When Nelle Wychthorn was forced to sign herself away in marriage, she should have read the contract's fine print. Because she signs not with ink, but with blood. And that changes everything.
Season 1 'Of Crows and Thorns'
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Fiery Nelle, the isolat...
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No one—and I fucking meant no one—got a jump on me.
Except they have—idiot.
I'd been so bewildered by the fact that Wychthorn had befriended the Uzrek—actually found the beast without getting herself devoured by him—I'd been deaf and blind to the fact someone else was hunting us.
My mind instantly speared back to the meeting with Sirro last night regarding the attack on our convoy of stolen souls. There hadn't been any trace of the enemy left behind, and clever Wychthorn had deduced how they'd managed to do it—by swifting.
I knew deep in my bones that these were the same ones who'd set our truck alight and burned all those stolen souls alive with wildfyre.
Whoever the fuck they were—and I didn't care—they were in for a world of pain. I was going to litter the Uzrek's nest with the dead.
It was pitch-black but for Wychthorn's flashlight illuminating a sliver of the cavern. But I could see. Nine...no, twelve...Fuck, now there were fifteen of them swifting in. They blocked the entrance to the cavern as well as the tunnel the Uzrek had disappeared into. They were tall, much taller than me, and wearing masks. Papier mâché creations, no slits for eyes, just creepy macabre faces. They were clothed in flowing robes of ivory and carried blades, but the cluster near the entrance hoisted crossbows, taking aim—
Shit, shit, shit—
Bolts flew fast.
I lunged to the side and threw myself into a roll before flipping to my feet. A thudding sound, followed by stone breaking, erupted right where I'd stood only a moment ago.
Three swifted in, right in front of me. The long reach of their swords gave them the advantage.
It was a dance, a flurry of movement, a clash of steel.
My boots smashed into kneecaps, fists into masked faces, elbows into guts.
But it felt wrong. Not forgiving like flesh and bone. This felt hard like iron, yet strangely papery thin. Because nothing living can swift.
Two more joined the three.
The fuckers began to swift, avoiding my strikes, my blows.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I threw my senses outward, listening and feeling for the tell-tale suck of air just before they swifted and reappeared. I pushed myself harder, faster, a blur of speed, more violent than a katabatic wind sweeping down a jagged mountain slope. Dodging every slice and thrust, as they worked together to bring me down.
They weren't breathing. Not a pant. Not a gasp for breath behind those strange masks. Not even an exchange between them. But they seemed to know what to do; how to work together.
They were good. Really good. Maybe even better.
Shit. They're better.
Fuck. Why didn't I bring my sword? An array of weapons?
