Chapter Twenty-Five

 

Savich lay prone on a ridge. He watched them thirty meters below. When he hunted the rokhura, an otherworldly awareness would descend upon his body. His peripheral vision seemed to increase. Every sense came alive.

Now as he hunted his prey, the same phenomenon occurred. He could smell their sweat. He could almost make out their words.

He’d used his device to manufacture a very useful thermal monocle. His rage had settled to a cold and calculating ferocity tempered by patience.

He planned his attack to the second, choreographing every lethal blow in his mind.

When he was ready, he silently treaded through the forest until he was five meters out. He heard them speaking quietly and laughing, every sound grating on his nerves. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it back as being unimportant. He inhaled deeply in preparation for his attack.

The smell.

The blood.

Tabby’s blood.

Their blood.

He stopped and clutched his chest for a second. “Fuck,” Savich expelled with fury. That nagging thought from before. They were speaking in Krinar. They’d bit her breasts. They’d infused their saliva into her blood. She thought she was placating them when they raped her. She was basically being drugged by their saliva. She hated herself for no good reason. He let his anger boil.

He paused. If he did this…if he killed these Krinar, he would be banished forever. It was more likely that he would be executed. He closed his eyes. The visions of Tabby’s wounds washed over him. Her tears. Her nightmares. Her blood. The bruises, the cuts, the loose teeth, the permanent damage his device couldn’t even heal. He opened his eyes and lowered his gaze to his first victim. He would kill every single one without prejudice. Let the Council execute him. Tabby deserved the comfort of knowing these bastards would never breathe again.

He gripped the rock he chose for the purpose, and using it as a missile, aimed at the head of the closest man. He let it fly with deadly accuracy. The man stopped mid-word and collapsed.

The other two were stunned at first, then rose as one and separated into opposite sides of the clearing, disappearing into the trees like phantoms. Good. He relished the hunt.

Savich ghosted to a likely spot and ambushed the second man. Using a replicated bone knife, he slit the man’s throat without remorse, letting the blood flow over his hands like a baptism of revenge.

He could still smell Tabby’s blood in the air surrounding them. He snarled.

He let the man drop without a second look at his face.

His thermal vision monocle easily located the third man who waited in ambush in the boll of a large dead tree.

Savich inhaled through his nose, letting the smell of fresh blood flood his senses.

He stalked the third man. He could see his bulk behind the tree, calm and steady. He silently approached, then leapt to land before him, hands loose at his sides.

“Come out,” he growled. “And meet your death.”

The third man’s black eyes were dead of all expression.

“Who sent you?” His voice rumbled back. “The Council of Elders?” The man laughed a gravelly chuckle and raised a human weapon to Savich. “You’ll never take me alive.”

“I never planned on it.” He tucked and rolled as the third Krinar fired the weapon. Savich’s reflexes, honed from centuries of pure survival instincts, were faster than the typically responsive Krinar reflexes. The shot flew harmless into the trees, and Savich took the man down in a wolfish howl.

He unleashed the beast. He used his fangs to rip out his throat, flinging the body down in disgust.

He touched a staring black eye. A sticky black substance came off on his finger. The man’s eye was amber gold, like every other Krinar in existence. Bastards obscured their eyes and probably only spoke English in front of Tabby.

He stood over the dead body, watching the Krinar’s blood seep into the black dirt of the Kwadacha wilderness. He waited for the feeling of guilt to overwhelm him.

It didn’t.

His thoughts returned to the Arena. Mortal combat. He’d been the aggressor, the provocateur, and eventually, the victor.

His reasons for demanding those matches? It had been a long time ago. His pride had been insulted, or his family name. He closed his eyes. Ridiculous and reckless. Being called out by the Elders had shamed him and his family. They disavowed him forever.

Now, on the cusp of making peace with the people of Krina, he’d ruined it all by committing not one, but three brutal murders. He felt his sweat run down the back of his neck. Looked at the blood dripping from his fingertips, tasted the last Krinar’s blood on his tongue and could distinguish a hint of Tabby in it. His Tabby. They had…Savich hissed out a long breath. It was over for them. He would do it all over again, if it meant no more nightmares for her.

A slight breeze curled under his nose, and he looked into the forested hill. He heard panting. Twigs snapping. Reckless hard breathing.

Tabby.

She parted branches and stepped onto his killing field.

“Hey,” she said softly, eyes roving over his face. “Are you okay?”

He smiled, baring his unsheathed fangs. “I am now.”