His hand drifted immediately to his sword hip, but—no. Book and bind it, he’d left the sword back at the Unwritten Wing. He’d not wanted to raise any suspicion with Brevity, and he’d been so certain that traveling with Ramiel would have provided more than enough armament if needed. And it was needed, very much, right now, without an angel in sight.
“Damn the man,” Hero murmured with a placating gesture. Raising his hand must have appeared threatening, because in a breath the lion launched itself in the air.
Hero dove to the dirt again, rolling as the beast raked the air where he’d been. He managed a lucky kick in the face, which set the cat back on its heels for a moment, but it was the only opening he was liable to get. Hero lunged before the lion could turn around, latching his arms around its neck in a way that he prayed kept the razor claws out of reach.
The lion’s pelt had shone metallic in the sun, and Hero had expected a rasp of metallic needles as he wrapped his arms around the neck in a death grip. Instead, the fur was velvety, so soft it was almost slippery as the lion bucked. It howled its outrage, twisting. Hero didn’t have long to develop a plan before the lion would discover this position brought Hero’s legs into appetizing mauling range. On impulse, Hero tangled his ankles past the lion’s haunches, wrenched his knees tight to the flanks, and rolled.
It wouldn’t have worked if the lion had been firmly planted—lions were surprisingly hefty beasts. But Hero had caught it midstep, just enough to knock it off-balance. They hit the ground again and Hero threw all his strength into it, using the momentum to fling the beast away.
It was not expected. The beast tumbled across the beaten-down grass, and Hero heard a solid sound as the back of its head hit the half-buried boulder. Hero tensed on his hands and knees, dragging long fistfuls of air into his chest as he waited to see if the lion would rise again.
A crunch of dried grass interrupted. Over his shoulder, he saw movement. Two other cats, the damned beasts that had followed him across the bridge, had caught up. They sliced through the grass at a languid pace, but they no longer looked like the statues he’d mistaken them for before. A hungry ghostlight lit their gaze and followed Hero’s slightest movements.
Hell. Hero could not catch a break. He made a furious sound in his throat and pressed shakily to one knee.
“Come on, then! Scabrous mongrels—coddled tabby cats—see if I don’t scratch.” His hand fisted in a gouge of dirt. Perhaps if he managed to fling it in the eyes of one . . . but then the other would be on him. It was a small chance, but he wasn’t dead yet, if he—
A low snarl came from his back and—oh, strike that—Hero was dead. The initial lioness was not down for the count. The two beasts in front of him tensed, a shadow of movement flickered in his periphery, and Hero flinched his eyes shut. He would die, and it would probably be gory and entirely undignified, and the brutes would likely shred his book in the process and even Claire wouldn’t be able to paste him together again, assuming she even bothered enough to try. And he’d die as lion poop and he hoped they choked on his binding and—
Copper heat brushed past his shoulder. A shadow shifted, and Hero couldn’t resist peeking open one eye. His view was blocked by a wall of burnished fur and muscle. The lioness shifted in front of him, but her attention was not on Hero; it was on the two beasts that had been about to eat him.
Hero wasn’t versed in the languages of cats. Or metal cat deities. Or whatever these blasted things were. But the air thrummed with tension as a wordless communication ensued. Finally, the ears on the two opposing lions flicked back, displeased as they dropped their heads and slunk away. They disappeared back into the grass, quick and silent as they had come.
Hero might have sighed his relief, but there was still one murder cat inches from him. The beast’s fur twitched, as if sensing his speculation, and it turned to regard him with a baleful silver eye. Blood dripped down one side of its face, almost black against the copper fur. Injured, he supposed, when it had been thrown against the rocks. Hero’s fault, then.
But while the cat had seemed intent on his demise earlier, now it just stared at him, as if considering whether he was worth the time. Hero grew light-headed from holding his breath by the time the lioness snorted, breaking the standoff. She turned and took two paces to the edge of the clearing. She paused, glancing over her shoulder impatiently. Hero got to his feet slowly, and the lioness made a satisfied sound and stepped into the grass.
After a few steps she stopped again, pinning Hero with another glance. As if she expected him to . . . follow her.
Follow the murder lion into the murder grasses and hope for the best. The residual adrenaline bubbled out of Hero’s throat as a laugh. It was a ludicrous idea. And once upon a time Hero would have roundly ridiculed anyone who even entertained the prospect. That would have been before he followed a half-mad librarian into a labyrinth of a fully mad dead god, of course.
A murder lion seemed almost quaint
