Kyra scrambled away from the edge and crouched as another arrow soared over her head. The way forward was closed to her. Behind her, three Red Shields gained their footing and raced toward her. Kyra hesitated a brief moment, then ran straight at them. The houses along this street had courtyards, and Kyra dropped into one, pressing herself between a row of hedges and the wall. She wasn’t very well sheltered here. The hedge was only slightly taller than she was, about three hand-widths from the wall. An overhang from the roof offered some coverage from above, but there was plenty of open space between the roof and the top of the hedge through which someone could see her.
Kyra struggled to calm her breathing as the footsteps above came closer. Her blood ran hot with the battle rage she was coming to expect every time she killed. Her fur called to get out, and Kyra knew instinctively that to change form right now would take no effort at all. She thought for a moment about succumbing to the change, of exploding out of the hedges and onto the soldiers who chased her. But there were so many bystanders around, and she didn’t know what she would do to them.
The shouts were all around her now, accompanied by thuds as men dropped onto hard dirt. Kyra peered through a gap in the leaves and counted eight Red Shields, though they moved in and out of view so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. It would only be a matter of time before they found her.
She drew her dagger once more. But then, was she really expecting to fight eight swordsmen with a knife? No, there was only one way she could take on all of them. Kyra could feel the heat within her, eager to come out. Could she simply change form and run for the walls? She didn’t hate these men like she’d hated Santon. Maybe she could control it this time.
A shadow fell across her. A soldier hung his head and shoulders off the rooftop, looking down at her hiding place. He opened his mouth to call the others.
Before he could speak, Kyra climbed, using the wall and the hedge for footholds, and gripped his tunic. He made an ill-fated grab for the roof but missed, and they both fell, stripping leaves and branches from the hedges. Kyra landed in a crouch. The soldier landed face-first and groaned.
Before he could move again, Kyra jumped on his back and snaked her arm around his neck. A wave of battle fury hit her, the thrill of it as strong as the smell of his fear. Kyra had an overwhelming urge to tighten her grip further, to hold the choke and not let go.
“There’s something moving back there,” said a voice on the other side of the hedge.
Kyra jumped back from the fallen soldier, trembling at how close she’d come to wringing his neck. As the man fell forward, coughing, she drew his sword and threw it away from both of them.
“Go,” she hissed. “Tell your comrades to flee. This in’t worth dying over.”
She was ready with her dagger as he regained his feet, but he took one last look at her and fled around the hedge. Yells sounded from the other side. Commands. They were planning the best way to surround her. Kyra heard the scrape of swords being drawn, and she cursed the discipline of Palace troops. Soldiers appeared at the ends of the hedge.
“Stay back,” she yelled again, but they only raised their swords.
Kyra tossed out one last desperate wish for control before she pulled off her shoes and threw her cloak to the ground.
When the shouts and screams first started, Tristam held rank with his fellow Red Shields. They stood at attention along the side of the road, scanning for any signs of resistance and bracing themselves for the rush of people that would surely come when the execution cart passed their stations. He didn’t pay much attention to the ruckus at first. It was an execution, after all—a fair amount of rowdiness was to be expected. And frankly, he didn’t have much energy left in him for alarm. He hadn’t exactly slept well the night before.
Tristam had stayed awake long after Kyra left, unable to forget how she’d felt in his arms and how desperately she’d kissed him back. It had been such a relief to act on his feelings for once, to stop being the responsible son if only for a moment. But once the dust had cleared, things remained the same.