Page 47 of Fires of the Forsaken
“Wait!”
But the man swung his weapon down. The blade whistled. There was a sickeningthwapas it sliced through the woman's neck.
The woman’s body remained standing, even as her head flopped into the wicker basket. Her torso hit the ground a few seconds later with a strange, contorted spasm.
Holy. Fucking.Shit!
My jaw opened with an audiblepop.
Blood splashed across the woman’s sheets. It had sprayed the man’s face too. He spat out a mouthful and wiped his sleeve over his beard.
Ice whooshed through my veins. There was nothing,nothing, that could’ve prepared me to see a person—an innocent, sick, unarmed woman—murdered in cold blood.
“You—oh, you bastard.” My hands shook as I fumbled through my saddle bags, looking for something,anything, to chuck at the man’s fugly, murderous face.
Where the frick had I put Belanna’s knife?
But then the man turned.
And, okay, he wasnotthe cold-blooded killer type. His eyes were red and teary as he swiped blood off his sword with quivering fingers. “It had to be done, didn’t it?” he sniffled. “She wasn’t going to last much longer, was she?”
I froze.
It had to be done.
This was why Cheriour had pulled me aside to give a warning.“There is no cure.”He knew this was going to happen—he probably gave the order.
Careless words can cut deeper than a blade.
I sank my teeth into my tongue, fighting the angry, hurt, and confused words that were gurgling inside me. The blond man, with his pale and tear-stricken face, didn’t need me bitching at him. He needed a freaking hug.
I started to dismount to do just that, but then the other woman showed up.
She staggered onto the street, vomiting gooey black bile as she walked. Her eyes roamed over the house, resting for a brief second on the headless woman (her sister? Friend? Lover?) but her face showed no emotion. I didn’t know if she recognized the woman or not. Even when she glanced at me, her glazed eyes were empty.There was no shock, fear, anger…nothing.
Zombie eyes.
The woman looked no older than twenty. She was still a girl. A kid.
The blond man sagged when he saw her.
“Don’t!” My voice was a shrill whisper.
He ignored me, raising his sword again.
“It’s alright, Garvin,” came Cheriour’s drawl. He walked behind the woman; his blood-soaked knife already outstretched. “You and Addie can go to the square,” he continued, jerking his head in the direction he’d come from. “I’ll take care of her.”
Garvin let out a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” he mumbled before he booked it down the street, his boots slapping against the cobblestone.
I kept still, too stunned to ask Sacrifice to move.
Cheriour grasped the woman’s shoulders. She didn’t react. Just continued to pan her dead eyes around the houses.
“Don’t,” I squawked. I had a strange bubbling sensation in my chest: unsure if I wanted to cry, scream, or hurl. Or do a combo of all three.
Cheriour paused, his knife poised over the woman’s throat. “I understand,” he said.
“What?”
