Page 7 of Devour
The girl screams and throws a branch toward Ivar as he takes another agonizingly slow step toward her.
“Seems it,” I say, even as my gaze drifts to the forest where she last looked, to a small fluttering out of place in the brush.
Calm realization settles over me.
She’s the distraction so another can escape.
Who is this other that matters more than her own life?
When my gaze shifts back, her rage-filled eyes meet mine and stay with utter defiance. Her nostrils flare. No longer is her ire set on Ivar. It’s on me.
Me, because she knows what I saw.
She charges me with a ragged piece of rusted metal in her raised hand. A surprised chuckle escapes my chest. She is so unbothered by her own looming death. She only cares about survival of her companion.
Her makeshift weapon swings in my direction with every ounce of force she can muster. I grab her wrist and twist. With almost no effort at all, I pin her arms and pull her back against my chest. She squirms and bucks and roars in rage as my large arms envelop her, leaving her utterly helpless.
My heart’s rapid pace is a distraction. Her smell is heaven.
“Drop the weapon, Dove,” I mutter in her ear. She shivers against me, knees buckling.
I can feel the moment her defiance runs out, the moment her hope flees leaving only space for terror.
Every small town trembles in fear of catching our attention. Any night could be their last before they are taken by our priests, their fates decided by our draken.
She struggles against me, shuddering with whimpered sobs.
“She’s a feisty one,” Ivar says, his eyes sharp with interest.
“She pretended to be. All in vain, though,” I say, voice low. I have become good at pretending.
He chuckles. “True. I will be curious to see how strong her spirit remains.”
My heart slows, eyes narrowed on my adversary. His interest in her cannot remain.
I consider my options, though there are few indeed. But before I can muster up any possible solution to our dangerous predicament a whistle rings out through the air.
The wind stills, listening. Maddox and Ronan pause.
The next whistle is smoother and long. A call into the depths.
The hair on my arms stands up straight. Ivar’s lip curls in incredulous rage.
This sound means our death.
There are few things we Drak warriors fear. The creatures slumbering in the shadows, woken only when called, are one of them.
“No,” the girl in my arms whispers.
My heart rate slows as clarity settles my anxious mind.
It appears the one she worked so desperately to save is willing to do the same in return. Calling the monsters from their slumber is a desperate, foolish attempt. One that would normally assure her death and do nothing to aid her.
Ivar’s chin dips, eyes still pinned to the woman in my arms. “There is another. I want them both.”
I frown. Surely he doesn’t mean to ignore?—
“What in the hell does that mean?” Maddox exclaims. “The shadowscelp is coming, now, as we speak!”
