Page 172 of Kingdoms of Night

His jaw dropped. He’d eaten it, but there it was, fighting its way to a strand of the scales, its stride purposeful.

A warrior in bronze and leather armor sprang up in front of it with an iron spike. They leaped nearly ten feet into the air, armored hands wrapped around the base. Then they dropped down on it, straight through the wyrm’s skull.

The creature collapsed, twitching. It only lay there. The warrior snapped off the antlers and moved on to battle a snarling ogre with a stone hammer. But the wyrm didn’t rouse again to fight or even heal. It only lay there. His stomach gurgled at the memory.

A large green-skinned woman with needle-teeth and clad in weedy wet rags trudged up in great sloshing boots filled with water, a large chunk of wood on one shoulder. She stabbed it down into the ground facing the battle and cut her forearm. It had a witch face carved into it—the one he’d ripped out of Black Annis’s bedroom. As the dark blood dribbled onto the wood, the eyes lit up blue and a familiar cackle pierced the air.

Black shadows shot out as a familiar form took shape. “Oh, you are too good to me, Ginny dear. Look at all the lovely children! How delicious!”

Ginny tipped her head with a toothy grin and then gestured toward the fight. She then leaped back into the river and shot out great weedy tentacles to seize at the snakeskin.

Everywhere he looked were more monsters. More and more monsters. They swarmed over the hills and through the dark trees with their fraying bark. Time to fight, then.

“Let go, pup! Beast time,” Tybalt cheered. “One of us!”

“One of us,” a few of the other warriors shouted, the call echoing.

No mortals on the field, just immortals—werewolves, werelions, werebears, and others who couldn’t be hurt by him—at least not permanently. Probably.

He sprang down from the horse and let the Change take his hands and jaws, granting him the black iron-like werewolf claws and the steely white werewolf teeth. The bellowing snarl that tore from him moved with the agony of that transformation, but it all receded.

Instinct swelled within him. It was as if the Wild Hunt, now in his veins, urged him forward. He wrapped his claws around a troll’s head and pulled. He leaped over a redcap’s sweeping axe and bit, taking off its head. He snatched a goblin’s club from the air and impaled it with his claws. Everything went hazy in the din of the battle. Enemies. Enemies. Death to his enemies. Death to the enemies of the Wild Hunt. Blood spurted. Sinew and muscles snapped. Bones cracked beneath his teeth. Everything faded and thudded and—

There you are!Buttercup’s happy husky voice reached him. The two wolves darted in, teeth bared but tails wagging.

Told you we’d find you anywhere, Hawthorn said. The two circled a goblin and snapped at its legs, driving it back until it tripped.

Feron pounced and quartered the goblin.Good to see you again!

Where’s Idalno?

Back at the castle. She’s safe. He picked up a fallen log and whipped it at a kelpie.

The kelpie rolled its eyes and reared back, streams of weeds shaking in its mane and tail. As it fell back, Feron attacked a blue cap. The knee-high creature lunged at him, axe raised, but he grabbed it by the throat and threw it at the kelpie, too.

All around him, the riders fought. Blades slashing, spearheads piercing. They felled all the strange and horrid thieves determined to get the Gift. Three werelions took on Black Annis, driving her back with great slashes of their heavy paws and ferocious jaws.

A werebear crushed the skull of a goblin with a single blow from its massive paw. It then lunged at an ogre. The ogre took one swipe at the werebear, missed, dropped its weapon, and ran, pursued by the werebear. Like them, all he had were his claws and teeth, but he and the wolves made short work of any creature that even came close to him.

Up and down, he slashed. As he slew his enemies, he caught the strips of white material. They weren’t just like snakeskin. They were snakeskin.

Before he could grimace, a small fae slipped up beside him and slipped it from his hands.

“It’s all right, sir. I’ve got this.” The fae looked so delicate, he was afraid that a mere touch would break them. Yet they tucked the snakeskin in a pack and ducked away as three more goblins attacked.

Hawthorn and Buttercup lunged to the rescue. Unlike the hounds, they acted with far more grace, speed, and intellect. They cut off attackers and snapped at their ankles, driving them into the perfect position for him to deliver a killing blow. They worked together in perfect synergy, practically dancing, three functioning as a pack, as one, wolves and werewolf, beasts and monster.

Then the heavythud thudof a spriggan snapped him back out of his frenzy. A chill shuddered through him, icy tendrils around his heart. The heavy stride and dense wood of the dour-faced beast reminded him of that cold night at the lake’s edge.

Still he bared his teeth and lifted his claws. He attacked from the left, narrowly dodging its massive fist that punched a crater in the ground. Snarling, he slashed at it, taking off two of its fingers.

The wolves bit into its ankles. Lunging into the air, he punched it in the face.

It bellowed back, caught itself, and smacked him down into the ground.

The wind fled his lungs, and he gasped. It swatted the wolves away like flies. Then it loomed over him, its ugly face distorting as it lifted its fist for a killing blow. He fought to right himself, panting.

A flash of gold cut in front of him, and the beast flew back, a massive hole blown through its wooden chest.

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