Marcus' Prey

Chapter Twelve

But I could not ignore my instincts, and they were screaming at me that this river was wrong. That I should take off in the opposite direction and never stop. That I should most definitely not cross the imposing body of water. I had a feeling that knowing how to swim would be of little help when it came to crossing this particular river.

And yet I had no choice. The terrible war cries were almost upon me now, and I did not want to meet the owner of those screams.

But before I could attempt a crossing, a line of fire wrapped around my ankle, tugging sharply and sending me hurtling towards the unforgiving ground. Moving swiftly, I caught myself with my hands, grimacing at the resulting strain on my wrists. Risking a quick glance back, I grit my teeth when I saw the end of a whip clasped firmly around me, and on the other end...a winged, demonic woman hovered, gripping the handle with a grotesquely clawed hand. The thing holding my ankle tugged upwards, grinning. With a cry of my own, I kicked out, jerking the creature on the end of it towards me. Even with my limited strength, I was able to catch her off guard and send her careening toward the dirt.

I unsheathed a dagger from my high-tops and slashed out at the whip, but the material wasn't natural and refused to sever. With a cry of frustration, I cast a glance towards the winged woman, who was just regaining her feet. Steeling myself for what I knew must be done, I sent my blade through the air, taking her through the throat—just as I'd intended. She gurgled out a final shriek as black blood bubbled up through her throat and out her mouth and nose. I looked on passively as she gagged and sputtered. I'd seen the throes of death often enough that it no longer touched me. And her death would not be easy. Contrary to popular belief, dying by throat injury was not a swift death. It was slow, it was painful, filled with panic the whole way through.

My father had loved to kill his enemies that way. I hated that even after all this time, his teachings were so deeply ingrained that I continued to follow them without hesitation.

Finally, glassy eyed with lips and chin stained with her lifeblood, the woman slumped to the ground and went still, her wounds still bleeding sluggishly. With a sigh of regret and self-disgust, I regained my feet, gripping the upper part of the whip. After a moment of fidgeting with it, I grimaced, took hold of the length of whip closest to my ankle, and yanked. Hard.

I grit my teeth to hold in my cry of agony when, as I'd feared, the whip's barbs took chunks of my flesh with it before disengaging. My ankle bone was startlingly white against the pinkness of muscle never meant to see the outside of my body. Red blood—a thing that had repulsed my father whenever he'd caught a glimpse of it, which had been often—flowed steady and warm down my ankle, soaking my socks and turning my once pristine white shoes a morbid scarlet. I bit my lip, stupid tears welling in my eyes when I realized that I'd never get the stain out.

But I couldn't cry now. There were more important things to focus on.

Tossing the whip away, still gripping tattered bits of my skin and muscle, I limped slightly forward to retrieve my dagger from the woman's throat. Black blood burbled up when the blade was removed, and I frowned when the dark liquid splattered up and stained my pretty pink sweater. Since it was already ruined, I wiped the remaining blood from my blade with it.

I surveyed my surroundings, pondering my next move. When I'd been backed against a metaphorical wall, I'd been ready to cross that river, but when I had the power of choice...

I wasn't going anywhere near that water anytime soon.

But, I reasoned, it was a good landmark. The rest of this realm was so featureless and bleak that it would be all too easy to get turned around. Following the river was as good an idea as any, no matter how much it ruffled my feathers.