What he smelled was blood and animal.
“Kekekekekekekekek.”
The crackling of a beast.
It sounded further away now. Was it prowling around the room? A dog, maybe?
A thump came from behind him. Far too close for comfort. How many of them were there? He quickly thought to plan his best chance for survival.
Patrick spun around, blindly, and stabbed forward, thrusting his blade in a perfect lunge. His blade hit something meaty and sank deep.
An unnerving, strangled shriek came from beyond— from the creature who hung in the shadows unseen. Patrick pulled his blade back and moved to lunge again, hoping to find a killing blow—because that’s what this had turned into—a fight to the death. With whatever unknown creature he fought.
He thrust—his sword finding nothing but air. A moment of panic flared at his error.
And then a great, hulking, hairy limb came out of the air, striking him in the head with the power of a hammer’s blow. Patrick crashed into the bookcase, as he hit his leg bent at a wrong angle. Crack!
Like celery snapping, his limb bent. Patrick shouted in pain as his shin snapped clean in half. Books crashed to the floor, loud explosions disturbing the silence. His vision tunneled, turning black and fuzzy.
In the crash, his sword had fallen from his hand. The floor creaked as the beast came closer. Shaking, a nasty mixture of fear and anger sent Patrick scrambling forward on his stomach to reach his blade. Just out of reach! He pushed harder, using his elbow to pull him closer to the blade. Please, Lord, let him reach it in time. He didn’t want to die here. Not like this!
His fingertips scraped the leather handle. A smile curled his lips, victory so close he could taste its sweet, heady essence.
“Kekekekekekekekekekek.”
The rancid odor of dead, eaten flesh breathed a hot cloud over Patrick’s face.
A heavy, hairy paw slammed down on the leather handle. Patrick made one last-ditch effort to grab his sword, his wiggling fingers stretching past the point of agony to reach. The beast growled and kicked the sword away. It tumbled, metal on stone, out of reach and out of sight.
Patrick backed up, his split leg impeding him, making him no better than a toddler waddling on his stomach to crawl around.
The beast stepped over him, and for the first time, Patrick saw what it was up close.
“God, no,” he breathed.
Then, with a soft growl, the beast’s paw clawed across Patrick’s face. Raw agony ensued as blood spurted from gashes. Pain, swelling, blood rushing; then, darkness overtook him.
Chapter 12
“The strongest male possessing greatest wit and athleticism shall endeavor to claim fertile females during the Claiming; and thus sow their fruitful seeds in the womb and bear children for the kingdom.” -From Tarlèan Claiming Law, Article XII, Section 2.C.
Ryon waited in attendance for the ceremony to start with King Lyle, the king’s steward, and the king’s royal guard on top of the podium in the center of the arena. The Claiming Ceremony was set to begin in mere minutes.
Anticipation burned in his veins with fiery adrenaline, the kind he felt in the midst of a fight, pumping him up until he couldn’t remain still. He needed to fight, to explode, to move and expend the excess energy stored up in his body. Bullet wound or not, Ryon was fighting for Penelope today. And he planned to win, no matter what.
They chanted his name from the tops of their lungs. Beer and wine was drank all around in bottomless cups. The celebration had not even started yet, but smiles and laughter went around freely.
Finally, the moment came. Lyle stood at the podium and held up his hands to quiet the crowd. The energy in the building was contagious. Uncontrollable.
“Shall we begin?” King Lyle began in a magnificent speech.
“Aye, aye, aye!” came the crowd’s answer.
Lyle smiled at the audience. “Today, we mark the first day of the Claiming Season, and we do so with a female worthy of regard. You might know her as the dancing queen, a graceful and elegant ballet dancer who has enraptured many us for years with her intricate performances. Tonight, twenty-eight year old Penelope Farris will be offered for Claiming. Any males who wish to claim her as husband, as mate, as partner and as equals—step forward now.”
The crowd roared to such a deafening degree, Ryon wasn’t sure they heard the king’s final, parting words. “And may the rightful champion win!”
“Bring out Penelope Farris. All male challengers, step forward now, or forever keep your silence,” Lyle proclaimed.
Ryon stood on the dusty dirt of the arena floor, surprisingly unaccompanied. His gut niggled with apprehension, a tingling sensation that, once stirred, seemed to grow with exponential force. Where was the duke who had so boldly professed to want to fight for Penelope’s hand at the Claiming? After much discussion with Lyle, Ryon had come to the conclusion that it was likely the duke had planned the assignation attempt on his life. Perhaps, after seeing Ryon very much alive, he’d chickened out of the battle. After all, that’s why Patrick had wanted to avoid physical combat. Because Ryon would win.