Page 130 of Heirs of the Cursed

Lykeios jumped out of the shadows and lunged at one of the men, taking a firm bite at his neck. That motion was all Alasdair needed to act. Two of the men lunged at him, but he was already waiting for them, calculating their every move.

Darcia’s rage grew in her chest. Her power roared in that bottomless pit that she longed to absorb and consume.

The monsters were useful for a few seconds. Lykeios focused on attacking two of the men, while Alasdair restrained the others. Darcia had little time to notice the precision of their movements. Every twist, every lunge . . . One of the men tried to grab him by the throat, but Alasdair was as fast as a shadow in the night.

Wailings reached her ears from behind, and Darcia became aware of the deep cut in the wolf’s foreleg. Before she could reach Lykeios, one of Conrad’s dogs shoved him against one of the veiled trees. Darcia ran to the wolf, her dagger in hand. Her whole body was shaking with panic; so much so she could barely breathe.

She couldn’t let them find her. But most importantly, she wouldn’t let her enemies hurt those who had helped her.

Darcia had no training.

She knew just enough to defend herself.

Still, she had something much stronger: hatred.

As she lunged for one of them, Darcia raised her arm with the dagger held high to stab his back. She needed to keep them away from Alasdair, to protect him—even when she was unable to protect herself. Having the blood of yet another person in her hands wasn’t a choice.

The tip of her dagger barely made contact with Conrad’s loyal dog. He turned around to face her, his eyes filled with rage. Darcia started to recoil, one step after the other, but he was faster—faster than anything she’d seen before. With an unnatural force, he grabbed her wrist until her veins tightened and her fingers went numb.

“Look what we have here,” he said with a devious smile. “Your brother is going to be very happy when he sees you.”

Her brother.

The Fiend.

Darcia wasn’t going to let them take her to him, at least not without a fight. After days of short-lived freedom, she’d rather die right there and then before they took her back to that monster.

“I’m afraid he’s going to be very disappointed,” she responded, lifting her right knee to kick him in the crotch.

He howled in pain and bent in half.

Well, they do have a weakness after all, she thought.

Upon finding him at her height, she plunged the dagger into his neck, drops of blood spilling over her face. The shackles around his throat flickered for a brief moment, announcing his impending death. Darcia took a step back as the man fell to the ground . . .

Dead.

Lykeios faced the other dryad. Darcia directed her magic at him, sending the monsters of shadows to distract the man long enough to confuse him.

The wound in the wolf’s paw gushed blood with every step he took forward, and though he didn’t seem willing to give up, Conrad’s dog wouldn’t either. He approached the wolf, his sword raised with deadly intent. The dark hunger to slay the creature and drape its fur across his shoulders burned in his eyes.

A howl crossed the space, beyond the illusion, beyond the forest. Darcia stared at the powerful wolf, her heartbeats echoing in her ears as she thought of what Lykeios had done. Figures cut through the night, the wet soil caving under the weight of their paws. The first thing she saw was their fur, which went from black to brown and white. Their fangs were exposed, growling in the man’s direction.

Wolves.

Dozens of wolves that Lykeios had summoned.

Lykeios took the first step forward; the direct order of an alpha.

‘Attack.’

And the pack obeyed, pouncing on the man to devour him alive.

Alasdair enjoyed music the most, especially the one that preceded death.

Those who wanted Darcia to use her—to kill her—weren’t invincible. He’d taken enough lives to know that, for someone to be alive, they must have a heart. A weakness. If he was quick, he’d be able to stop them from achieving their purposes.

He whirled about himself with great ability, swinging his daggers to stop the attacks of the sword. Despite the reinforced clothing that covered most of Conrad’s dogs bodies, there was nothing that the arcane metal of his weapons couldn’t cut.

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