Page 6 of Their Blood Rite

When his gaze lands on me, his face falls slightly, and he just… stares. His hand still half raised from where he was about to drink from his ale before he became distracted.

His white hair falls to his shoulders, and his eyes are pale blue like ice on the river. One of the louts beside him staggers and jolts him, spilling his drink and pulling his attention away from me.

The pixie chitters and slumps back to the table, its little body shaking.

It’s dying. I know it. The pixie knows it.

And the evil bastards surrounding it are intent on making its demise a lengthy, agonising and degrading experience.

Pixies live three years at most. This one had nothing to do with the war, but they’re making it suffer just the same.

Its head turns and looks right at me.

To the only one in the sea of smiling and deviant faces that holds any ounce of horror at what’s happening.

Not even a rat would be subjected to this cruelty. And everyone knows that pixies do feel, although not on the same level of reasoning or understanding as a human by any means. But just the same as a dog or a cat would.

Its eyes lock with mine.

‘Shall we see how long it lasts with its guts on the outside?’ calls a deep voice, causing the crowd to cheer and stamp their feet.

The terror on that creature’s face. The utter terror… it’s too much.

As the brute by the fire begins to turn with the nail in hand, I charge towards the table, swiping the dagger from the one picking his fingernails as I pass. He doesn’t even react. He just watches in curiosity.

Before another horrific act can be inflicted on the creature, I sever its head, ending its suffering.

The blade strikes the tabletop so hard it becomes embedded, so I leave it there, swaying from the force I wielded it with.

‘Be at peace,’ I whisper, closing its eyelids. ‘Child of magic, may the power of the earth and land protect you on your journey.’

I offer a silent prayer for the tormented critter, as is tradition back home in my coven.

It only takes a few seconds to realise the crowd around me has fallen silent. The atmosphere becomes thick and tense. All I can hear is the crackling of the fire.

I look up, past the glowing red of the iron nail, to the man holding it. Piercing green eyes meet mine. They shine so bright and clear they steal my breath for a second. The rugged and handsome face that looks at me has me stunned and utterly terrified.

There’s a long scar across his lips, from beneath his nose to the edge of his jaw. His brown hair is a tousled mess that falls over his brow.

‘Ronan Shaw…’ I breathe, knowing him instantly. ‘Shit…’

Everyone knows him.

‘That’s General to you,’ he replies, picking at the green collar of my cloak with his finger as he looks it up and down. ‘Witchling.'

The General. Ronan Shaw.

He led the human king’s army against the Blood Coven and their Unseelie Court. He and his men executed the three most powerful blood witches ever to exist, Neve and her two sisters.

The only thing more legendary than him, is his sadistic cruelty to the witches he’s killed.

I heard he skinned one alive, cooked her flesh and force-fed it to her as she lay dying.

I stare at the man, mouth open, as he glares at me.

But Shaw is not a mere man.

He’s a cursed one.

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