“Drink!” The Celestial pried my jaw open, ignoring my whimper of pain, and tipped the contents of the vial to the back of my throat.
I sputtered, prepared to spit the liquid out, but she clasped a hand over my mouth and pinched my nostrils, suffocating me. Forcing me to swallow.
The pain began immediately.
It felt as though every bone in my body were being broken, reset, and broken again. The sensation lasted for hours,days, with me screaming until I had no voice left. I clawed at my skin, digging my nails in so deep, I left welts. I vomited and fouled myself.
The Celestial stayed by my side, but her presence offered no comfort. She never spoke or sang lullabies to ease my torment, nor did she offer me a kind touch. She only shoved bits of food and water into my mouth a few times a day, keeping me alive, even as I pleaded for death.
When a second Celestial arrived, eyes alight with fury, I thought I’d been granted my wish.
Instead, I was taken again, forced to endure the dizzying way Celestials travel for the second time.
Black spots swarmed my vision as we landed. A deep, piercing sound filled my ears, making it impossible to hear anything else. The Celestial, a male this time, gently deposited me in a meadow. He said something, although I couldn’t hear anything beyond the shrill noise in my ears. And then he left.
I finished the last dregs of my transformation alone.
Hours later, as the pain ebbed from my bones, I stared at a blue sky. It was still winter, and cold, and the grass had long since turned brown. But a promise of spring teased the air. The sun cast its warmth upon the earth. The breeze smelled of flowers—those that had bloomed early, perhaps hoping the warm days would stay.
I was all alone. Abandoned. And, as I would soon discover, I was no longer human.
4
Creepiest Mofo In The Animal Kingdom
“Oh my God!” I spat the last bit of bile out of my mouth. Bleh. Lesson learned: spicy beef burritos (aka, my lunch)burned like a bitchon the way back up. “I amsosorry,” I wiped the juicy chunks off my chin—eck!“That was disgusting. I didnotmean to do that. But you…you, sir, are a savior and a fucking saint. And—” the words shriveled on my tongue once I got a good look at the man who’d rescued me.
The dude was small, with only a few inches of clearance over me. So he was five-foot-six (or five-seven if he stood on his tip-toes).
He placed a steadying hand on my shoulder (because I was swaying like an intoxicated moron). Which was nice of him, but the gesture gave me an eye-full of the shoulder holster he wore. And the sight almost made me puke again.
He was armed to thefucking teeth.Had to be at least a dozen knives strapped to his torso, if not more. Sheaths wrapped around both of his thighs, each holding hefty hunting blades. He also had two short and stubby swords strapped to his back. And theclothes!He really went the extra mile on this outfit: grungy leather breeches and a blood-stained gray shirt, cinched at the middle with a tooled leather belt.
What anoutlandishgetup.
A high-pitched, nervous laugh tore out of me.
The man said nothing. He took a knife out of his right thigh holster and used it to scrape my vomit off his knee-high boots.
“What is this? ALord of the Ringscosplay?” My mind raced, struggling to find a rational explanation. But he didn’t look like aLord of the Ringscharacter. More like a Viking. All he needed was the fur shawl.
Which still didn’t make sense. Who dressed like this? Who walked around with that many knives? Guns I could’ve accepted. I wouldn’t havelikedto see guns,but at least they were somewhat normal.
And the rest of this guy’s appearance completed the wholeViking Viktorvibe he had going on. His curly brown hair fell to his shoulder blades. He’d at least taken the effort to tie it back in a ponytail, but most of the sweat-slicked and frizzy strands had escaped the strap. His dark, wiry beard was slightly uneven, as though he occasionally chopped the ends off when it got too long, but didn’t tend to it otherwise. A long, pink scar marred his left eye, turning that side of his face down into a permanent scowl. Which was a shame. Because he had gorgeous green eyes…
I squealed when the man abruptly spun around, plucked a teensy dagger from his chest holster, and hurtled it at another oncoming, black-armored rider. He stayed calm—like,“oh, killing monsters? This is a normal Tuesday for me.” And he moved so fluidly, almost like a dancer.
As for me…
“Holy fucking shit!” I screeched when the (now riderless) black horse vroomed by us.
Viking Viktor chucked another knife, catching the animal in the throat. And thegurglingnoise the horse made before it collapsed…
I clutched a hand to my stomach, fighting back a gag.
“Stay here,” Viking Viktor said.
“W-wait—what?”
