Nick’s hands were bound. He was injured. There were many, many of them, and only one of him.
A teacher once told Nick he would be a carbon copy of his dad, if not for that temper.
It flared, bright and consuming. Nick was on his feet. Shoving. Grabbing. Cursing. He heard a shocked gasp whencuntsflew past his lips, so he trusted it had been translated into something sufficiently vulgar.
Nick knew it was a losing fight. He knew these kits, this race, were physically stronger than a plain old human like himself. But he caused enough trouble that Kit gained enough leeway to sit up. The small kit lunged to rectify that. Nick made sure his heel impacted first, so he wouldn’t break his toes against skull.
A tall kit tackled Nick to the ground. One got on his legs. Another got one arm. “Stop this before you get –”
Nick jammed up, cracking his head into his face. It earned a pained yelp, and crunching cartilage. “Stop fucking pinning him down like that,” Nick demanded even as two more kits leapt in to physically restrain him. The tall one sat back on his heels, weight hovering over Nick’s stomach as he cupped his bleeding nose.
“What is going on in here?” The canvas draped across the entrance to the wagon pulled back. “It’s shaking like you’re all screwing and…why are you bleeding?”
“Seche! He head-butted him,” the small kit now holding down Nick’s left arm explained.
“Ios,” Seche acknowledged the small kit. “Why areyoubleeding?”
“He kicked me,” Ios admitted with a whimper. “I think he broke my nose.”
“He definitely broke mine!” the tall one barked out. Specs of blood were landing on Nick’s neck. He screwed his mouth shut.
There was a strangled laugh.Kit.
Nick twisted towards the entrance. The kit there, Seche, wore leather armour with a brilliant blue cloak clasped at one shoulder. His dark hair was neatly trimmed. His skin was a shining, clear nut brown. His eyes slid across the rest of those in the wagon. “Don’t tell me you spent the entire trip here getting beaten up.”
“He got upset,” Ios said. “And Kit smelled it, which upset him. So I took the sack off him, but then he saw Kit pinned down, and he went from upset to very, very angry.”
Seche stared at Ios, perhaps as unimpressed by his scattered report as Nick was. “I see. So you have spent the last thirty seconds trying to restrain one man with half your strength.”
There was a beat of silence.
“He’s actually very strong,” Ios denied.
Chapter Eighteen
Nick and Kit were guided out of the wagon into a crowded stone courtyard and quickly ushered into a towering stone building. They marched down long halls, Nick’s bare feet slapping lightly on freezing stone. They stopped in a room consisting of two chairs, a lit hearth and a table holding a cup of steaming, just-poured tea that smelled exactly like the kind Kit preferred.
Nick stopped dead in the doorway. One of the chairs had chains.
Kit was delivered into it. Four kits held his tail as his arms were cut loose momentarily from ropes, only to be locked into place by heavy manacles. Ios ushered Nick to the other chair. He produced a knife and cut the ropes from his arms, indicating for him to sit. Nick did reluctantly. Ios retied him to the chair with bows so loose Nick could slide his arms out without even trying. At Nick’s questioning frown, Ios winked.
Seche untied Kit’s gag and slipped off his blindfold. As Kit blinked furiously, the four kits holding his tail exchanged a look and, at a non-verbal signal, leapt back together. Kit’s tail lashed out, missing two by a hairbreadth.
Kit’s head snapped towards Nick, pupils wide, panicked. A breath passed. Then his tail lashed sideways, colliding with wood. The table leg cracked, splintered, and collapsed with acrash. The ceramic cup shattered on the stone floor, and tea spilled everywhere.
“It’s my blood,” the tall kit reassured, “not his.”
“There’s also some of my blood on him,” Ios added.
After a gesture from Seche, the kits all filed out of the room, except for Ios, who clearly pretended not to notice the signal Seche gave him with an air of not-so-innocent ignorance.
Kit’s eyes slid over the bindings not tying Nick to the chair. He blinked at the rope bows. Then his eyes slid to the way Nick was holding himself: curled forwards, tense. Nick kept things locked down, his expression flat, not wanting to show the vulnerability of his physical condition, but Kit seemed to be aware of it anyway. Kit’s gaze cut to Seche, hard. Angry.
“They did no more than restrain him,” Seche insisted.
Ios stood at his side, his face bloodied, and focused on Kit. With his attention on him, his tail hooked. Kit’s lashed.
The friendly beckoning, answered with unfriendly agitation, seemed to take Ios aback. Seche broke eye contact with Kit to study the response. The beginning of a frown marred his mouth. “Has Lady Desre sent you to us, then?”
