Page 141 of Fires of the Forsaken
My heart felt as though it were being squeezed with an invisible fist.
Byron withdrew his hand as I found the breath to scream.
I slumped in my shackles, my muscles aching, my soul sore and battered.
Byron panted as heavily as I, but he smiled merrily. “Are you sure you’d prefer to stay here?”
I said nothing. My voice had abandoned me.
I didn’t understand then what he had done; how he had induced such a hysteria within me. It wasn’t until years later that I learned what he was, and had a name to accompany his powers.
Manipulator. A hybrid able to control the emotions of others. Byron could make me experience happiness, peace, fear, anger, hate, love, or anything else he wished me to feel.
Until my creation, Manipulators were considered the rarest hybrids. Only two were made. And their power wreaked havoc upon their minds.
In making me experience such a high level of anxiety, Byron had brought the same fear upon himself.His face paled as he drew a flask from his belt. His hands shook so violently, he had difficulty drinking. Indeed, it took him several tries to remove the cork, and he spilled some of the red wine down his front.
But it seemed he had developed a perverse love for darker emotions. Despite his trembling, he looked full of life and vigor. Whereas I was so feeble, my restraints were the only things keeping me upright.
Byron pushed the cork back into his flask. “Whenever you change your mind, you only need to say so.” He stepped toward me again.
I tried to draw back, but I could go nowhere. My head struck the wall.
Byron laughed. “In the meantime, you and I will get to know each other quite intimately.” He pressed his fingers to my temple. This time it was not fear he forced me to experience, but pain. Specifically, the agony of sorrow, of a broken heart.
And, even as I screamed and cried and thrashed against my bindings, I couldn’t help thinking: perhaps this was what I deserved.
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“The fuck?”
Barely ten minutes after I’d laid down, I sat bolt upright again, scrubbing tears from my cheeks. A god-awful squealing noise pierced the air. Sounded like a pig being slaughtered.
Beneath me, Cheriour flinched.
There were hoofbeats now. Lots of ‘em, accompanied by the distinctmowowof a Púca.
Well, this was fantastic, wasn’t it? We were sitting ducks, and about to be turned into Duck à l'Orange.
Cheriour’s palm brushed against my back. “Where is your poleaxe?”
I got to my feet, trying to remember where I’d left it.
Oh…haha. It was still leaning against the tree. Easily a dozen feet away. Because why did I need to keep a weapon close while living in this super peaceful world?
I turned back to Cheriour, who gave me an exasperated look and hissed, “Hide. But take your poleaxe with you.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I said through gritted teeth as I moved toward my poleaxe.
And then I let out a bellowing, “Holy shit!”when a burly black body burst through the trees, its red eyes flashing.
A Púca.
MyPúca. I knew those eyes well now.
The Púca squealed, kicking up its back feet as it came to a halt at the end of the clearing.
