But it’s the power within it, the charge of magic, that truly triggers my fear.
Blood rain.It makes sight difficult and weighs heavily across my back and shoulders.
I fight against it, throwing myself forward into danger.
Malak moves fast, his hands and arms swaying through the liquid, sending chain after chain at me as I dodge each one to make it closer to him.
I’m only five paces away when he drops to the ground and flicks his hand through the puddle at his feet.
A cascade of what looks like red icicles pours toward me, each spoke sharp and deadly.
But by crouching, he has paused in one place for a moment too long and what’s more, he’s now backed up close to the courtyard wall.
The cascade of bloody spikes arcs toward me in a spiral and with my quick reflexes, I identify the clear spot right in front of Malak.
My leg muscles bunch before I leap toward him, clearing the top of the spikes, my makeshift dagger raised as I fly through the air.
His eyes widen—he must know I’m about to land right in front of him—and he rushes to get back to his feet while at the same time, his left hand swishes through the rain and pulls the wash across his body. The crimson liquid solidifies like bloody armor around his form.
It can’t protect him from me.
I punch my free hand into his armored chest, using the full momentum of my jump to knock him back against the courtyard wall.
I don’t stop, following him there, ramming my left shoulder into his chest before his body can rebound off the stone.
I’m now facing his left arm and it only takes me a split second to focus on the power that streams from his left palm—the power that gives him strength and speed and the ability to kill me.
He’s already whipping his arm toward me, his powered hand closing in.
I’ve put myself in the most dangerous position possibly and if he touches me with his power, it will be my end.
But I know my prey.
I push hard into his chest with my shoulder and catch his left forearm with my left hand, my fingers so strong that his bones break beneath them.
He screams, roaring unintelligible words, as if he’s trying to command me to turn to stone and ash and dirt and blood, and for the smallest moment, deep fear floods his face, draining it of color.
With my right hand, I swing my makeshift dagger, a blade made from his own metal, and slice through his wrist, tearing through sinew and bone.
Let Erik do the cutting.
A trail of blood remains on the wall behind him, quickly washed away in a final splatter of rain.
His severed hand falls to the sodden ground and his knees buckle so fast that I’m now holding him up.
“My power,” he gasps, his dark eyes instantly dull, his skin no longer luminously white. “Where is my power?”
As I continue to pin him to the wall with my shoulder, I consider the dullness of his skin and then the hand I cut from him.
How fucking simple.
I growl at him, letting Skirra’s visceral impulses take over. “I will not kill you quickly. You must have trained the guards well to ignore all screams from this castle, but you will regret that now.”
I step back from him, allowing him to fall to the ground where he clutches his arm.
He roars at me, but his power is gone.
Nearby, the spikes that were formed from rain suddenly melt and flow back to the ground. The metal spokes he created remain.
