"I would know it in any world, any life, any form, anywhere in time and space. I would die for these lavender eyes to glitter with warmth - anytime, anywhere."
His words constrict around my heart like golden barbs. The beauty of them excruciating.
...
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There is only one term that encompasses the magnitude of what is happening here - blood-bath. Very literally. Because now Elle's healing influence that webs over every wolf through the pack link combined with the sheer amounts of rue in our bloodstream has rendered magic almost entirely useless.
The thick of the battle is, therefore, merciless shooting or outright physical combat. We are yet to lose a single life on our side and while that elates a part of me, another part of me is terrified.
Because I'm seeing the way wounds are healing almost even before they start oozing blood, how actual bullets are being pushed out of wounds as the muscles and sinew and skin stitch themselves back together. It is almost like watching the entire pack become what we thought Ashton to be for the duration of one battle.
Healing at an unnatural pace - almost as if never affected by weapons to begin with. My sister's powers astound me even as I shoot and dodge and deal blades and snap necks.
Many of the wolves have already shifted and they are painting the streets and grass and trees red, alike. It was like a continuous spillage of liquid ruby onto the surroundings, the air filling with the salty, irony scent of blood as lives are lost underneath canines and claws.
However, it is the thought of my sister that truly terrifies me. Her presence in the packmind is of silent guardianship - her magic so strong, so all-consuming and so essential that every single one of us subconsciously cling to her silent, steady presence. It's like a beautiful symmetry to Ashton's role.
Because while Elle is silent and healing and everywhere, Ashton is also everywhere. But while Elle is the air calm that we're all gasping in, Ashton is a hurricane. He's a storm that is wrecking everything on its path.
I just here a warning snarl in my head before I stop shooting the volley of bullets that fly through atleast a dozen witches - males and females alike , and turn around. A male witch - maybe a warlock is the right term for it - had two guns raised and poised my way. This sneaking-up-from-behind thing has happened quite a few times and every time I've snapped their neck or shot them or flung a blade at them before they could shoot - the magic that they rely on to render us powerless now nothing under Elle's powers - with their regular human speeds.
This war could've been won before it even begun - if not for the witches' stupid idea about channelling, that my sister thwarted at the very start itself, and their every more daft assumption that after everything she has been through, Elle would be rendered useless as a moonwolf.
They forget that four years back, she had been yet to shift.
And that, my sister is strong as fuck.
The two guns are both knocked out of the warlock's - or-whatever-he-is-called - hands and a hand plunges through his chest. His mouth is left open as blood gushes out of it. He drops to the ground as Ashton emerges from behind him.
