Page 96 of A Rising Hope

“Goodbye, Lady Dynaya, Goddess of Death, Keeper of Souls.”

58

GIDEON

“Motherfucker!” a female voice with a foreign accent snarled near me. “Fuck you too.” A jolt of lightning went over my skin as I realized it was not Insanaria’s. My eyes were swollen, vision blurry, but I forced them open, catching the outline of a well-dressed assassin. “About damn time,” she hissed through her teeth, her face full of loathing as she stared at me. And though I hadn’t met her before, I knew exactly who she was.

Priya.

Whatever fog clouded my mind immediately disappeared as I realized the gravity of her presence here.

“Where the fuck is Finnleah?” I scowled, forcing my body to move, but with Insanaria’s vines cut, there was nothing to support my mauled body, and I fell. My bones were broken to pieces, arms shredded. A foot was missing. And the large holes in my lungs oozed a rotting liquid.

My magic drained, and veins dried of my blood. I should’ have died again from the sheer pain that ricocheted through my body as I tried to stand up. My eyes rolled, but I fought throughthe darkness to stay in the present, focusing only on a single thought.

“Where. Is. She?” I growled at the assassin. She took a step back, knives and daggers out.

“Didn’t know dead men can talk.” She narrowed her eyes on me. I felt her powers then, like claws reaching for my mind.

Gods, a fucking Truth Teller.

Finnleah had told me of her assassin friend that she trained with, but the details of her other powers she conveniently forgot to mention. I twisted my neck sharply; my bones crunched, making a very unpleasant sound.

“Who the fuck are you?” she grumbled, realizing her powers had no hold over me. Her mind still attempted to make sense of what she saw and what her ears had heard. My body was very much past that of a dead man, and yet I was alive.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” I groaned, yanking the chair near me, using it to steady myself as I rose up. My figure glowered high above the assassin. Powers surging, craving destruction. “Your poisons have no use on me,” I uttered, noticing her nearly imperceivable movement towards the hidden vials.

“I liked you much more when you were dead,” the assassin stated.

I looked at my hands, fingers missing, nails torn. But none of that bothered me as much as the lack of even a single spark at my command. My fire was still locked behind the power of the Basalt Glass buried deep in my chest.

“Believe me, that feeling is mutual.” We stared eye to eye. I tore with my mangled fingers breaking my skin, ripping through my chest as I dug for the sharpness of the cursed glass. I needed it out, and I needed it out now. My skin was already a sickly tint of gray and blue as agony seared through me and yet it paled even more, but I dug deeper, my hand clawing through my bodyuntil I felt the rounded shard of glass, no bigger than a silver coin. “Fucker,” I seethed, throwing it across the room. She took a step back, feeling the wave of heat as I welcomed back the roaring tide of my powers back.

“Let me ask you again.Where is my wife?” The exposed white bone of my knuckles shifted as I gripped the chair tighter, eased from the physical pain as my Destroyer healing powers rushed to knit me cell by cell.

“She is with the Queen,” Priya confessed.

I grunted, anger, fire and rage exploding within me. “And you fucking left her behind?”

“I didn’t leave her behind. I fucking came for you, prick, because she asked me to.” Her eyes were threatening, but so were mine.

The rapid flow of the returning fire blinded me, burning the dried veins within me. I needed water. I needed blood. I needed nourishment. The fire, like a hungered animal, wanted to consume me alive.

I still couldn’t move, couldn’t walk, my body was completely useless.

But Finnleah was here. And so nothing else mattered.

“I need your blood.” I looked at the Truth Teller.

“Hilarious. Let’s hope she didn’t marry you for your terrible sense of humor, Destroyer.” Priya snickered, refusing.

“The joke is on you thinking I was asking.” Summoning all the strength I could gather, which to my dismay was only a fraction of what I was used to, I threw the chair I used to support myself with at the assassin, she jumped away. The movement was just what I needed as her arm was then within my reach. The chair shattered, breaking the window.

The assassin’s dagger went into my chest, but it was too late. The sharp edge of broken bone on my hand cut into her skin as I held her tight. Her fresh blood seeped into my skin, feeding thestarving magic just enough to keep me alive. I threw her wrist away from me, limping towards the window.

“You are a sick motherfucker,” she fumed, holding on to the deep wound near her wrist.

“That’s rich coming from you,” I snarled, picking up a thick, rounded leg of the broken stool. I flinched as I jammed the exposed tibia of my leg into it, making a makeshift peg-leg so I could walk.

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