Connor stands there, that same empty grin on his face. Beside him, Isander materializes from the shadows. And between them, the silver dust on the ground begins to swirl, to rise, to knit itself back together. It re-forms, solidifying into a familiar shape, the curly brown hair, the scar on the jaw. Riona.
Ugh.
My mind scrambles for an option that doesn’t involve being hunted by an ever-growing collection of my dead friends. All I was told to do wassurvive. And in every game, there’s always a way to twist the rules. So why should this one be any different?
I close my eyes, drawing on the deepest, quietest part of my power. I don’t want to expend much magical energy, but now it feels justified. I pull the shadows from the trees, from the ground, from the starless sky, and wrap them around myself as a cloak.
When I open my eyes, the world is muted, gray. Then I turn and run, my footfalls silenced by the magic… a fugitive in a nightmare of my own coven’s making.
I keep running until my lungs are on fire. The forest doesn’t thin out, doesn’t change. It just keeps going. Twenty-two more hours of this. Twenty-two hours of running, hiding, and murdering people I know. Thrilling itinerary.And all to satisfy the whims of some long-dead ancestor who’s probably so twisted and insane he doesn’t even care if we live or die…
At least maybe next time I’ll get acquaintances instead of friends. I’ll even take people I don’t like. I’m flexible.
Anees would be fine. Or Rothmere. Or that Raelle bitch…
Dayn’s still technically on the roster, but somehow he’s slipped a few places down the list. Progress for him, I guess.
An hourly chime, a low, soul-deep thrum, drifts through the forest. Suddenly the trees around me are melting like wax, the ground hardening into cracked cobblestone.
I’m no longer in a forest. I’m in a ruined city, the skeletons of stone buildings clawing at a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The air is cold, smelling of dust and old rot.
I don’t have time to catch my breath. They are already here… this time, not constructs of people I know, but things of pure nightmare. Tall, mostly spindly demons with too many joints and skin like stretched leather, their mouths filled with needle-thin teeth. They screech, a sound that scrapes at the inside of my skull.
Great. So you do mix it up. Just with hell monsters.Points at least for trying something new.
They swarm me. My exhaustion feels real, but I move, my body like a machine of pure muscle memory. I duck, weave, and slash. My blade becomes a blur of silver, severing limbs, cleaving heads. Black ichor splatters across my face and clothes, hot and acrid. Delicious.
They are fast, but at least they’re mindless and unfamiliar.
One of them gets a lucky shot, its claws raking across my ribs. Pain, white-hot and sharp, lances through my side. I grunt, spin, and drive my sword through its chest. It dissolves into dust. I kill the final one, my blade shearing it in half at the waist. It shrieks and vanishes.
I stand there, panting, leaning on my sword as my vision swims. The pain in my side is a fierce, rhythmic pulse. I look down at the dissipating clouds of black dust. One of them, I realize with a jolt, held its shape for a fraction of a second longer than the others. Long enough for me to see a flash of pale hair, of sharp, familiar features frozen in a silent snarl. Chad.
Shit. Sorry, man. But I swear they’re taking creative liberties here, because you don’t look like that in your demon form. You’re half-demon, yes, but also a different breed. Not sure which; I’m no demonology expert.
My stomach twists all the same. I stare at the empty space where his momentary corpse lay, my knuckles white on my sword hilt. Another face to add to the collection. I shove the feeling down, seal it away in the cold box I keep everything in. No room for this now. I have to move.
I push off my sword, straightening with a pained hiss, and turn to find a place to hide before the next wave comes.
And he is there.
Leaning against the crumbling archway of a ruined cathedral, barely ten feet away. Dayn.
27
ESME
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve promised Dayn’s death. But… I wasn’t imagining it like this.
He doesn’t move, just watches me with that piercing, familiar, assessing gaze. His amber eyes, even as constructs, seem to burn with that same molten light. This version is dressed in simple black fatigues that cling to his frame, emphasizing the lean, dangerous power I know so well. He looks solid. Real. And… I loathe to say, utterly devastating.
“Tired, little witch?” he asks, his voice a low, perfect imitation that slides under my skin like a slow poison. A lazy, arrogant smile plays on his lips. “You look a mess. All that stubborn pride is leaving you bleeding in the dirt. A familiar sight.”
I grit my teeth, pushing myself upright, ignoring the sharp protest from my ribs. “Go to hell.”
“I’ve been,” he says, pushing off the archway and beginning to walk toward me, his movements a fluid, predatory saunter. “It’s rather boring. All fire and screaming. No challenge.” He stops just out of my sword’s reach, his gaze dropping to the gashon my side, then back to my face. “But you… you are never boring.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, a traitorous, stupid rhythm. This isn't him. It's a phantom, a weapon designed to wear me down. But my body doesn't seem to care. It remembers his heat, the weight of his hands, the possessive fire in his eyes.
