Page 92 of Howling
Geoffrey stands at the base of the church, his twisted scowl full of hatred as he glares at the shifters. “Take them down,” he orders his men, dismissing the males as irrelevant and focusing his attention on me.
The goon with the scar across his face steps forward, his arm pulls back, and his whip uncoils like a snake ready to strike. A large crack echoes across the clearing, and the thin leather rope latches around the neck of an unfamiliar townsperson, dragging the poor soul forward.
It doesn’t take long for goon number two to step forward and snap his neck, the crack of bone loud in the silence. Then chaos spills through the town as the two opposite forces surge forward and collide. One vampire darts out of the recesses of the chapel, snatches a man from the back of the crowd, then drags him into the darkness.
A scream can be heard, quickly muffled and replaced by the juicy sound of feeding.
Another two vampires dash out of their hiding places from nearby buildings, tearing into the necks of Geoffrey’s little army. They’re already bloody, the three of them having obviously started the fight early.
Blood spills down their chests as they feed, their fangs tearing out their tormentors’ throats as they viciously take their vengeance. Though smoke rises lightly from their skin, they don’t burn, thanks to the spells wrapped around them. The sunstill has to hurt like a bitch, but they don’t complain, jumping from shadow to shadow as they pick off their prey one by one.
Leaving them to do their jobs, I focus on mine—killing Geoffrey.
A red globe appears around him, one I instinctively recognize as a shield, and I gape in shock. As Givvens predicted, my abilities are growing. While I can normally sense magic, today is the first time I can see it. My eyes throb under the strain, but I grit my teeth and endure the slowly building pain, refusing to release my hold until the fucker is dead.
Only strict training and pure stubbornness keep me moving. The smirk he tries to repress tells me I’m doing exactly what he wants. Magic slowly floats toward him, drawing faster and faster until it swirls like a tornado.
A mix of black and red rises from Geoffrey—the beginnings of a dark curse. The closer I am to the man, the more I can see the madness tainting his soul. It writhes around him like a frenzied cloud of insects, feeding off him.
I’m so repulsed that my steps almost falter.
Magic eddies around me, the sense of urgency increasing, and I lengthen my stride, determined to reach him before he can cast it. Instinct warns me that if he releases that spell, none of us will be the same again.
Reaching out, I shove my hand into the raw magic swirling through the air, and it feels like I've stuck my arm into the blades of a lawnmower. I stumble over my own feet, and my knees slam to the ground with enough force to jar my bones. I catch myself, my free hand landing hard in the grass.
“Force it into the ground.” Isobel stands next to me, throwing spells right and left as the guards fight their way toward us. She’s keeping them off me for the most part, but they are edging their way ever closer.
A few of the old coven are fighting with her, but not enough.
The battle is brutal and bloody, my guys never venturing far. They don’t give a fuck about who wins. They only care about keeping me safe.
The least I can do is the same.
If I can’t stop Geoffrey, we’re all dead.
Claws slice through the tips of my fingers, and I sink them deep into the earth. The contact feels like completing a circuit. The pressure threatening to crush me vanishes, and I concentrate on forcing more of the energy directly into the ground without absorbing any of it.
Geoffrey snarls in rage when the magic is diverted, his spell sputtering, forming an ominous dark cloud around him. His healthy complexion pales, his facial features slowly withering, his skin aging dramatically. Wrinkles soon sag his whole countenance, and greenish liver spots form over his body.
Or I thought they were liver spots…until they slowly grow larger and larger.
Instead of spots, large holes begin forming in his flesh, and I realize that he’s actually fucking rotting from the inside out. It’s like watching him decay in real time. His hair thins before receding, and his face stretches alarmingly before it starts to fucking slide off his face.
The fighting around us slows as they stumble away from the walking disease. More than a few of his men abandon him, and I scowl when I see the goon with the whip slip behind the church and disappear.
As much as I want him dead, I can’t afford to split my focus.
The second I waver, parts of Geoffrey’s body repair themselves, and I double down on my efforts. The decomposition increases with each second, blood and pus dripping from his wounds. The stench of decay is so strong that I have to swallow back my bile. Bits of tendons and bone shimmerunderneath his paper-thin skin, yet he still refuses to loosen his hold on the spell he’s trying to cast.
Since I’m diverting the magic floating in the air, he’s consuming the spells that are keeping him alive, burning through them at an alarming rate. The red shield around him flickers and fades, but his whole focus remains on achieving his goal—my demise.
It’s his only hope for survival.
I tighten my hold on the ground, pulling harder on the magic in the air until it fades completely, stealing everyone’s access to it. Instead of forfeiting, the fight around me turns physical. A few people surrender and a couple more flat-out run away, leaving enough remaining that the city streets look like an all-out brawl.
My men tighten their circle around me, keeping everyone away with their fangs and claws. Tyler darts in and out of the fight, ruthlessly destroying anyone who wanders too close. Bellamy methodically destroys one opponent after another. Dante is nearly as efficient, but he’s more brutal in his destruction. Though every inch of him is drenched in blood, the psychopath is smiling, like he’s having the time of his life.
Garth remains in his beast form, killing anything that dares to even look at me. His muzzle is matted with blood, his ears pressed flat against his skull, a continuous snarl rumbling from his chest. I would say that he’s lost to his rage, but he’s very careful never to venture more than a foot from my side. When anyone attempts to lure him away, he disengages from the fight and circles me, hunting for his next kill.
