Page 120 of Stealing Embers

A hot knife sinks deep into the soft spot between my spinal cord and shoulder blades. It slices downward, splitting the flesh and allowing my warm blood to run free.

The pain brings me to my knees.

I land hard, cracking bone against stone, but the sting from my fall is nothing compared to the sizzling magma racing up and down the ridges of my vertebrae.

The knife pierces me a second time and drags an agonizing trail of fire down the other side of my spine. The smell of char fills the air, and I realize the clothes are being burned from my back.

My neck cranes at a seemingly impossible angle. The back of my head skims the space between my shoulder blades and my mouth opens in a silent shriek.

The agony comes to a sudden stop when matching razors punch out of either side of my spine and my golden wings flare wide.

I’m still wearing my regular clothes—no gilded-corseted armor—just the remains of my sweater, undershirt, and coat. Only an inch of fabric wrapped around my waist keeps the top covering in place.

I spot the twins, now standing and staring at me with wide eyes.

Unfolding my body to my full height, what has happened finally hits me.

My wings appeared, but I’m still in the mortal realm.

That’s not . . . It’s not possible.

No time to ponder the impossibility of what’s happened; I have a job to do.

To my left, Steel battles a Forsaken. He’s dumped the ugly lumberjack coat and is fighting in his long-sleeved shirt and jeans.

A trio of angry scratches runs down his face from forehead to chin. They weep a steady stream of blood and he’s favoring his right side, but he’s doing awesome. He managed to actually rip an arm off one of the beefy Forsaken.

Nice.

The bloody stump left behind drips an oily black substance, but the creature is coming at Steel like it has two good arms instead of just one.

The other Forsaken is slumped up against the cavern wall. I’m not even sure if it’s still alive.

I search the ground for a weapon, but can’t find anything. There isn’t even a large rock to use for clobbering.

Steel and the Forsaken are battling each other in hand-to-hand combat.

Running to join the fray, I leap on the back of the one-armed Forsaken. Wrapping my forearm around its neck, I yank back.

My wings aren’t light, so my weight throws the monster off balance. It backpedals a few steps, waving its remaining arm and arm stump in the air to steady itself.

Steel delivers a front kick to its gut, sending it crashing to the ground . . . with me still attached to its back.

Ouch.

Using my wings like an extra pair of arms, I push off the rocky floor and flip us over. I shove the monster’s face into the dirt.

It flops under me like a fish out of water, but I don’t loosen my grip. If anything, I squeeze harder.

Something crunches under my forearm, and the Forsaken under me gurgles.

I’ve crushed its trachea—it’s suffocating to death.

Good.

The sounds of the monster battling to suck in air aren’t pleasant, but I don’t feel bad.

I’ve become savage, unfeeling.

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