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“Sterling, whatever you’re going to—”
“I’m going to do what I have to do. Now go.”
There was no chance I was getting on the bird without him. I stumbled back two paces and focused on remaining upright. Hamid lingered close, torn between noping out of this situation and watching the trainwreck. Garrett’s arrow didn’t waver. The wind noise died down to a low roar, and the snow swirling had eased from a white-out to ice and debris.
Alan separated himself from the group. “Mortcombe.”
“Hybrid,” Jerron echoed, stepping up as well.
Sterling moved across the snow and pressed his nose to Jerron’s, so close not a sliver of daylight between them. Jerron barred his teeth and growled something I couldn’t hear, and Alan smirked and said something that was likely a taunt. Behind him Mercedes had appeared, watching with hungry triumph.
Jerron pulled his lips back. The scent of silver from the gauntlet charred the air. The snow seemed like ash.
Sterling’s elbow snapped back, then shot forward into Jerron.
Jerron bent forward around the belly shot. His cheeks puffed, his eyes bulged, and spittle flew from his lips. He grabbed Sterling’s wrist with one hand, then caught himself on Sterling’s shoulder with the other.
Sterling grabbed Jerron behind the neck and thrust again, pushing the gauntlet deeper. Jerron’s pupils dilated to consume the entire iris, blood vessels burst and washed the white red, and he gurgled.
Sterling growled a feral approximation of our lupine tongue. “Silver is war. Silver is death.”
Jerron stumbled backwards, clutching his belly. His lips moved, but he didn’t make a sound.
Thin drops of blood froze on the tip of the claw-gauntlet’s index finger. Jerron collapsed to his knees. His eyes pushed out of their sockets, globes trying to escape the horror, and spittle froze on his lips. He raised one hand expecting to see blood, not understanding, but there wasn’t any. Not even a red smear.
Sterling spun his attention to Alan and pushed the tips of the gauntlet’s claws right into the FrostFur’s chest. The fabric of Alan’s shirt bunched and puckered.
The gauntlet wasn’t one of the crude pot-metal ones that was standard kit. Sterling’s was fine steel, beautifully carved, and fit his hand like it had been custom made. Alan demanded, “What is this?!”
Mercedes crept around between the males to get a better vantage point.
“No,” I gasped, brain swimming in the wind. No. No.
Daniel ripped Jerron’s jacket open, and my grandfather burst free of my grandmother’s restraint. Together, the two males shook Jerron, shouting at him as if they couldn’t comprehend Sterling had stabbed him with one of those stiletto-fine claw-tips and slid a sliver of death into him.
They still thought it was a simple stab wound, a harmless wound an inch deep.
Foam had formed on Jerron’s lips. He twitched and jerked, fully conscious and aware, while the silver needle seared his bowels.
Daniel looked at me: all the plans GranitePaw had warned me about reflected in that gaze.
And Sterling had just ruined them. Not delayed them, not challenged them, not dismantled them.
Simply destroyed them.
Destroyed them like silver destroyed us.
Garrett grabbed me before I dropped to my knees in the snow.
Sterling raised his voice over the noise. “This summer, at the Greater Meeting, everyone will see how I deal with those who would hurt my mate instead of facing me directly!”
Alan looked at Jerron, then back at Sterling. He pushed himself into the claw-points. Sterling pushed back, and Alan burst into laughter. He turned around and raised his arms to FrostFur. “The half-breed wants to face me for his mate’s honor! What say you, FrostFur!?”
The gathered wolves howled and cheered and stamped their feet in the snow.
Alan whirled back around and shoved himself into the tips of the claws. “A challenge you want, half-breed, challenge accepted!”
The pack howled Hai! Hai! Hai!
