King of the Mountain (Witchfire 2)

Chapter 6 - Kill Or Be Killed

Tighter than my muscles?

The telepathic question thrummed with amusement and power, reverberating in my skull. I tried not to wince, furiously ignoring the heat flooding my cheeks. Out of everything he could have overheard, out of all the embarrassing things he could have picked up on, why did he have to catch that strain of thought?

I'll have you know, nothing is tighter than my muscles.

Suppressing a snort of laughter, I studied him from across the arena, taking in his tall, muscled form and the way he crossed his arms. That navy cotton shirt hugged him a little too tightly, clinging to his shoulders and well-defined abs. I felt my lips twitch with a traitorous smile when I realised I could probably use his stomach as a washing board to scrub my clothes clean on.

What were you after? I asked.

Colden sobered, and I immediately felt guilty for snapping him out of an easy-going mood. He so rarely had the chance to have fun. Being a member of the High Pack was like being a parent, but worse. Instead of being responsible for a handful of children, we were responsible for a thousand odd children, not including the members of the High Pack (who could also digress into childish fits).

Silver-steel? Is that really necessary? he asked.

Frustration made my stomach clench. Are you questioning my judgement or my skill?

Neither, he back-pedalled, but couldn't you choose something a little less... deadly?

My nostrils flared. He wasn't questioning my abilities, so much as insulting them. This is my fight, I snapped. Unless you give me a direct order, I will proceed as I see fit.

The temptation was there; I could feel it brimming beneath his thoughts, the intent riding on the tip of his tongue, followed by the purely male satisfaction that he had the power to command me in the first place. It didn't matter that I could beat Colden in a fight; he possessed an insane level of conviction I'd yet to figure out the source of, which secured him first place in any mental battle. The result was the power to compel any lesser werewolf to do his bidding, something our kind had come to call dominance over the years.

I'd always hated it. My mother had used it on me relentlessly growing up, so I'd done my best to be utterly sure of myself and what I wanted, to repel anyone else's ambitions should the need arise again. I could already feel my shoulders tensing, jaw locking in preparation of enduring the cold crash of Colden's will.

Fine, he relented. Just be careful out there. I'd hate to see you get hurt.

I blinked, a little surprised. I'd been expecting an order, or a debriefing, or something that related to High Pack business. His concern was wholly unexpected, and as a result it took me several floundering moments to formulate a reply. I'll be careful, I finally managed, though I couldn't hide my bewilderment. Colden wasn't the type to make emotional declarations. Everything was business with him.

Picking up the gist of my thoughts, Colden scowled. Something negative — irritation, or perhaps frustration — surged through our telepathic connection. I recoiled from the unpleasant heat of his emotions, withdrawing from his mind to provide him with space to cool down. The action only angered him more, and in a swift move he anchored himself in my head, forgetting to shield some of his thoughts in the process.

It turned out the irritation wasn't directed at me, but at himself. Colden was grasping for an adequate way to voice his feelings, and he was failing. But what were those feelings? I was struggling to identify them; the frustration Colden felt was too strong, eclipsing all else.

I still think this is a terrible idea, he sent eventually.

I axed our connection, refusing to dignify his pigheadedness with a reply. Colden had no right to berate me for making a choice without proactively specifying what choice he'd prefer me to make. Telepathy or no, I refused to be expected to read his damn mind.

In the time it had taken us to talk, Ivy had chosen her weapon. She held a katana in her hands now, about half the length of her body. The polished finish matched the darker strands of her hair.

"Excellent choice," I remarked, taking it from her. The blade was straight, approximately half a palm wide, with a spine as thick as my smallest finger. "A sharp edge with generous reach."

As I'd suspected this morning, Ivy was smarter than she looked. She'd picked a weapon that could both skewer and slash, and was light enough to wield with relative speed and technicality — though technique was imperative to avoid the brittle spine from shattering. I handed it back to her, wondering what I should pick to combat that.

I settled on two combat knives, different models but similar in construction. I could cut with both sides of each blade, and both sported a ring in the grip that I could hook a finger through to prevent them from being knocked out of my grasp. The only difference was a silver talon on the hilt.

I held them up in a cross formation. The crowd roared their recognition of the weapon I was most proficient with. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Colden issue an order for somebody to remove the weapons cart from the field. The wooden apparatus groaned beneath the weight of its burden as they came to drag it away, but I payed the complaining contraption no heed. Ivy consumed my attention now.

I watched her, taking in as much information as I could. Her shifting clothes were well worn, and the leather had moulded comfortably to her body, indicating that she could move with flexibility. The laces on her left boot were loose; perhaps I could take advantage of that? Finally, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear suggested she was left-handed.

Information is invaluable, lectured a stern, matriarchal voice in the back of my head. Knowing your enemy can mean the difference between life and death.

I understand, I replied, even though her voice was only a delusion. I'd killed the person it belonged to long ago.

"Let the battle commence!" Colden shouted, and in that instant, I returned to my childhood.

It was time to kill or be killed.