Page 41 of Hellfire to Come
Footsteps. Dozens.
I turned just as they emerged from the tree line across the road, so many of them, moving with eerie precision, as if summoned by some silent command. One by one they stepped out of the shadows, their presence coalescing like a storm front made of flesh and menace. Men, or something close enough to wear their shape. Tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, their skin stretched taut over sculpted muscles that glistened under the silver wash of moonlight.
They were shirtless despite the cutting wind, clad only in black leather pants and harnesses that wrapped their torsos like restraints rather than armor. Not a sound passed between them. Not the rustle of breath, not the scuff of boot or the crack of twigs beneath their weight. Just that dreadful stillness, broken only by the slow, synchronized pace of their advance.
Their eyes glowed faintly blue, unnatural and cold, like the last flicker of a dying flame. Not vibrant, not alive but dimmed, dulled, as if whatever spark of will they once had had been stripped away and replaced with something... hollow.
I took a step back, instinct prickling along every nerve. These weren’t Guardians. Not truly. They were too clean. Too perfect. No scent of blood, no flicker of thought. Just constructs wearing flesh. And I couldn’t smell them.
“Brooklyn,” I said quietly, placing myself between them and my mate while my animal thrashed under my skin.
She didn’t need more. She was on her feet before her name left my lips.
The Guardians or whatever they were closed in fast. Too fast. They moved in perfect sync, not like soldiers but puppets. Controlled. Manufactured. Each footstep landed with the same weight. Each hand held the same curved blade, gleaming despite the darkness.
My hackles rose. My panther stirred behind my ribs, already pacing for release.
“They’re not Guardians,” Brooklyn hissed. “Something… Something’s wrong.”
Wrong was an understatement. Their magic reeked of precision. Synthetic. Not the brutal, volatile wildness that marked most Guardians. This was laced with illusion, suggestion, mimicry. A spell made to look like them.
But not feel like them.
Still, we couldn’t afford a mistake. Not if they were real.
“You take the right; I’ll take the left side,” she said sharply, drawing her favorite blade from her thigh. “Don’t let them corner us.”
I shifted before I could speak, bones breaking, fur tearing through skin. In seconds I was down on four legs, muscle rippling, claws carving shallow trenches in the dirt. I let the beast take over, but only just. My mind stayed sharp, tethered to hers.
They struck first.
Brooklyn blocked one blow, ducked a second, then slammed her blade through the chest of the first Guardian to reach her. It split apart, not with blood, but smoke unraveling in moonlight.
An illusion.
But the next three came without hesitation.
I lunged, jaws sinking into the arm of one, but it dissolved in my mouth, leaving only the taste of burnt sage and bitter root. The scent of spellwork. I turned, dodging a strike, slashing across the belly of another. Again, smoke. Again, not real.
“They’re testing us,” Brooklyn said through clenched teeth, spinning and slicing through another three. “This isn’t an attack…it’s a damn test.”
“For what?” I growled, voice ragged through my half-shifted throat.
“To see if we meant what we said.” She panted. “To see if I’m truly not like the rest of my kind.” Her tone was laced with disgust.
Another wave came. I tackled two at once, twisting midair, ripping through what wasn’t flesh. Brooklyn danced through the chaos like a storm; Elegant, brutal, relentless. Her blade left arcs of black light behind it. Her eyes glowed not just with rage, but conviction. The Guardians might not have been real and they turned to smoke when we landed a hit but we were real. Everywhere their blades touched opened our skin and blood poured from the wounds.
And then, just like that, the Guardians vanished.
Smoke. Ash. Gone.
Silence fell.
Brooklyn stood in the center of the clearing, chest heaving, silver blade covered with nothing but moonlight. Her eyes searched the trees, her power still thrumming like an exposed wire. Blood dripped from under her sleeve where a particularly deep cut was still oozing. I shifted back immediately and rushed to check her injuries.
Scrape of a boot over gravel alerted us to another presence.
Then, from the path beyond the gate, the man returned.
