Exasperated, she shifted human. “How am I s’posed to strike when I can’t bloody keep up with you?”
In answer, Fowler came at her again. Ilsa didn’t have time to shift before he caught her by the arm and pulled it behind her back. It was perfectly judged; he didn’t hurt her, but she could never have twisted free.
“You have more than one blade, my lady,” he whispered in her ear.
He loosened his grip and stepped back, and when Ilsa shifted again, it was into a kestrel. She launched herself beyond his reach.
“Better,” said Fowler, keeping his eyes on her even as she moved soundlessly through the dark above him. When she slowed to hover, he averted his eyes, like a challenge. Attack how she wished, he would hear her coming.
She picked a spot behind him and dived for the ground. Predictably, Fowler spun, and was there before she was, ready to strike. But he had expected Ilsa to grow into something fierce and battle-worthy, not shrink as she did into a mouse. She freefell under his guard, and when she landed, a leopard once more, it was with her jaws closed around flesh.
Fowler stilled. Ilsa had him by the forearm.
“Ah,” he whispered, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. He tugged experimentally on her grip and almost broke free, but Ilsa held tighter, a growl reverberating against his skin. “That’s it. You almost have me.”
She didn’t want to hurt him, so she only bit down a little harder. Fowler’s smile grew. “You can do better than that.”
Ilsa did as he asked, and again Fowler almost slipped her, but he nodded his consent, and she tightened her grip again, planting her feet like in a tug of war. Fowler hissed in pain, but the glint of humour in his eyes told Ilsa not to let go. He tried to pull free again, putting his weight behind it, and though Ilsa was pulled off balance, she held on.
“Do you see? A Wraith may be inhumanly strong,” he said, struggling against her vice-like grip and losing, “but a Changeling is more than human.”
As if to prove his point, Ilsa applied a flash of more pressure, and Fowler gasped.
“Alright, I yield!” He laughed.
Ilsa released him. She still doubted it would be so easy in a real fight with a Wraith, but she would take the win. She shifted human, a victory quip on her tongue, but Fowler’s expression stopped her. His eyes were on the sky, cynical and weary. Ilsa’s bravado faltered. “Did I hurt—”
A black shape descended between them, fluttering wings obscuring the captain. Ilsa jumped back in surprise, and Fowler didn’t, as Eliot appeared where only a raven had been before.
“Back away, Wraith,” Eliot growled.
“Eliot!”
He started at Ilsa’s scalding tone, spinning to face her, incomprehension forming a scowl.
“Quillon,” said Fowler by way of greeting. His expression was shuttered, a tension in his narrowed eyes.
Eliot’s glower swung between them. “What’s going on here? Did he hurt you?”
“No, he din’t bloody hurt me! It was playfighting.”
The tension in Eliot’s shoulders eased, but his snarl didn’t let up as he shot another look at Fowler. “Well do forgive me for not trusting a merciless bit of steel.”
Ilsa placed herself in front of him, between Eliot and the captain. “What are you doing here, Eliot?”
Eliot made an incredulous sound and gestured wildly. “You slipped the wolves to spend a stolen evening with an assassin while the Seer and all her acolytes are baying for your blood, where should I be?”
“Take a breath, Quillon,” said Fowler lazily. He strolled to where his bandolier lay and picked it up. “She’s been with me all evening. She was safe.”
Eliot pointed an accusing finger at Fowler. “That’s a damned lie and I think you know it,” he said, danger dripping from every word. He turned to Ilsa. “Please trust me when I say members of the Order of Shadows do not make good friends. Just because he saved your life, don’t fool yourself into believing he wouldn’t end it just for coin.”
Ilsa wanted to shout that he was being unfair, but hadn’t she had the same thought earlier that evening? She hesitated to answer as she wondered how she’d come to be playfighting with an assassin, and Fowler answered for her.
“We can talk money if you like, Quillon,” he said, and Ilsa heard a darkness in his tone that had never been there before. “Do you have another job for me?”
Somehow, that did it. With a snap, Eliot was a panther. Ilsa barely had time to react; she had seen him several shades of vicious, and she had seen him violent, but the rage rolling off him as he snarled at Fowler was something new. He reared as if to strike at the Wraith, who stepped back with a hand on the hilt of his blade. But Ilsa was still between them, and she was about as scared of the panther as she had been of the Wraith. She crowded Eliot until he dropped to all fours. When he tried to dodge her, she opted for rank insanity and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Eliot growled as she dug her fingers in, blue eyes turning on her. Then he was human again, pulling away with an outraged glare and massaging his neck.
“Next time, I’m going to let him gut you,” said Ilsa, her own anger bleeding through in the tremor in her voice. “Now, I bet the wolves are still looking for me, so let’s go.”
Eliot stared Fowler down with the full force of his cruel, cold eyes, then wrenched himself away and leapt into the sky. Ilsa looked back at the Wraith. She opened her mouth to apologise for Eliot, but Fowler shook his head and sketched a paltry bow. “My lady.”
Ilsa waited until he was gone and shifted into a falcon to
