Page 45 of Malicent
“Take.”
The moment snaps.
I lunge.
Sickle blades—black as hunger, sharp as a whisper—curl into my hands, though I do not remember summoning them.
I know intrinsically they are mine.
My body moves before I think, like a predator finally unleashed.
I rip them apart.
One: a body split at the waist.
Two: a head rolling into the dirt.
Three: ribbons of flesh unwinding from bone.
I am unstoppable. Wading through the blood, I bathe in their screams.
The hunger begins as a slow, gnawing ache, which soon becomes an unbearable thirst. My mouth feels dry, and my gums ache.
I can hear them. Their hearts. Beating. Calling.
“Feed,” she coaxes
I know what she means; the words are inside me.
I move without thought, without hesitation.
A grin spreads across my face. The last of them scatter, but one remains: the priest, clutching his cross like the wooden prop will save him.
Fool, your gods have abandoned you.
He sees what I am; he knows.
He lunges, pressing the cross to my chest.
It burns. Not life fire—deeper. As if something inside me writhes beneath it.
Odd.
I hiss, recoil, but I do not retreat.
The wooden symbol is nothing. He is nothing.
I grab his wrist, twisting and bending until the bones snap and his tendons tear.
His cry—hischorus—sings to me.
I loom over him, instinct guiding me. My grip sinks into his hair, forcing his head back. His pulse flutters against his throat, rapid and weak.
Begging.
I smile.
And I bite.
