Once he was free, Reykon made sure that it looked like he was still tied up. If the others were to see the cut ropes, the plan would backfire, and he’d be swarmed by all three at once.
He saw the red head eyeing him, a vicious glint on her face. She was lounging at the desk, her feet propped up, ripping shreds of paper from a notebook. A blizzard of white scraps fanned out around her. There was no doubt that she’d be the weakest link; the most easily manipulated. Reykon readied himself, finalizing his plan and escape route.
Once everything was in order, he acted.
Reykon raised a suggestive eyebrow at the werewolf. “Like what you see?”
She grinned, her feet still kicked up on the desk. “You’re not really my type for that. But I’d love to get in a ring with you. You get beaten by girls often?”
Reykon laughed. “That’s cute, Red, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
She keened forward now, legs outstretched in front of her, elbows resting on them. She looked enticed, ready to prowl and toy with her prey.
“Tall words for someone who was outmanned by a human girl,” the tank grunted.
“I was distracted. It doesn’t happen often.”
Red head took the bait, standing up and stalking over to him. She had a knife now, a big hunting monstrosity with a sheath that hooked onto her belt. She brandished it in the light.
“So, tough guy, what are you going to do about it now?” she whispered, running the knife down Reykon’s cheek.
He smiled at her. “You know, you’re not really my type for that.”
Her eyes narrowed in annoyance.
A split second later, Reykon struck. He vaulted up from the chair, taking her own knife with a lightning fast motion. Then, he jarred her shoulder, spinning her slightly and catching the wicked blade on her neck, pressing it hard under her jaw.
The others had been alerted by the quick movement and had just started to advance when Reykon shouted.
“Don’t!” Reykon demanded, tilting the knife against her throat and backing closer to the window.
They froze, their faces screwed into angry snarls.
Paralyzed.
Reykon felt a measure of relaxation; he’d regained control again. And once he had the reigns, he had no doubt how to use them to his advantage.
“Now,” he announced. “Wolves are the slowest healers out of all of us, meaning that if I slice here,” he said, cutting her skin ever so slightly and bringing a helpless growl from Red, “then she bleeds out before hibernation kicks in. Dead in less than thirty seconds. So, let’s not do anything rash.”
The two wolves stood, fists clenched, eyes flicking back and forth. Reykon knew he’d won.
“Go ahead and call your friend back in here,” Reykon said with an exhilarated smile. “He should be here for this.”
“Clay!” the tank roared.
A moment later, the door opened, and Clay stepped in with an annoyed expression, still on the phone.
He surveyed room, eyes widening in anger. Before he could get a word in, Reykon was giving instructions. “Here’s what’s going to happen: if I see one wolf hair sprout out of your ugly mugs, I slice her neck clean through, and break out of this window. If I see someone move towards me, I slice her neck and break out of this window. If anybody does anything I don’t like… well, you see a pattern.”
“What do you want?” Clay growled.
“That’s more like it,” Reykon said. “I want to walk out of the door, but I don’t think that’ll happen. So what I’ll settle for is the window. Clay, be a good dog and open it up for me.”
Clay’s jaw looked like it was going to implode from how hard he clenched it, bristling, but stepped towards them with slow movements. Reykon pulled Red back, so there was a clean walkway for Clay, and so that they weren’t too far from the exit, in case he had to follow through on his threat.
Clay jarred the window open and glared at Reykon.
“Pop the screen off, too, please,” Reykon said. Red squirmed, fingers digging into his forearm in futile anger. He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “I don’t have to remind you about the delicacy of your position, do I?” He pressed the knife tip closer and she groaned, releasing his arm.
“Alright, Clay, give us some room.”
Clay retreated in tense, clipped movements. He was slightly hunched over, predatory eyes watching Reykon with disdain. Reykon had to leave, and quickly, otherwise the situation would deteriorate fast.
“Red,” he said sweetly. “Go ahead and take your belt off.”
“Huh?” she snapped.
“Just do it,” Reykon hissed.
She lowered her arms, panting angrily from her nose. Once she’d undone the buckle, she carefully pulled it out, wincing when the movement dug his knife further in.
“Okay, now, you’re going to take that belt and put it around your left leg, up high.”
She scowled, he could feel it against his arm, but complied with the order, and then dropped her hands, her chest still heaving like a frustrated animal.
“Good, good,” Reykon said. He looked up to the rest of the group. “You’re all such good direction followers. Nice job.”
The tank’s beet-red forehead vein looked about ready to pop.
“Now, Clay, toss me that pencil nice and slow.”
Clay sighed in anger and took the pencil, tossing it onto the chair. Reykon leaned over and took it with a grateful nod.
“Little history lesson for you: want to know why it’s always better to be shot with an arrow than stabbed with a sword?”
The wolves’ eyes flicked to the others, panic and frustration paralyzing them.
“No? Well, I’ll tell you. See, you don’t actually die from the sword or the arrow. You die from the hole it leaves behind. Knives are brutal because they leave holes that are really hard to fix up. Arrows, though,” he said, holding up the pencil, “arrows only do damage once they’re removed.”
In
