Sabine signals Myst to halt.
The men wear the gold-trimmed, crimson robes of the Order of Immortal Woudix, God of Death. Cutlasses hang from straps over their shoulders. Their faces are stiff. One of them clutches a gilded copy of the Book of the Immortals like a shield.
Fuck. Goddamn judgmental priests. This is the last thing we need.
“By the authority of the Immortal Woudix,” the one in front intones. “The village of Charmont disaffirms the presence of this vulgar spectacle.”
He wears a tall, peaked red hat with silken fringe, marking him as the Patron—the head priest. The gold-studded fringe brushes his dark eyebrows almost like a crown across his brow. Fitting, as the Red Church believes they’re as mighty as kings.
I groan inwardly down to my bones. “If it offends you,” I seethe, “then step aside and we’ll be out of your way.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
The crowd begins to buzz. Tension gathers over the village center like morning mist. These priests worship Immortal Woudix, the God of Death, which means they know how to use those cutlasses at their sides. They’re as militant as priests come, and we’ve walked right into their town.
Except this isn’t their town.
Charmont worships Immortal Meric—not Woudix—which means these red-robed acolytes traveled here specifically to intercept us. That would explain how sweaty they are beneath their miter hats. We changed course, so they were probably waiting to confront us back on the road to Middleford, and rode here when word spread of the new route.
Immortal Woudix, as depraved as the rest of the fae court, wouldn’t give a fuck about a naked girl. Hell, he’d love it.
So why have these militant assholes really come?
I have a strong suspicion that it has nothing to do with Sabine’s state of undress, and everything to do with how the Grand Cleric who oversees the Red Church resents the Valveres’ influence in Astagnon.
“Arrest this whore at once!” the Patron commands, signaling to his brethren. “She will be made to answer for spreading such depravity! Pull her down from that horse.”
The four heavyset priests behind him stalk toward Myst and Sabine.
My thoughts come slamming to a halt.
Did he just call Sabine a whore?
It isn’t until Sabine nudges me again with her toe that I realize I’m growling at them like my animal namesake.
“Wolf,” she says low, worried. “What do I do?”
My fists ball at my sides. Arrows are too good for these miscreant priests. I don’t want to give them the gift of a clean shot to the heart. I want to bloody my knuckles on their jaws. I want to tread my boots through puddles of their blood. “Nothing, my lady. You’re mine to protect, and I’m going to fucking protect you.”
Chapter 11
Sabine
Wolf drops his rucksack and lurches forward, but two of the priests draw their cutlasses. Cries ring out through the crowd. Doors slam as more onlookers come out to witness the incident. The other two priests stride intently toward Myst. One grips the base of her mane to keep her from bolting—not that we could, anyway, with the street so clogged with villagers. It all happens in the blink of an eye, coordinated to perfection.
The fourth priest grabs my thigh just above the knee, trying to pull me down off her.
Myst, go! I cry.
She rears partway up, shaking off the man’s grip on her mane. He falls back on his ass, to my delight. Myst dances backward a few steps. Her muscles bunch, but there’s nowhere to go. She stomps her hooves, frustrated.
Too many people!
“You’ll answer to the Immortals!” another priest cries. He snatches a fistful of my long hair, tugging me painfully forward to try to pull me off Myst.
I cry out, and Wolf pivots sharply toward me.
Wolf takes one look at the man with his hands all over my naked body, and any shred of mercy he might have spared for the priests evaporates. The cords on his neck strain. He limbers up his sore shoulder.
“Get your goddamn hands off her,” he threatens, “Or I’ll rip them off your arms.”
Unintimidated, the priest doesn’t stop trying to drag me from Myst’s back. His hand moves from my thigh to the side of my ass, fingers digging in to get a better grip as he pulls me halfway down.
“Let me go!” I shout, kicking at his face while I cling to Myst’s mane with a death grip. The crowd goes wild. I’m on full display to them, with my hair all askance, as I struggle against my attacker. No matter how I struggle, he’s much stronger than me.
Before I know it, my feet hit the ground. The priest grabs me from behind, wrapping one hand roughly around my breasts in an attempt to hide my nudity, but really just looks like he’s groping me.
Oh, this stupid man. He’s just made a huge mistake.
Wolf lunges for him like a beast, moving faster than I thought possible. Holy hell. Is he godkissed for speed, too? But the two priests with drawn cutlasses were anticipating this. The closest one slashes in Wolf’s direction. Wolf dodges the cutlass with ease, countering with an explosive uppercut that sends the man crashing to the ground. The second priest attacks, but Wolf sidesteps the cutlass’s blow and delivers a swift punch to the man’s jaw.
Besides the unarmed Patron, only the priest who captured me remains on his feet. Wolf stalks up behind my attacker and locks a heavy hand on his shoulder.
He leans in to hiss in the man’s ear, “You don’t deserve to touch her.”
He lands a devastating jab to the man’s kidney area. As the air rushes out of my attacker’s lungs, his meaty hands slip off me, and I’m able to scramble back to Myst. Wolf lays into the man with another strike to the kidney, sending him stumbling to all fours.
Wolf picks the broken man up, only to slam his knee into the man’s middle and send him back to hands and knees again.
Wolf pauses to toss his sweaty hair up. For a second, our eyes lock. He’s breathing hard, but doesn’t have a single new scratch on him. He touches my arm with tender concern.
“Lady Sabine. Are you—”
The two armed priests cut off his question with a simultaneous attack from both sides. I suck in a gasp as Wolf dodges the cutlass blades slicing through the air. One of them nicks his left arm as he’s bending forward, but he doesn’t so much as flinch as a line of red appears on his shirt.
He snatches his bow from his rucksack and uses it as a staff to block the cutlass swings. With a weapon in his hands, he instantly has the advantage. As he parries their strikes with astonishing speed, I realize that he’s listening to their bodies shifting—that’s how he can move so fast.
One of the priests darts into the crowd and comes back with a length of chain from the blacksmith shop, which he tries to circle around Myst’s neck.
Hell no.
I might not know how to fight, and I don’t have a sword, but that doesn’t mean I’m weaponless.
Rear up, girl! I tell her.
Myst rises to her hind legs, clipping the man in the chin with her hoof, sending him crashing to the road, unconscious.