Page 2 of What Lies Within Blood & Heirs

She had heard those before. The same ones had accompanied burning flames in Alynthia, and now, they rumbled in front of her, from somewhere deep inside the forest.

Her boot wedged fully into the dirt—into the shadows—daring her to run.

It roared again, the sound like an injured animal defending its life.

‘No matter what you hear, do not come for me.’

Alora growled out a frustrated snarl as white embers lit against the bark, sparks crackling around her fingertips. Shards of her light cast intense rays from between her fingers as tendrils of smoke danced off the singed wood.

She washere, and he was inthere—being ripped to shreds for all she knew.

Alora stole another step, and Garrik’s voice repeated,‘No matter what you hear, do not come for me.’

Static energy surged through her body, and then air slammed into her like a solid wave. If she hadn’t been gripping the trees, it would’ve knocked Alora onto her back to stare up at the stars.

Mouth tasting of metal, the air charged and thrumming, her desperation stared toward the origin of the violent disturbance.

Winged creatures stormed from the shadows, escaping something vicious—something she knew she had felt only the mild aftershock of.

She threw her arms over her face as the crackling of hundreds of timbers vibrated and resounded from deep within the foliage. The sound like an avalanche that barreled into the trees and left them wiped completely bare.

Only one High Fae she knew possessed the power to level an entire forest by air alone.

And if Garrik had used a shield, then something was very,verywrong.

The air fell quiet.

Until the beast thundered its wounded, sonic roar again. Followed by a male’s guttural battle cry.

“Starsdamnit,” she breathed. “Have I ever listened to you before?”

And then …

She was running.

The moldering, wretched stench of a poor soul deceived into a damning deal filled Garrik’s nostrils as something wet and grimy dripped onto his cheek. Another seeped from his neck, underneath his battle leathers, and tainted his icy skin. It had to have fallen from the bodies hanging above his head, strung up by rusted chains.

Ripples of glowing green light cast dancing rays across the crypt, but he did not move. Did not draw his sword or care to wipe his cheek. His silver eyes only stared expectantly at the vile creature mere feet in front of him.

The shape of Mercy was … sculpted in madness.

Sculpted by the gambling of faeries. By its addiction to pain. Sorrow. Hopelessness.

Soulless death.

Desperation brought all faeries, low or high, there. Paths and lives nothing could free them from. When there was no other choice, no other way, fate would meet them down there and push them toward reluctantly making a deal with a monster who was gluttonous for pain.

No one actuallywantedto be there.

And no one would expect a demon to buy his own path to hell. But there Garrik was, ready to bargain.

Like a glitch in time, Kerimkhar moved in spurts across the space. His figure spasmed from one stone, only to appear mere feet away. His former location held a slow-moving illusion of him until it caught up with his true self.

“Do you like them? They make the most excellent company.” Kerimkhar snickered, drawing his prismed eyes to the hundreds of faces laden in stone surrounding the crypt and buried deep in the watery abyss.

The faces moved, their voices joining his when that rotten mouth opened. “Have you come to offer yours to my collection?”

Garrik paced with a dismissive, uncaring expression, his magic sending warning pulses through his veins.

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