A terrible sense of familiarity washed over him. Just as on the night his brother died, a female crouched at the end of the alley, her mouth bleeding and her clothes torn. Petralt stood over her, claws extended, facing four xapx. A short, stocky race with dark fur, they didn’t possess Hothian speed. Individually they would not have been much of a challenge, but four were a different matter, especially if they were a fighting pod, trained since birth to work together.
“I challenge you,” Petralt snarled, and Baralt’s blood ran cold.
Akhalt’s voice echoed in his mind, saying the same words just before it all went so horribly wrong. For a moment, he was paralyzed by the memory, but then he saw one of the xapx reach for a weapon, and he roared.
“No!” Not this time.
He dove for the male drawing his weapon and caught his arm, breaking it with one sharp movement, then threw him into the wall with a resounding thud. Two of the others turned to him, obviously deeming him the greater threat, while the last one attacked Petralt. Praying that the young male could defend himself while he dealt with the other two, he concentrated on his attackers. One ducked left, and the other moved to the right in a coordinated attack, but he had faced xapx in the pits before, and he knew the one on the left would attack first.
He pivoted, grabbing the male by the throat and using his body to block the other attacker as he extended his claws and sliced open the male’s stomach. A warm spray of blood coated his fur, and his opponent went limp. Dropping him to the ground, he caught the other male and rammed his head into the nearest wall, knocking him unconscious.
Searching anxiously for Petralt, he found him standing over the limp body of the final xapx. His arm streamed blood, but he looked more shocked than hurt.
“He drew a weapon,” Petralt said indignantly. “I challenged him, and he drew a weapon.”
“We should probably talk about that, but I want to get you back to the house first.” He took a step toward the youngster and winced. Damn, his bad knee had been aggravated by the fight. He would be hobbling home.
“In a minute.” Petralt bent down over the female. “Are you all right?”
She looked up at him, her purple eyes huge and frightened, and Baralt suppressed a groan. She was Gliesh, a delicate, pretty race that did not belong on Hothrest. From the besotted way Petralt was staring at her, he wouldn’t agree with Baralt’s assessment.
“I…” Her hand went to her injured mouth. “I will be fine. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
She shivered, and Petralt immediately picked up her pretty, flimsy cloak, then frowned as he placed it around her shoulders.
“This will not keep you warm.”
“I know, but Madam Kitula told me to wear it,” she said apologetically and gave him a rueful smile. “I have not been warm since I came to this planet.”
Petralt looked appalled, quickly removing the cloak from the body at his feet. “Here. It’s not very clean, but it’s warm.”
“But Madam Kitula…”
“We can worry about her later. Right now you’re coming home with us so that Baralt’s mate can examine your injuries.”
She was? Baralt suppressed another groan but didn’t object. He suspected that if he refused, Petralt would insist on remaining with the female and undoubtedly run into more trouble.
The female still looked hesitant. “But…”
“Later,” Petralt repeated firmly. “What’s your name?”
“I am Mei.”
“And I am Petralt. Would you allow me to assist you?”
Mei gave him a shy smile, then nodded. Before Baralt could stop him, Petralt reached down and picked her up with his uninjured arm. Both Baralt and the female immediately objected, but Petralt gave a cocky grin.
“It’s just a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
Baralt suddenly remembered carrying Isabel out of the arena, his body bleeding and his knee about to collapse. He couldn’t deny the young warrior his own moment of triumph.
“Then let’s go home.”
Chapter Thirty
Despite Petralt’s assurance, it was a long, slow walk home, and Baralt saw the youngster’s steps begin to falter. He would have offered to carry the female, but his own knee was stiffening with every step—and he did not want to carry any female other than his mate. Mei looked increasingly worried, but every time she offered to walk, Petralt refused.
By the time they reached the house, Petralt was on the verge of collapse, but he managed to carry Mei into the living room and gently put her down before his legs gave out and he collapsed at her side.
“Baralt, is that you?” Isabel appeared at the top of the stairs, already dressed for bed in a silky robe that clung to her soft curves. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding. What happened?”
“It’s not my blood,” he said quickly. “But Petralt has wounded his arm, and the female may be injured.”
“What female? Oh.” Her eyes widened as she joined him at the bottom of the stairs and got a good look at the pretty, scantily dressed Mei, kneeling anxiously next to Petralt. “She doesn’t look injured.”
“I think we were in time, but perhaps you could make sure? In case she was too ashamed to tell us.”
“Oh no.” Sorrow filled her eyes. “That poor girl.”
It took a fair amount of persuading to get Petralt to leave Mei long enough for Isabel to talk to her, but he managed in the end. While the females talked, Baralt examined Petralt’s wound. He had lost a considerable amount of blood, but the bullet had passed straight through his arm, and it wouldn’t take him long to heal. Baralt gave him a dose of sothiti and let him return to Mei.
“Did
