Page 37 of Vines of the Underworld

I’m pretty fit, and all the running and exercise are paying off, yet I have zero experience with swords or any martial arts. But how difficult could it be? You just have to stick the pointy end into those trying to harm you.

What I am not prepared for is their speed. And strength. And their sneaky attack from behind.

My shoulder blade explodes in a cacophony of pain when long claws dig into my skin. I fly toward the rough stone floor and hit it hard, instinctively softening the fall with my hands. It sends my blade flying, and it lands with a clang at least two feet away.

The stench and the agony from my torn skin fill my eyes with tears that I blink away.

It's on my back. Oh my God, I feel its deadweight hanging on me, sharp teeth sinking deeper into my flesh. I wiggle in the ice-cold bony grip of the creature, turn around, and kick at its lower torso with all the strength of my legs. The maneuver makes me face it for a split second before my kick tumbles it off me. I waste no time pondering if what I have just seen in the cold fairy light is real or some twisted, Walking Dead requisition brought to life by evil spellwork.

Its eyes are milky white, its flesh peeling in ribbons, displaying bones and dark innards. Rags hang from its sinewy limbs, and unnaturally long hair strands hint that long ago, it was female. Surprisingly fast, though, it's back on its feet, preparing to leap on me again. My blood pools on the masonry of the ancient floor, driving the creature into a frenzy. The wound already feels hot, pulsating with some terrible infection.

It pounces at me, claws out, just at the instant I roll to the left, and my fingers close around the soothing coolness of the sword handle.

"Mindless beasts lost in bloodlust," I remember the Dreadful One's words. Indeed, the abomination is crawling, licking my blood from the stone tiles; its smacking mixes with the repulsive sniffing of the two holes on its rotting face.

Soundlessly, I leap to my feet and sneak toward the massive pillars holding the dome. I shudder at the thought that more might lurk in the gloom beyond. My retreat catches the attention of the monstrosity, and it turns to face me. I press my back against the cold stone of the pillar and lower my blade. With my left hand, I smear some of the blood trickling from my back over my face and chest.

A menacing rumble escapes the beast, and it bares its black, rotten incisors in something resembling a smile. Frenzied by the blood all over me, it leaps toward me, confident that I have nowhere to escape.

Timing is key.

I raise my blade and point it at its heart at the exact moment before it reaches me. A sickening crunch and a moist whoosh confirm that I got it. Its jaws click powerlessly just an inch from my face, and I kick the convulsing body with disgust. It lands on the floor, pulling itself free from the sword. I lift the heavy blade, smeared with thick black ichor, and aim for its throat. My cry of terror and triumph lingers in the vault when I severe the zombie's head, dark blood and reeking viscera splashing over the stone floor. Then I drop the sword, and the adrenaline rush subsides. The pain from my torn skin burns me, and rivulets of scarlet run down my legs. No magical explosions, no warm, glowing skin. My captor's theory was wrong. Fear doesn't unleash my powers.

I lose balance and stumble into a firm, but warm embrace.

"Still no trace of your magic," he murmurs, and the pain fades.

I wake up on that dreaded straw mattress, perceiving his presence beyond the metal bars.

How long has he been watching me? My injuries are gone as if they were never there. Has the Dreadful One tended to my wounds? Or was it all just an illusion, some twisted nightmare? I throw myself over the flavorful cheese and fresh bread that await me, leaving these questions for later.

The rusty hinges creak, and there he is, his presence crowding my cell. The shadow of his powerful wings contours his sharp profile when he looks down at me. My tormentor is cruel and unpredictable, but he looks... annoyingly perfect.

"I must admit I’m impressed, Celeste," he says softly, handing me folded fabric.

It's a clean cotton dress, simple but practical.

"This human resilience, the way you clutch to life, it never ceases to amaze me. Put it on. It's time for our next experiment."

I blink at him incredulously. Does he expect me to change before him? I stare at him, furious, and he gets the hint. Yet he crosses his arms stubbornly and looks down at me. Fine. He’s seen all of it anyway.

I slip out of my dress's tattered, stained remains and stand before the fern flicker of his eyes. His jawline tightens, and his massive arms tense up as if he’s keeping himself in check. I throw the fresh dress over my head, wondering the reason for the sudden heat between my thighs.

He's at the door when my face emerges from the neck opening.

"Follow me, Celeste. We have work to do."

I blink twice to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. On his knees in the throne room, wrists bound behind his back, is Cyrell. His shirt is torn and bloodied, exposing the swell of his mighty pecs. A wound gapes on his cheekbone. He doesn’t look defeated but stares the Dreadful One defiantly in the eye.

The demon prince studies my reaction, a predatory spark in the sage green depths of his gaze. I retreat a step, only to feel his rough grip on my forearm. He suddenly produces a long dagger, its curved tip reflecting the cool glow of the floating wisps.

"Kill him," he commands.

I hold the blade, its weight straining my wrists.

Cyrell's lips are drawn into a thin line, his eyes glued on our tormentor, full of hatred.

"What else to expect from the Prince of Filth…" the dark elf spits on the floor, and I freeze. Challenging this demon right now might not be the wisest thing to do.

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