Page 43 of Flirting with Darkness

Realization fell over Thomassen’s face. Realization, and then hatred.

“I defended you,” he snarled. “When they talked about you. About your father. About your family. I defended you, child, from horrors you don’t even understand. But I was wrong. You’ll only spread this further.”

He lifted his sword.

Everything went too slow and too fast at once.

Behind me, Vale tensed, pulling me back.

I yanked my hand from his grip, rising.

It was like I was outside my body, watching someone else lift that stupid little axe—watching someone else swing it. I was a scientist, not a soldier. My swing was clumsy, but I threw all the strength I had into it.

Hot blood spattered across my face.

Numb, I pulled the axe from Thomassen’s shoulder. I stumbled backwards a little—it was hard to get the blade from the flesh.

Shoulder. Not deadly. Try again.

I swung again, this time for the throat.

It’s an interesting sound that one makes when they’re drowning in their own blood. No scream, just a gargle and the empty hiss of air. Wet, weak death.

I had moved fast, for all my inexperience. It took a few seconds for the other men to realize what was happening. The priest staggered.

I felt a strange sensation. Something wet over my torso.

Pain, slow.

I looked down to see blood all over my shirt.

Commotion. Noise. It seemed very far away. I looked up and saw familiar sandy-fair hair, a wiry figure yanking a sword from one of the guards as the Priest staggered.

The priest’s? Or…

I hit the ground hard as a grip from behind shoved me away—Vale. Vale’s movements were nothing like the graceful death I’d seen in the forest that night. No, these were lurching, desperate. Survival more than skill. Like a dying animal.

CRUNCH, and a head fell to the ground. One guard, before he could turn on Farrow.

He killed the second with his own sword, torso opened and bloodied over the grass.

Thomassen still stood, somehow… still stood, covered in blood, a dead man walking. Maybe his god helped him a bit, after all, because he somehow managed to turn— to—

“Vale!” I screamed.

Vale whirled around just in time. Thomassen’s sword went through his shoulder.

But Vale didn’t flinch.

A terrible damp crunch rang through the air. And when Thomassen’s body slumped to the ground, something red was clutched in Vale’s hand. It looked like a ball of blood, at first.

Then I realized, after a few seconds of dull blinking.

A heart.

Thunk,as Farrow’s sword fell to the grass.

Thump, as Vale let the heart drop beside it.

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