Page 61 of Hunted By Fae
The cold fae with sharp green eyes, frosted blades of grass, bleedswhite.
It’s thinner.
The bloodseepsout of the wound on his arm—the one he seems to be ignoring, no hand pressing against it, no attempt to stop the flow—and it spills like milk.
The other fae, the foot warriors, bleed thicker and darker, tar and ink.
But each one of them who was hit with a bullet is looking right at us.
A guttural sound tugs out of me.
Bee’s hand presses firmer against my face, the pressure aching my teeth.
Toes curl in my boots, and I am rigid against her. I am steel against the moment that is coming, the moment that we are all slaughtered for Ramona’s fucking idiocy.
The horror that has my insides flopping and sling-shotting as a struck warrior turns his chin to his leather-shielded shoulder. Bright rubies for eyes, crimson like his hair, drop to his bleeding forearm, where a stream of black tar falls down to his hand.
Then he lifts his gaze. And it is a sword.
Ramona flinches under the severity of his stare, and she’s right to, because in that same moment, he pulls out of formation and strides for her.
My heart is beating against my eardrums, dizzying me. I sink further into Bee’s rigid hold.
The warrior’s pace picks up.
He storms by us, and we flinch in sync, like we’re litter caught against the door of the van.
My wide eyes follow him, all the way to Ramona—where he stops, abrupt, and towers over her.
I blink.
That’s all it takes.
A mere blink is all the time it takes for him to swipe out with his sharp black nails and tear out Ramona’s throat.
Itslapson the sidewalk.
My scream hitches.
The cry rises up my strangled throat and garbles against Bee’s clammy hand.
Bee recoils, as if cringing from the looming fae whose hand is slick with fresh blood. The shift brings me with her, until we’re both sinking into the edge of the van, praying it swallows us whole.
The fae stands over Ramona’s crumpled body.
Blood is pouring out of her open neck, torn, a gap so deep that—even through the mist of tears in my wild eyes—I can see the muscle, the strips of flesh barely hanging on, and the ridges of her fucking spine.
Flames turn on us; the fae’s crimson gaze.
Stunned, I stare up at him, into the blotches of fire for eyes.
The heels of my boots dig harder into the road.
I shove, and shove, and shove—and I would be pushing us further against the van if it wasn’t for Bee, retreating with me.
She scoots over the road, manoeuvring us to the nose of the van.
The shotgun trembles in my grip—the light bobbing with my panicked breaths.
