As Lie the Dead

the breeze created by his sudden connection with the wood. He howled and jumped back, clutching his hand. Using the distraction, I tucked my knees and came up on top of the table. I towered over him, my eyes searching for a weapon of some sort.

Snow flexed his fist, testing the bones.

“Shouldn’t hit tables,” I said. “They tend to win.”

He bared his teeth, then darted toward the door. I watched him stupidly for a moment, until I realized he wasn’t intending to leave. He pulled a two-by-four out of the pile of scraps, its end studded with a couple of bent nails.

Shit.

The greenhouse was as wide as it was long, but it was still smaller than half a tennis court. Save for the standing tables, Snow had the majority of the scrap lumber at his disposal. Several rotting boxes of clay pots and saucers had been dumped in the complete opposite corner from us. Potential shrapnel, if I could get to them. And that damned crystal was keeping me from teleporting over.

The nail-studded wood came slashing toward my knees—damn, but he moved fast—with a whistle of air. I pushed off the table, forward and over his head, tucked my knees, and spun. It was an acrobatic move I’d perfected in my old body—not so much the new one. Instead of landing on my feet behind him, I kicked him in the head with my left foot—an unexpected bonus—and crashed to the floor on my left side and cracked my left knee on the concrete floor.

I shrieked as heat and pain tore through my knee. Snow was already pivoting, growling his annoyance, nail- bat swinging. I swept my right leg out and connected with his ankles. He toppled flat on his back, air releasing from his lungs in a gasped rush. I thrust across him, reaching for the nail-bat, and he had sense enough to punch me in the kidney.

Tears sparked in my eyes at the fiery pain that forced the breath from my lungs. I drove my aching left knee into his thigh—bad positioning for the groin shot I wanted. He yelped and snapped at my face. I head-butted him, my forehead to just below his nose, still reaching. He swung; I blocked. My arm hit his bicep—too low. Should’ve gotten him at the elbow and prevented him from half swinging. The nails smashed into my lower back, barely above my left butt cheek.

I probably screamed. Fingers of agony clawed their way through my back, short-circuiting my brain with a dull roar not unlike the sound of an oncoming train. A second head butt from me propelled the back of his head into the concrete, and the hand holding the nail-bat went limp. I wrenched it from his grasp and out of my ass. Shaking fingers lost any grip I tried for on the wide slab of wood, and it skittered out of reach behind me. I lunged for it, twisting sideways across Snow’s lap. He drove another hard blow into my ribs. I rolled, not stopping until I’d cleared him, my knee aching and butt on fire. He kicked but couldn’t reach me.

Last time I’d ever underestimate the fighting ability of a Kitsune.

He was trying to sit up, groggy from repeated blows to the head. We both eyed the nail-bat. I slipped on my own smear of blood; he got to the weapon first with a cry of victory. I scrabbled sideways, out of swinging range, ignoring my pain as best I could. Not mortal wounds, just agonizing ones. And he had the upper hand again.

The heavy odor of mold and earth turned my already nauseated stomach. Combined with the new scents of blood and sweat, I was ready to heave all over the place. I just couldn’t take my eyes off Snow long enough to manage it. I needed a weapon before he tried to take my head off with his makeshift mace. Anything to put us on more even ground. I was good with my hands; I just preferred cold steel in them during a fight.

That pile of clay pots and saucers was still my best chance. Only I had an obstacle course of old tables between me and it. Not enough room to quickly crawl beneath them. Easiest way through a labyrinth? Over the walls, of course.

I grabbed the edge of the nearest table and hauled my bloody, battered ass up. The table groaned beneath me; the stained and warped wood held. Snow charged, bat cocked and ready. I leapt onto the next nearest table. The hard landing jarred my knee and fueled the angry fire in my ass—seriously, it needs to start healing!—but I kept going. I had no choice.

As I jumped from table to table, several cracked loudly beneath my weight until I reached my destination. Listening to the stamping sounds of Snow’s shoes on the concrete floor, I bent and retrieved a handful of cracked and broken saucers, hoping to use them as shrapnel.

