Page 133 of Samhain Savior
Malachi eyed Corson, running his fist under his nose to wipe away the blood. I could see the hesitation, the fear that underscored his bravado. Bullies like him were always more bluster than sense. A smart man would have backed down.
A smart man wouldn’t have slapped the woman to begin with, but Malachi, apparently, wasn’t very smart.
Turning his head, he tossed the gun aside and spat a glob of blood onto the grass, then lifted his chin as he met Corson in the clearing.
“You’re on, you demon bastard. I’m sure someone will pay good money for your tattered corpse.Fortis!” He shouted the word, one of the rune tattoos on the back of his fist suddenly glowing with the command as he swung for Corson’s face.
For his part, Corson didn’t move, taking the hit square in the jaw, allowing Malachi a gloating smile as he shook out his magically enhanced fist and squared up again.
Beside me, Delilah stiffened, and through the bond, I sensed her desire to intervene, to protect both Corson and the fool who dared to challenge him.
“Peace, my witch,” I murmured, curling her into me and holding her close. “You must allow this to happen.”
She shook her head, clearly reluctant to do as I’d asked, but didn’t protest further.
“Augendae vires!” This time, the runes on both of Malachi’s arms began to glow, the magical tattoos that ran from his hands to his elbows lighting up the night with their unearthly blue radiance. He came at Corson, swinging first one, then the other fist, connecting firmly both times. Corson absorbed both hits, his body held tight as his feet slid backward, leaving muddy divots in the grass. Hit after hit, Malachi swung, his spelled fists striking Corson on the face and body over and over, but never once did Corson defend himself.
After dozens of hits, Malachi, exhausted and gasping for breath, released the spell, letting his arms dangle uselessly at his sides as he stared at Corson, who only grinned, his blood-filled smile like something out of the darkest corners of Hell.
“Is that all you have?” Corson asked, his voice low. “You honestly thought that you, a mediocre witch—an unscrupulous, devious prick who abandoned your coven and its principles—could best me?”
Taking one slow step forward, Corson advanced on Malachi, his brows drawn down over eyes that glowed a deep, angry yellow.
“You thought your tricks and spells would be enough to takemedown?” Corson let out a laugh that was pure malice. “I stood when the walls of Jericho fell. I have battled on the muddy banks of the River Styx, choking on slime, fighting for breath against the most Wrathful men in the history of existence. I have fought in battles that you’ve never heard of, and I will fight in many more in the eons to come. But you?” He paused, eyeing Malachi with grim amusement. “You have just fought in your last.”
With that, Corson drew back one heavy fist and delivered a punch directly to Malachi’s chest. The sound of ribs shattering was enough to turn even the toughest of stomachs, and while Delilah flinched, she did not look away. Through the bond, I could feel her revulsion, my sweet mate so reluctant to see anyone come to harm.
If only I could protect her from the reality that she would face having me as her mate.
Corson struck Malachi again, and this time, his whole fist entering the witch’s chest cavity, and the tattooed witch offered a grunt of stunned surprise before Corson twisted his arm and pulled, removing Malachi’s still beating heart from his body.
Orla screamed, covering her face as Malachi’s body dropped to the grass with a resounding thud, still and sightless, the hole in his chest steaming lightly in the cool night air.
“Still hungry?” Corson asked Vine, holding up the heart.
“Nah.” Vine shook his head, his lip curling. “No fishy witches, remember?”
With a careless shrug, Corson tossed the pulpy mess over his shoulder where it was immediately consumed by my shadows.
Moving toward us, Corson stopped before Delilah, his gaze taking in her blood soaked hands before he dipped his chin in a show of respect.
“Not bad for a liability, hey?” she teased, her smile shaky.
“Not bad at all,” he returned, then took up a place on her other side.
“Do the rest of you have anything else to say?” Mex called, glaring at the remaining witches. Orla shook her head, her miserable sniffling the only thing she offered.The other two were just as useless, one cradling his ruined arm to his chest, the other just staring at the body of their former leader. “Because I have had just about enough of this shit in my city tonight.”
“I have something to say,” came the soft, lilting voice of Genevieve. We watched as the Vampire Queen wiped her tears and climbed to her feet, her crimson gown ragged and torn, but her chin high as she moved away from her captors and came to stand before me. Even bloodied, she carried herself like Versailles incarnate, every inch of her posture proclaiming she was born to command.
She swept her gaze over our group, looking at each of us in turn. Vine with his manic grin, Corson still slick with blood and brimming with Wrath. Her silent judgment took in Mex, bristling with fury and Mal, still looming in silent observation. Her gaze drifted to Delilah, to her hands still faintly glowing with magic and crusted with blood.
At last, her eyes found mine, cool and imperious, though I could see the tremor she tried to hide in the set of her mouth.
“Great Marquis Leraje,” she said formally, inclining her head the barest amount. “It seems I have misjudged you.” Vine choked out a laugh, and Genevieve pursed her lips, but didn’t acknowledge him. “You came to my home ingood faith, and I responded with scorn and callousness. For that I am—” she paused, her throat tight as each syllable dragged over her tongue like broken glass. “Sorry.”
“You threatened the life of my mate,” I ground out, noting the way that Genevieve licked her dry lips, though she didn’t lower her gaze. “I should remove your fangs before I remove your head.”
“Oui. That was regrettable,” was all she offered.
