Page 56 of Wrongfully Magicked
Real life fucking minotaurs!
I’ve never seen one in the flesh. They look more monster than human. Their shoulders are massive, their fur shaggy and knotted, giving them a ragged appearance. They are easily seven feet tall, their chest and shoulders enormous in order to support their massive bull-like heads.
There are five of them charging us from the side, their snouts flaring as they snort air. The spelled bullets are hitting them, but they just aren’t penetrating their hides. The guys focus on firing at one creature at a time, dousing them in whatever concoctionis coated on the ammunition. When one goes down in a spray of bullets, they shift their focus to the next. They only manage to take out two more, then time runs out.
The minotaurs lower their heads, and I gulp when I see their horns are longer than my damn arm. Soren curses, then tucks me against his chest and hunches over me. Cassius turns away from the window, wrapping himself around me and cutting off my view.
Then there is no more time to think when metal shrieks and crunches, and we go flying. The vehicle tips, then rolls over and over, only to slam into a tree so hard, the roof crumples with a boom and metal curves around the trunk like a banana.
The impact is enough to yank the oxygen from my lungs, and the seat belt feels like it’s trying to cut me in half. Both men grunt and jolt. A rumble fills Soren’s chest, while Cassius hisses, and I suspect they each took damage from the crash.
The silence is loud…or maybe the ringing in my ears covers the sounds of the outside world. I blink, and I see my surroundings in snapshots.
Blink.
The guys are gone.
Blink.
The sounds of fighting echo outside the truck.
Blink.
Someone grabs my hair, then yanks it hard enough to jerk me out of the truck. The only thing keeping me from being taken is the seat belt.
Time seems to speed up, but I’m still slow, and I can do nothing when sharp claws slash downward, slicing through the belt and my flesh with one swipe.
I don’t even have time to hiss in pain when the grip in my hair tightens and I’m dragged from the vehicle. My fire stirs to life, the embers heating, but the flames are muted. I’ll be able to lightone or two people up, turn them into a walking BBQ, but then I’ll be so weak, I’ll pass out.
I don’t care about myself, but I have no control right now. The thought of hurting one of the men has me hesitating, and I make the decision to conserve my powers.
I reach up to claw at the hand tangled in my hair, and I realize I’m still holding the taser. I lift the stick and press it between the asshole’s legs, not even flinching at the notion that I might be shocked as well since he’s holding onto me. The mental image of his balls swelling to the size of grapefruits makes me smile, and I press the rod even harder against his undercarriage.
The fucker bellows, and I take great pleasure in watching the dickhead curl up like a spider that has rolled over and died.
Fun fact—secondhand tasering isn’t a thing.
Bonus!
I crawl away from his withering form, and I’m left gaping at what remains of the truck. The side of the vehicle is torn open, the minotaurs’ horns peeling it open like a fucking can opener. Cassius has his back to me, and I wince when I see his upper shoulder is fileted open, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side.
Blood stains his shirt, his glasses are gone, but none of that slows him down much. He’s fighting with a grim determination against two…hyenas? They are in beastling form, small humans with fur that makes their complexion look like they have mange. They have furry ears, a small black nose, and beady little eyes so black, they look soulless.
Three others are scattered on the ground around him. Two look like stone statues, and the last one twitches as it looks like his body is eating itself from the inside out.
Basilisk.
The myths are true. He must be incredibly strong to have both powers available to him. Instead of being afraid, my grinturns vicious. He’s holding his own, so I stagger to my feet and see Darby fighting something that looks like an ostrich in man form.
That shit is just messed up!
The attacker is extremely tall, his body stretched obscenely long, and his face is oddly shaped with brown, furry feathers instead of hair. They stick up this way and that, covering his entire head, giving him the impression that he’s wearing a bad rubber mask. His eyes are wide and too big for his face, while his nose and mouth are elongated into a beak. Deadly three-inch claws tip his fingers. The beastling doesn’t hesitate to slash with his hands or lunge forward to peck at his prey.
Darby has a gash on his forehead from when he hit the dash when we rolled, and he has a deep cut sliced through his arm, the doorpost the only thing that kept a minotaur’s horns from doing more damage. Claw marks dot his torso where he wasn’t able to get out of the way in time, and nasty bruises run up and down his arms where the man’s—ostrich’s?—beak nipped at him, as if trying to rip off his skin. Darby dances around the man on light feet, holding his own, so I focus on the others.
When I don’t see Porter or Soren, my chest tightens in panic.
I stagger toward the truck and see Porter basically ghosting in and out of existence, using his shadows. Any time someone tries to take him down, he dissolves, only to reappear behind them and beat the shit out of them.
