Page 61 of The Cursed and the Broken
Bodies dropped around me, but still the cultists outnumbered us. When the last of the reanimated dead tumbled once more to the ground—the energies of all the táltosok spent—we still faced a small handful of cultists, the bullhead man and a few snarling wolves.
My breath hitched as a cultist lifted their blade high, ready to plunge it deep into Dante’s back. Those few seconds were the most agonising of my life as I sprinted to his side, shoving his body out of the way right as the dagger descended and ground into my flesh.
The dagger pierced the flesh above my heart, sinking into muscle with the ease of a knife scraping butter. The adrenaline flooding my body made the strike feel more like a punch?that was until I felt hot liquid spilling over my chest, dribbling down my shirt in slick spurts.
The blade descended again, knocked off course at the last minute by Dante. It sliced my arm instead, sending more streams trickling down my arm. He roared and, as I watched his beautiful face transform into that of a monster enraged, the pain finally registered.
White-hot like a blade from a forge, it surged through my body. My legs had the strange sensation of pins poking into my skin like Mama’s needles in embroidery and I crumpled to the ground. Blinking back the pain, feeling my breaths coming short and heavy, all I could do was lie there, watching Dante howl before gutting the cultist like a pig.
His clan members howled right back, the sound seeming to give them a new burst of energy.
Hot, sticky splotches rained on my face, but I couldn’t focus, couldn’t see properly as the pain blurred my vision. I heard him speaking vaguely, asking me to “Stay with him, to hold on.”
As I saw the silhouettes of my comrades rushing forward to protect me, the flash of a bull’s head drawing closer, the bodies littering the ground, I felt something shatter. My restraint snapped and that darkness I’d forced deep inside scrabbled to the surface.
Rage. Sorrow. Fury. They drove that power to my fingers, shuddering until I allowed the final release. I glanced at Dante’s shouting face, not registering the words coming out of his mouth. But fear filled his eyes, pulled the curves of his mouth taut. We were losing this fight. Our party was too small, too exhausted to hold on.
And the thought of Dante being gone? It was not something I would allow.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my magic not to harm him and the others, commanding it to destroy only that which sought to kill us. And with one shuddering sigh, I let my power go, and felt myself fade into oblivion.
PART THREE
The Blood of Wolves
TWENTY-SIX
I gasped, struggling to clawmy way out of the abyss, only to find my enemies were little more than an excess of quilts swaddling me. Laszlo lay at my feet, curled up in a ball. I breathed a sigh of relief. The lazy hound didn’t have a mark on him.
The room I was in appeared to be a guest suite, furnished tastefully in hues of cream, gold, taupe and the warm tones of reddish woods.
Beyond the bed lay a wall of beige and gold brocade, a chest nestled against it, and a simple seat trimmed in gold sitting in the corner. To the other side was a small sitting area that opened onto a balcony. Gold light filtered through the room, glowing as it settled on the curves of Dante’s face, contouring every sharp line into gilded bone.
I relaxed at the sight of him, feeling safe and comfortable in this strange place. He smiled down at me from his perch by the bed.
“Hello, Freckles.”
“Hello.” My voice was raspy and I licked my cracked lips.
His eyes followed the motion for a moment before dragging up my face and settling on my gaze. It felt intimate and searching, and my cheeks heated from his stare. Finally, he turned to the bedside and offered me a cup of water from a carafe. I drank it greedily, wincing as I twisted my body.
Shoving the blankets from my chest, I peered at the bandages plastered over the stab wound and wrapping around my arm. Someone had dressed my wounds and changed me into a simple white shift while I’d slept.
“How long have I been out?”
Resting his chin on his hands, he leaned forward on his elbows, a grim line set on his face. Shadows darkened his red-rimmed eyes and his hair was mussed. With a start, I realised he was still dressed in last night’s clothes, soaked through with blood and grime. My heart jolted, stomach flipping. He hadn’t even left my side to freshen up.
“You were in and out of consciousness while the healer attended you, but you slept for most of the night. It’s now around midday.”
I pushed myself up, grateful as he propped the pillows comfortably behind me. “How many?” The whisper was still too loud for the silence of the room.
His silence was answer enough, but with a long-winded sigh, he confirmed, “Twelve in all. If you hadn’t intervened, we’d likely be dead, Kitarni.”
He usually used my proper name in serious situations, but this time his tone was laced with admiration and … something else. It made my heart do a little dance, but panic quickly flooded in and my eyes widened. “My magic! What happened? Did I hurt anyone? Did I—”
Pressing a finger to my lip, he swiped his thumb across my mouth, tracing the curve of my cheek until he cupped my chin in his hand. “You were incredible. Your magic decimated the cultists and their wolves, turning them to ash without so much as a blink. I’ve never seen anything like it. The power misted over all of us, but when the dust cleared, not one of our men was harmed.” He shook his head, looking at me in awe. “How?”
It was my turn to stare, dumbfounded. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “I remember feeling so desperate, soangry, I just willed it to do what I wanted. Apparently, it obeyed.” Relief flooded over me, drowning out my panic and anxiety. Perhaps the power was a boon after all. Something I could control. If I could master it, then we might stand a chance against Sylvie.