I wound up, ready to pitch one at my first moving target, and pivoted. Snow was out of sight. I held my breath, listening hard, hearing little over the pounding of my heart. Nothing moved. I squatted and peered beneath the tables, hoping for a pair of legs or even a crouching man-shape. Except for Wyatt’s shadowed figure on the ground several dozen feet away, I seemed very much alone. Only I knew better.

Something sharp scrabbled against wood. Too close for comfort. I shot upright as a blur of reddish orange fur flew at me. Sharp teeth closed around my left shoulder, just below my neck. I shrieked. White-hot pain seared my chest and back. Claws dug into my chest and stomach as the furious fox tried to find purchase with his feet, growling deep in his throat as he ripped at my flesh and muscle.

Hadn’t expected that—fucking stupid! Again.

I smashed the clay saucer into the fox’s back. It broke into dozens of crumbling shards, too old to keep its form or be an effective weapon. Snow-fox snarled, mouth still full of me, and tore a deep slash across my ribs. Blood oozed hot and thick. He was smaller than me, but he had teeth and claws and animal instincts on his side. All I had was bulk.

So I dropped to my knees and fell forward, smashing him into the concrete floor. He let go with a gasping growl, small body twisting beneath me. Struggling to get out. I rolled off and scrambled sideways until I hit the leg of a table, gasping. In lots of pain. Blood painted my neck and chest, and I left a smear of it on the floor. Snow twisted onto his feet and shrank back, bloody teeth bared, panting. His emerald eyes seemed to glow with fury and bloodlust. My blood coated his fur.

I probably could have crushed the small animal beneath me and ended the fight; only I didn’t want to kill Snow, even though he had no qualms about killing me to get to Wyatt. I just needed him out of the fight.

He crouched low, still panting, not a scratch on him. We stared each other down, my mind furiously processing every tidbit I knew about shape-shifters. I had the cross charm in my pocket, but with all that fur protecting his skin, unless I got him to swallow it, all the silver would do was piss him off. And swallowing meant getting close to those teeth.

I’d fought a were-coyote once and used an exposed live wire to slow the thing down. The current had sent the ferocious animal back into human form. A man would be a hell of a lot easier to subdue than a fox a quarter my size and twice as fast.

Trouble was, the ceiling fixtures were too high and too protected to be useful, and I didn’t see any outlets close by.

Snow snarled. Blood and saliva dripped from his teeth, pattering to the floor in small drops. He was sizing me up. Probably weighing his chances of successfully ripping out my jugular. Time ticked away.

I shifted my right hand a few inches, seeking better purchase if I needed to move fast. My fingers brushed something gritty and dry. Potting soil, maybe, or clay dust. An advantage. I held Snow’s angry gaze and curled my fingers around as much of the grit as I could gather. Then I sneered at Snow. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

The sound he made was half-human and half-animal, and all rage. He launched off muscled hind legs, jaws snapping. I flung the dirt at his eyes and used the momentum of the swing to roll left, out of the way of his flailing, whining form. He crashed into the leg of a table and tried to rub his eyes with his foreleg. Failing miserably with his lack of hands, he began transforming back into a man.

I didn’t wait for the show. Instead, I scrambled to my feet on a wave of nausea and pain, and when smooth, pale skin had replaced red fur, and long fingers scrubbed at blinded eyes, I smashed several clay pots down on his head. They exploded into fragments that cut my palms. Dust billowed up, watering my eyes. Snow went limp and crashed to the floor, head lolling and cheeks wet, blond hair coated with red. Not quite out. The heel of my foot stilled him.

“Sorry about your sister,” I said, “but you don’t get to win.”

It took a little doing before I got him secured to the leg of the table with a scrap of wood and his belt. My ass hurt and my shoulder was on fire. Blood stuck my clothes to my skin—one of the three sets of clothes I currently owned, thank you—and the volume of loss was making me dizzy.

I took the long way around the tables to where Wyatt was coming around. He’d turned onto his back and was