Page 213 of Fangs
My temper surged, and before I could think better of it, I spit in her face.
Her grin faded as her eyes narrowed into cold slits. She brought one hand up to wipe the spit from her face and then suddenly struck, slamming her fist into my stomach and forcing all the air in my lungs out in a pained wheeze. I struggled to gasp in a breath, but she wasn’t done. Zana seized a handful of my hair and yanked my head back as she leaned in.
“I was gonna make this quick, but I think I’ll play a little after all.”
With a vicious twist of my hair, Zana slammed the back of my head into the ground. Stars burst in my vision, and before I could recover, her hands were around my throat, squeezing with no mercy. Her smirk dimmed in my vision as her grip tightened.
“Goodnight, sweet thing,” she crooned, and darkness swallowed me.
I woke up in a different tent and stared at the canvas ceiling in confusion. This tent was more like the tents the Reapers had used, with a tall wooden pole holding up the ceiling—a pole to which my hands were handcuffed behind my back.
I sat up, my head and throat aching, and squinted in the dim light. Before I could get a good look around the tent, a shadow moved toward me, and a strangled shriek escaped my lips. A dirty, white, tattered robe came into view, and then the person crouched before me, revealing the horrifying face of a Voiceless prophet. I pressed against the pole, trying to get as far away as possible, but there was nowhere to go. He looked like a man, beard stubble poking out from the thick white paint that coated his face. His eye sockets were blackened with what looked like ash, creating the illusion of a skull, and streaks ran down his face from sweat or tears. The customary black thread stitched his lips closed, and the holes pierced in his skin were red and irritated. Dried blood and who knew what else crusted the thread.
His mouth opened slightly, and his tongue pressed a wet knot of black thread out between his lips. He lifted pale hands with long fingernails and calmly picked at the knot as I watched in disgust. It took him almost a minute, but he got it untied, then grabbed one end of the thread andpulled.
My stomach churned as the black thread began sliding from the puncture holes in his lips. It caught often, blood trickling from several of the holes, but he never even flinched. My entire body itched to clean out the wounds.
The thread finally came free, and the Voiceless smiled, flashing yellowed teeth.
“Ember Cutler,” he said in a thin, raspy voice that made all my hair stand on end.
“So not voiceless after all,” I scoffed hoarsely with far more bravado than I felt.
He smiled wider, and more blood dribbled from the holes in his skin. “Our voices are for the gods alone.”
I glanced pointedly around the tent. It was empty except for us.
“Gods… and goddesses,” he said reverently, and fear coursed through me.
“I am not a goddess,” I snapped.
“The prophecy states that to fulfill the covenant, the Goddess of Life must unite with the God of Death. Their union shall forge a new era, cleansing the ashes of Before and igniting the embers of genesis.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding.
“I am the Prophet Talmar. I bandaged your burned hand and re-bandaged your wrists.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you come to be injured?”
I wiggled my fingers, realizing one of my hands was wrapped in gauze, but I was more concerned with what he’d said before.
“What do you mean, ‘unite’?” I demanded.
He smiled. “A union of flesh and blood. Your children shall inherit the earth.”
A union of flesh and blood.
A roaring sound filled my ears.
Your children.
I wanted to appear strong and defiant, but my body started trembling as the horror of what he’d just said slowly registered. I thought I’d experienced the worst ways I could be used, but this was a whole new level of fucked up I had stupidly never considered. They wanted tobreedme like an animal to their God of Death in hopes that our children would also have power? I sucked in a breath through my nose, trying to keep from being sick.
“No,” I choked out. “Fuck, no.”
He made a disapproving sound through his teeth. “It has been written.”
“Bywho?”
“By the High Priestess.”
