "Let's go explain why that isn't taking place."

Taking Savannah's hand, he walked out into the torchlight as her fingers instinctively connected through his.

Wary, amazed, and terrified, the pack parted for them.

With her head held high and power crackling like a cloak at her heels, Savannah strode into the dust barefoot.

The Crimson Howl wolves did not see her as a burden for the first time since Heath carried her home.

They noticed a weapon.

With ten wolves and one message, Beau's riders were waiting outside the gates.

The war had arrived too soon.

The White Wolf was prepared as well.