Page 135 of Her Blood Revenge

‘No.’ He leans right in my face with more determination than I have ever seen. ‘We are not.’

‘Wanna fucking bet?’

‘Want me to slap your arse so hard you can’t sit for a week?’

‘Try it. See what this filthy fucking witch is truly capable of.’

Chapter twenty-three

The Dream Walker

We’ve walked for miles.

The wound on my side burns as it continues to heal slowly, and my head actually hurts.

Fucking blood magic.

I know Dorian is watching me. I won’t show him I’m suffering. It will make him uneasy, and I know he’s struggling to maintain control of his shadows. He’s been unable to replace the charms he gave Pixie after she lost hers. Adding to the worry that I might fall flat on my face and stay there is the last thing he needs.

We need Pix.

Need her blood in our veins. Need the power she provides. A few moments with her and all our injuries and weaknesses will be a thing of the past.

I have followed her directions. South to the mountains. Past the yellow valley, follow the sunflower fields towards the edge of the forests.

In the horizon, the sun is going down, and the ocean is coming into view. The deep oranges, purples and pinks reflect on its surface as the sun sinks beyond.

Its beauty doesn’t distract from the rain lashing down. Falling hard and sharp, biting at my skin and making my breath visible in theair.

It shouldn’t be long until we reach the strange pool she described.

I’m a little annoyed at learning about this hidden coven. How dare a group of witches band together against us like that. They think they’re so slick, creating their own coven. One away from my attention. One which refuses to follow the rules we enforced. No wonder it’s all gone to shit if witches are running around unchecked.

We carry on and walk for several more hours. Each step is agony, and I have to stop several times to regain my strength.

Then we see a plume of black smoke in the distance.

‘You smell that?’ Dorian asks. ‘Beneath the smoke?’

I do. Death. The stench of it. Of open wounds festering. Of old blood. Of rotting flesh.

We head closer and come to find what’s left of a human village. We’re approaching it from the rear, from the dense forest, hoping to avoid any paths. We follow the outskirts to see if we can get a look at what has happened inside without having to get too close. It’s a small and inconsequential village holding perhaps a hundred humans. We’ve never even been here before.

The village is a wreck. Homes burnt or destroyed. The roads broken and stained with blood. Bodies litter the ground. Men. Women. Kids. No one was spared. Huge gashes mark their bodies, and I know that the unseelie did this.

We pull our hoods further over our heads and continue, keeping on high alert for any sign of unseelie. Of the prince or his soldiers. Of any threat. We can’t be delayed more than we already are. I need to feed, and not knowing ifPix is safe is causing far more unease than I would care to admit.

Everyone here is dead or dying. Those responsible for this are long gone.

We keep walking, but I stop when we reach the edge of the village.

‘Dorian.’

‘I see it.’

We head to the main road that leads into the village. The rusted remains of an arch tower over the path, and at the base are several discarded bones.

I still smell them. Even after they die and their flesh rots, I still smell the scent of a blood witch, and these bones are not of blood magic. The skull half broken is a mud witch. The femur snapped in two is human. None that remain here are the bones of a blood witch. Just the bones of a witch in the wrong place at the wrong time or a human who got too close to a coven they shouldn’t have been getting close to.

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