Marcus grinned at her. “And miss all the fun? No way. Besides, we’ve the element of surprise on our side. Piece of cake.”
Beka gaped at him in amazement, and then grinned back, shaking her head. “You’re really something, Marcus Dermott Junior. I love you.” She kissed him soundly on the lips, jumped up, and ran down the hill yelling, almost before he could take in either her words or her actions.
Then, like any good Marine, he put aside thinking and feeling, and just went to work.
For the first few minutes, it was all a blur, the way war usually was; all sound and fury and frantic confusion. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Beka making elaborate, swooping hand gestures. Each time she carved a swirling shape in the air, it seemed to sparkle and hang there for a split second. Then a red-haired man or woman would let out a screech—whether of pain or wrath, Marcus couldn’t tell—and where they had been standing, there was now a creature with a tail, stranded on dry land and unable to join in the fight.
He saw her take out four people that way, but he also saw that each time she did it, her newfound energy visibly ebbed away. By the time she’d returned the last one to his original form, Beka was back to being white and shaky, something that didn’t escape Kesh’s notice.
The Selkie prince had hung back while his people attacked Beka and Marcus, merely urging them on from atop his rocky podium. While Beka was working her magic, Marcus had taken out most of the others, Selkies, he thought, with knife and fists and sheer brute strength. Beka had warned him that the supernatural people could be unusually strong and fierce. But they weren’t fighting for the woman they loved, and they hadn’t had the benefit of Uncle Sam’s training and twelve years of a never-ending battle for survival. The Selkies never had a chance.
Any of the rebels who weren’t lying bleeding or unconscious on the once pristine sands had bunched up in front of Kesh, maybe to defend him, or maybe thinking he would defend them. Either way, he pointed at Beka and said, “Ignore the Human. Kill the witch. Kill her now.” The three remaining Selkies headed across the beach to where Beka was standing, barely holding herself upright and visibly trembling.
Then Kesh jumped down and faced Marcus, a sly smile snaking across his handsome face like a cloud across the sun. “You’d better let me go and rescue your precious Baba Yaga. She’s looking quite ill; I suspect she may not be up to defending herself. Such a pity.”
Marcus wanted so badly to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off the Selkie Prince’s face, he could feel the muscles in his thighs bunch as he prepared to spring. But he couldn’t abandon Beka. Kesh had the advantage—there was no one in the fight that he cared about; it was clear that he would cheerfully abandon all those battling on his behalf. But as much as Marcus wanted to pummel Kesh, he couldn’t do it if it cost him Beka.
He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, not quite taking his eyes off of Kesh, who was poised to make a break for the water, taking one sidling sideways step after another. Once the Selkie got to the sea, he’d be gone for good.
Beka was winded and gasping, bent over with her hands braced on her upper thighs as though she was about to collapse entirely. Two of the remaining paranormals stood in front of her, holding large pieces of driftwood they’d picked up off the beach. The third was circling around from behind.
Torn in agonized indecision, Marcus met Beka’s eyes across the ground that separated them. As he watched, she sank even lower . . . and then closed one eye in an unmistakable wink.
Marcus smothered a laugh, spinning around to leap through the air and tackle Kesh, just as Beka whipped out a knife from each of the sheaths she’d glamoured to be invisible, and plunged them deep into the attackers in front of her, ducking under their flailing arms to sink the blades in. He’d just have to trust her to take care of the third. For now, he had his hands full.
Kesh fought dirty, which came as no surprise. He was supple and slippery, pulling out of Marcus’s grasp time and time again, fingers shaped into claws to try and gouge out Marcus’s eyes or jab at his windpipe. He bit and scratched, twisting like an eel, cursing all the while. Sometimes Marcus was on top, sometimes Kesh was.
Both of them punched and jabbed at each other, connecting more times than not. Sand flew into Marcus’s eyes, and he blinked it away, his feet slipping on the uneven surface. Unwanted memories of other battles flashed before him, but he shoved them down, out of the way. There was only here. Only now. Only one target. Everything came down to Kesh.