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I snatched up a nearby rake from the floor and leapt into the fray, bringing the back of the makeshift weapon down on Mirri's attacker's head with a reverberating clang.
The male reeled, stumbling a few steps further away from us. But either he was tougher than he looked, or he was warded from physical harm, because he shook his head a few times, scowled at us, then turned and tore off toward the wide doors at the end of the building.
"Damn it!" I bit out, rushing after Mirri as he gave chase.
We burst out the stable doors in time to glimpse the man disappearing into the neighboring barn where the straw, hay, and other feed was stored. We pelted after him, but he was already nearing the exit on the far side of the building. Mirri growled and a ball of fire magic appeared in each of his hands. "You're a dead man!" my enraged mate shouted, his deep voice startling in its brutality.
I made a mental note. Do not attempt to murder people Mirri cared about.
I was sucking in air, running as fast as I could, but we were drawing behind the long-legged highborn. He flung open the doors on the opposite side of the building and Mirri swore. If the guy got out onto the street, it would be easy for him to disappear into the steady trickle of townsfolk going about their business in the bustling town center.
I watched with cruel satisfaction as Mirri halted, drew back his arm, and lobbed fire at the asshole.
It almost did the job. Whatever protections the man wore, they didn't seem to make him flame retardant. He howled in fury and slapped at his leg as his pants caught fire. But it wasn't a direct hit, and he still managed to dart out the door. Most of Mirri's fireball had smashed into the doorframe.
We burst out onto the street and Mirri took aim again in what would clearly be a direct hit this time. But a woman stumbled into his line of fire at the last minute, one hand over her mouth and her hand raised to point at something behind us. "Fuck!" Mirri yanked his hand back, extinguishing his magic to avoid torching his mother.
And our attacker disappeared into the crowd that was now forming on the street.
I put a hand on Mirri's shoulder when he looked like he was about to continue the chase. "Leave it," I panted. "There's no way we'll find him now."
Mirri whirled toward where his father Hs joined his mother at the front of the rapidly forming crowd. "You!" my mate shouted. "I almost had him, you interfering thorn in my side!" Rage boiled from every tight line of Mirri's body.
But his mother ignored his anger, gesturing behind us again, her mouth opening and closing without a sound escaping. His father stepped forward and glared hatefully at his son. "What have you done now, you utter waste of life?!"
Mirri spun to look behind us, and a horrified look overtook his features. I turned to look over my shoulder, dread filling me as I realized why there was a crowd forming in the street. It wasn't because they had caught onto us being attacked. No. It was because the storage building was going up in flames, and it was about to take the nearby stables with it.
"Oh, no," I breathed, even as the fire suppression department's bells clanged and a group of fae assembled to try to stop the spreading flames.
Mirri rushed in to help them, his affinity for fire giving him some ability to control the direction in which the flames spread. But it was obvious that the fire would destroy everything. The bedding and feed. The stables. The unconscious male who I think had tried to help us. The poor mounts that were still inside their stalls…and it would probably spread to all the nearby buildings as well.
I was frozen, unable to figure out what I should do. But my eyes landed on a couple of familiar figures as they joined the fire suppression efforts. I didn't question how or why they were there. I just gave silent thanks to all the elder spirits in existence as Fife began casting magic and Bach waved a hand, stealing water from the river nearly a mile away and creating his own rain.
My heart pounded in my chest as I stared in wonder at this demonstration of just how powerful my mates truly were. They extinguished the inferno in moments, leaving behind a blackened and smoking feed building. The stables were still intact and their inhabitants shielded from the smoke by a shimmering bubble of cleric magic.
“Kat!” A disheveled Gambol pushed his way toward me. “Are you okay?” His wide hazel eyes were wild with concern. “The stables…” He was reaching toward me as he shoved his way through the other townspeople. But he stopped and dropped his hands suddenly.
A big hand landed on my shoulder, and I started, turning away from Gambol to glance up at Adder. His cold blue glare was focused on me as he swept his eyes over my body. "Are you harmed?"
I shook my head, unable to form words at the moment as shock and exhaustion caught up with me. He lifted his hand from my shoulder to tilt my chin up as he studied my face. Gambol’s concerned voice faded from my awareness as he was swallowed by the crowd around us. And as every fiber of my being narrowed to the sensation of Adder’s fingers on my skin. "You have a bruise on your forehead," he said with cold fury.
I finally got my voice to work. "Uh. Yeah. I got flung into a wall when the hippogriff kicked me."
He narrowed his dark eyes at me. "Explain."
I sucked in a breath. "Well…some asshole came and did something to the griff to make it aggressive—magic of some sort. It kicked me, but I managed to get out of the stall, somehow." I shouldn't have lived through that. At best, I should be lying back there in that stall with broken ribs and crushed lungs, struggling to cling to life while I was suffocated by smoke.
And I only now realized that the reason I had lived through it with nothing more than a few bruises was probably because of Fife's personal protection spell. "Holy shit, it almost killed me," I breathed out as a jolt of delayed fear shot through me.
Adder's dark scowl was truly terrifying. "It was meant to," he ground out. "It was an assassination attempt."
Chapter 17
When the dust settled and we could go check on him, we found the male who had attempted to stop our attacker lying right where we left him, still unconscious in the middle of the stables, either because of a magical attack or a blow to the head—Fife said he had suffered both. The cleric used his healing skills to wake the man, but not before we discovered a stylized tattoo on the underside of his wrist. An Iris and dagger.
I gripped the man's wrist as suspicions and ideas swirled in my head.
"What is it?" Bach asked at my hiss of dismay.
