Predator Code (Tales from Wildhearth #1)

Chapter 19 - Isn't Anybody Pleased to See Me Anymore?

Rapid.

What in the Peace and Fire did he want with her?!

Jett felt more anger than fear as she was escorted through the food market with Rapid's goon right up beside her every step of the way. One of his paws snaked around her waist to make it seem as though they were a couple just out for a jaunt, and her fur prickled at the unwanted touch, but she didn't dare try anything here and now. One wrong move and that knife would tear into her ribcage. After everything she'd been through, she wasn't about to get herself killed by some thug.

So she went along for the ride, for now. Jett noticed two other foxkin shadowing them as they made their way through the streets of Gjornharr District, but soon they shepherded her away from the busier parts of the district, away from the residences and the markets and down a sloping, grey mud rampway that led to a series of understreets.

Here they entered a claustrophobic warren of machine shops, printing presses, and cloth-weaver mills, the scents of inks and dyes filling Jett's nostrils as she tried to figure out where in hellfangs she was being taken.

After guiding her through a series of twists and turns, the trio of foxkin guided her to the bunker-like structure of another machine shop, a low, oblong storefront clanging with industry and the din of voices.

"Follow me," the foxkin beside her said quietly, his arm uncoiling from around her waist and his knife returning to its sheathe. He stepped out in front of her, and she risked a glance back to find the other two had pulled in close behind to ensure she didn't run.

With a resigned huff, she flicked an impatient paw at the machine shop. "Let's get on with it then. I haven't got all day."

"See if you still have the attitude when Rapid's done with you," the foxkin growled back, anger flashing in his eyes before he turned away and led them to a squat metal side door. He produced a scent key from the pocket of his kilt, inserted it into the door lock, and was greeted by a clunk of disengaging mechanisms.

Jett scowled and allowed herself to be shepherded inside, anger and frustration overriding any fear she could have (and perhaps should have) felt. Another muck-furred female foxkin skulked inside the entrance, a heavy armbow aimed as they crossed the threshold. She waved the group through with a grunt, and Jett was propelled forward through the dingy side passage and into a sweltering workshop.

A low, sprawling, hangar-like space, it was divided up into small chambers and packed with Rapid's associates, lit by smouldering braziers and the glow of smelting furnaces. The grind of metal filled her ears from the machine shops, the scorching scent mixing with cooked meat, muskbrew, and dark beer into a smothering cocktail.

The heat made her pant lightly, but her companions seemed not to notice, striding breezily through the machinery. Rough-furred and scarred foxkin shot her suspicious looks as she swept past them, but it wasn't until they turned a corner into a curtained-off back room that she really discovered the danger that awaited her.

Rapid stood over a broad desk littered with copper-etched maps of Wildhearth, and even at a swift glance, she could pick out half a dozen different districts flensed down to their constituent parts. The albino foxkin looked almost manic, his eyes wild and an alarmingly fresh scar running from one lean shoulder down across his chest. It looked like a ragged wound—a savage, rippling claw mark. Anger rolled off him in tangible waves, and a heavy, black-hafted axe rested across the table in front of him.

He looked up at her, and it was then that she allowed a sliver of fear to ebb to the surface.

"Fangs'n'fire, I've been lookin' forward to this," he growled, one paw curling around the woven mesh grip of his axe. Jett took a step back; gulped. Her relationship with Rapid, while a little frosty at times, had never been hostile.