Page 46 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
I could kill him from this distance. Easy.
But Raisa’s hand is trembling in mine, and I know what will happen if we get caught. They’ll drag her back to the king, and my brothers and I will be lucky if we ever see her again.
I can’t risk it.
The scout on the right gets too close. He steps over our log, less than a foot from Raisa’s head. I hold my breath.
His boots crunch the leaves.
Raisa’s breathing goes shallow, almost silent. She smells like sweat and fear, and it’s intoxicating.
The scout stops. He tilts his head, listening.
I squeeze Raisa’s hand, willing her not to move. Her fingers lock around mine.
He circles back, his eyes scanning the perimeter, his face twisted in suspicion. I recognize the look. It means he’s about to do something stupid.
I count the seconds in my head: one, two, three—
Raisa tenses under me, her breath coming fast, but I keep her pressed flat with one arm. My other hand drifts to the knife at my hip. The bow will take too long. I need this done quickly.
The man pauses, turns, cocks his head.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I explode upward, catching him by the throat as I clear the log. The knife goes in, silent and sure. He doesn’t even get to scream. He just blinks, mouth open, the color draining from his face as I lower him—slow, so there’s no sound—into the dirt.
I’m already moving, decades of violence burning through me. The effects of the curse rise swiftly, called forth by blood. It screams for me to find wing and feather. I resist it, battling to retain this form.
The second man is at the edge of the hollow, his sword half-drawn. He spots me, but only because I want him to. I let him see the blood on my hands. Let him taste the violence I wear like a second skin.
He draws, a shout burning in his chest.
I meet him in two strides, ducking his wild swing. He’s strong but slow. I slip under his guard, driving my shoulder into his gut and lifting him clean off his feet.
He gasps, losing the blade. I catch his arm at the elbow, and the bone pops with a sound like a branch breaking in a storm.
He screams then, raw and high.
I slap my hand over his mouth, press him to a tree, and drive the knife in, right where his heart sits.
He’s dead before he finishes sagging to the ground.
The third man is smarter than the others. He doesn’t come at me. He runs.
I chase, fighting the demands of the curse to shift, to use claw and beak to tear his throat out.
He’s fast, but I’m faster. I catch him by the collar before he’s gone twenty paces.
He claws at my face, drawing blood.
I laugh, smashing his head into the nearest trunk once, twice, three times.
I drop him, watching the blood pool around his ears.
I stand there, chest heaving, knife in hand. Every part of me is shaking, but not with fear. With rage. With the force of keeping myself in this body when the curse screams for the other.
I check the woods, looking for more. But there’s no one. Just the wet sound of blood dripping onto old leaves.
