Page 1 of Escaping Hallow Hill Academy
Chapter One
“Sing for me.” A laugh follows my words as my newest victim squirms beneath my heeled boot. Blood gushes around the sole, and I dig it further into his neck. He doesn’t realize his struggles only fuel my spells even more.
A gurgled attempt at what I think might be a Britney Spears song gasps from his lips, and I just cannot believe the embarrassing lengths people will go to in order to keep their lives.
I smirk at the garbled syllables. He has no idea who the fuck I am.
I am the last of the Sekar. Witches of the night, worshipers of darkness and death.
Funny, then, that my name means “light.”
The irony isn’t lost on me when not a sliver of light lives inside my body or thrums through my veins. The brightness illuminates every inky line carved into my skin from the Goddess herself.
That’s what happens when you kill people for a living, I suppose. Bathing in the blood and blackened souls of enemies has stained my skin. Others would scratch at their arms with soap and water because they couldn’t stand the taint of their own wicked nature.
Me?
I fucking love it.
Or at least I’ve learned to live with it.
There’s only so often you can feel regret for the souls you’ve taken. After those first few, the guilt slowly fades away, and you learn to embrace the violence you’re meant to wreak. Sometimes, it really is kill or be killed. And I’ll never die a weak death.
I’ll also never feel safe.
Financially safe, maybe. I’m a hired assassin, and my name is whispered around this city like a prayer. Desperate people love me. Power hungry people . . . they’re a different story. I know firsthand that being rare also means being hunted. So I kill, and I don’t think twice about it.
I’d be lying if I said I did it solely for the money, though. I’ve learned to love a bit of wickedness. Learned to love the sound of the dying.
It’s like music to my ears.
Wet fingers grasp for my black boot and squeeze, slippery and demanding. I tsk-tsk and jerk my foot away.
“That’s going to leave a stain, and I didn’t even bring my Tide pen, Jeffrey,” I complain, looking down at my favorite leather boots while my victim scrambles away from me.
I let him go. I let his broken, bleeding fingernails drag him across the asphalt as he tries so damn hard to flee from me.
It’s cute, really. Cute but obnoxious.
This always used to be the fun part of the hunt. Now, I’m just annoyed. Still, it’s my nature to allow him a bit of a head start, at least.
I shake the dripping blood from my shoe and count to ten. Slowly, my fingers close around the black hilt of my moonlit silver sword, and I unsheathe it from my waist.
I catch a glimpse of my tan complexion on the runed blade. One of the runes spells my blade’s name. Damios. Tattoos of ancient symbols glow in golden colors across my features from the scrawling marks etched along my arms. The pretty hue dances through black eyes that are consumed with as much darkness as the heart beating in my chest, and even darker wisps of hair stray against my cheeks.
I shove the strands away with a touch of impatience before I stalk after my victim in confident strides.
The clack of my heeled boot against the ground makes him scream. The sound of his fear scuttles over brick and echoes into the night.
His adorable attempt at some kind of last call for help shouldn’t make me smile.
I shouldn’t relish in his fear.
And yet, I do.
I pick up speed, whispering a quick spell against the wind to gift me with fleeted feet. I somersault through the air, landing in a crouch in front of his dragging body.
His screams cut short as I stand, placing the blade against his throat. My sword hums and sings with the promise of a new soul, of death.
