Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 63

Twin lines of fire race up Ambrose's back, splitting his skin, like seams in the earth that split to reveal a molten core. Wings of flame erupt from behind his shoulder blades, as the wings of some fallen angel, formed as if of leathery skin and scales, and long, multi-jointed bones, but only semi-physical. 

It's hard to tell how much is really flesh, and how much is only fire.

The appendages extend above his back, half-folded, the joints at the top of each tipped with a hooked claw, and flames lick across his bare skin and weave like ribbons through his loose, wild hair.

Raising his hands overhead, he lets his wings stretch wide, and I shield my face against a rush of heat as he burns like a pyre, lighting the night with ferocious flame.

It's his natural element, and does him no harm, but the rest of his clothes are rapidly consumed. Then he lowers his arms and the fire subsides, and he turns his attention on the Lycan prowling at the edges of his light.

Now that Thom is closer and better illuminated, I can make out some details of his form that had eluded me before. His dense fur is the same wiry gray as his human hair, and his eyes are the same medium brown, though now bloodshot with rage.

As I move back a pace, still shielding my face with one hand against the heat of Ambrose's flame, Thom's eyes find and lock on mine.

Releasing a feral roar, a nightmare tangle of a wolf's howl and a man's deep-throated scream, Thom charges towards me with a promise of death in the gape of his jaws and his slaver-flecked teeth.

With a yelp of fright and the iron taste of fear on my tongue, I fall back as he leaps, expecting to feel the pierce and slash of tooth and claw; but he never reaches me.

A long, whiplike lash takes form in Ambrose's hand—three tailed and tipped in triple barbs—born of fire and writhing like a coil of snakes. It snaps through the air with striking force and catches Thom about the legs, tripping him up and sending him crashing to the ground right in front of me. He howls with pain and fury, and I smell the acrid sting of burning fur.

Enraged, Thom twists and struggles to his feet, turning on Ambrose as he tugs the lash free, then launches himself at this new adversary in the fullness of fury.

Ambrose retreats before him, his lash whipping the air, and Thom snaps and swipes as he circles, but stays just out of reach. The two are evenly matched: Thom could tear Ambrose apart, but Ambrose could turn Thom to ash, if one could just get his hands on the other.

Ambrose, though, is not Thom's target.

I am, and as he circles, he keeps his eyes on me, tracking his true quarry.

Seeing an opportunity, he charges Ambrose, forcing him to step aside with his dancer's grace; then, rather than turn again, he keeps coming, straight for me.

Seeing his mistake, Ambrose leaps skyward, beating the air with flaming wings, then drops like a falcon, landing in a crouch to block Thom's path. Thom is too close to stop his charge though, and barrels right into him.

The two tumble in a mess of fur and flame, claws and teeth and wings, caught in a desperate struggle to the death, and then—having the advantage of size—Thom gains the upper hand.

He traps Ambrose beneath his weight, face down, grasps a fiery wing, and tears it from his back.

It dissolves in a swirl of black ash, and Ambrose screams.

I scream as well, and rush at Thom, heedless of peril, and catch at his massive arm as he raises it for a deciding blow.

"THOM, NO!" I pull his hand aside just enough to make him miss the back of Ambrose's neck with the swipe of his deadly claws.