Once recovered from his shock, the tallest of the three men called, “He spoke truth. What witchcraft is this?”
My throat went dry at the words. Not witchcraft, but the power of my spirit. My Nephilim blood channeling my own energy to heal Jonah.
It mattered not.
What they witnessed would be my death, and Jonah had brought them down on me. Hunter was right. I should have left him bleeding.
The words of their associate snapping them to attention; two of the men stepped forward. The group were night guards based on the look of their attire. They were gasping for breath, and by the feel of their energy, angry for the chase Jonah had taken them on. At their movement, Hunter rushed forward, attempting to reach me first. But he was not practiced enough in this lifetime to take on three guards. Without summoning his powers, he would unquestionably take damage in an altercation.
The first guard grabbed hold of my wrist, yanking me from Jonah’s side, and twisting both my arms behind my back.
Hunter’s fist connecting with the face of the second man made a wet, cracking sound. It was enough to cause the entire room to turn attention to him.
“Hunter,” I called. He tilted his head to me, one hand gripping the jacket of the man he had just punched, the other fist aimed for another blow. I shook my head. I could feel the anger roll through him as I pleaded with my eyes that he not hurt the human in his arms.
“Listen to the little witch, boy.” The third man had remained in the doorway. His shoulders relaxed, as if he expected immediate obedience. His assumption was that Hunter followed his command, none the wiser that it was my voice that ceased his actions.
Hunter’s eyes darted to me as he released his victim. Rough enough, the man stumbled back, reaching for the tabletop for support.
“I’m no witch,” I stated, keeping my voice neutral. The emotion in the room was high. Any addition from me would send all three men overboard.
The guard with the misfortune of reaching Hunter’s fist spit blood on the floor at my feet. “Hold your tongue. Your craft is laid out for all to see.” He gestured at the cut flowers strewn about and baskets full of neatly tied pouches. Their contents an array of petals and berries.
“They’re bath sachets. They scent water and linens. There’s nothing unnatural about them,” I replied.
The guard waved at me. “I said, hold your tongue.”
Hunter’s temper whirled about him again, the energy of his spirit ready to lash out at the man. “Why don’t you try holding yours.”
“Hunter,” I whispered. Instinctively, I tried to reach for him, causing my captor to tighten his grip about my arms. I cried out from the quick pain shooting up my arm from the pressure. Hunter whirled at the sound, but as he charged toward me, the two guards stepped forward. The one from the door unsheathed a sword and pointed it toward the floor at Hunter’s feet.
“Once I raise my hand, boy, I won’t hesitate.”
“Hunter, please.” I pleaded with him, searching his face for agreement. “They have only one life.” These humans wouldn’t reincarnate. They had only one chance. Taking it from them was cruel.
Knowing my thoughts, he argued, “Look what they do with it!” Yet, I could tell from the tone he would listen. They were in no danger from Hunter.
“They don’t understand,” I said.
“Keep your wicked mouth shut!” The bloodied guard was nearly shouting. Hunter had quite ruined the lines of his face and the damage would be lasting. Though it matched his toxic temper better than the fair features he’d been born with. A temper I had no doubt Jonah’s spirit was helping along, very probably intentionally.
At that thought, my eyes darted to Jonah. He was standing calmly, not aiding nor interrupting the attackers. If Jonah’s eyes were a gray sky compared to Hunters, mine were a storm. And it was raging. Feeling my attention on him, Jonah turned to me. His lips mouthed, “Apologies,” as the burlap sack covered my face.
The weasel.
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