Page 16 of Wicked Depths

I watch as they adjust their grip on their weapons, eyes darting through the shadows. They are looking for me. They will not find me.

I move.

I drop from the tree, the wind curling around me, my claws unsheathing, my black lace cloak billowing like a shadowed omen. For a moment, they don’t realize. Then the nearest soldier turns, his eyes widening—

Too late.

My claws slice through his throat in a clean arc, a wet gurgle escaping his lips before he crumples. The hot spray of blood spatters against the leaves, the scent of iron thick in the night air. The others whirl toward me, their shouts shattering the silence. Their blades rise, but I am faster. I strike the second soldier before he can lunge, grabbing his wrist mid-swing. His sword clatters uselessly to the ground as I twist. His bones snap like brittle twigs, the sound drowned beneath his scream. I release him, letting him stumble back, clutching his ruined arm.

The leader does not hesitate.

He swings his longsword in a wide, practiced arc, forcing me to step back. The others fan out, circling me like a pack ofstarving wolves. They think numbers will save them. They are wrong.

The leader sneers, his grip tightening on his sword. "The beast herself," he mutters, voice dripping with contempt. "Never thought I'd have the honor."

Honor. The word tastes foul.

"You were dead the moment you entered my land," I say coldly, eyes locked onto his.

One of the younger soldiers shifts uneasily beside him, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He is afraid.

The leader snaps his head toward him, scowling. "Stay sharp. Remember why we're here."

The younger man swallows hard, glancing briefly at his fallen comrades. "We can still turn back." His voice wavers. "This isn’t—this isn’t right."

The leader scoffs, his grip tightening on his sword. "You think turning back will save you? You think she’d let you?" He spits onto the ground, eyes burning with hatred. “Creatures like her don’t leave men alive.”

I let a slow, deliberate smile curve my lips. "You're right," I murmur. "I don’t." The young soldier flinches.

One charges.

I sidestep, my wings flaring, catching the wind. I let the momentum carry me into a spin, my claws slicing through the exposed flesh of his stomach. His body folds in on itself, spilling onto the earth in a mess of blood and entrails. A fourth man lunges from behind. I sense him before I see him, but his blade is fast, too fast. A sharp sting burns across my ribs as the steel bites into my skin.

I snarl.

Pain ignites across my side, the wound warm and wet, but it is not enough to stop me. I pivot, grabbing the fool by the throat, my claws digging deep into his flesh.

"You dare spill my blood?" I hiss, venom curling around each syllable.

His fingers claw at my grip, his pulse hammering wildly beneath my claws.

I tighten my hold, lifting him off the ground. His face turns red, his legs kicking. Pathetic. I turn my gaze to the last two men—the leader and his final soldier. Their faces are masks of horror, their bodies trembling as they watch their comrade suffocate beneath my grasp.

The young soldier's voice shakes. "This—this isn't what I signed up for—"

"Shut up!" the leader snaps.

I squeeze.

The soldier's neck crushes with a sickening snap. I let his body drop. The leader does not run. I expected nothing less. He grips his sword tighter, shifting into a defensive stance, his breath even. A seasoned warrior. A fool all the same.

"You’re making this difficult," I muse, tilting my head. The wound in my side throbs, warm and wet, but I push the pain away. The soldier beside him, however, is shaking. His fear is so thick I can taste it.

"Leave," I tell him, my voice smooth, edged with warning. "Run back to your king. Tell him his army is next."

He hesitates. The leader does not.

"You think you can scare us?" he growls. "We've faced worse than you."

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