Page 60 of Hunted By Fae
Bullets striking the fae.
Nine gunshots blast through the air, until nothing but the empty tug, tug, tug of a trigger.
The fae stop.
Boots come to a sudden halt on the road.
The lameness of my torch wisps over them.
It’s a current of stillness rippling down the army.
My heart launches into my throat.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
I can only watch, horrified, as the warriors come to a stop. Not a stumbled boot, not a staggered step.
Just a halt.
Even the hooves of the steeds are rooted to the road. Those steeds…
I drag my watery gaze over them, their hairless, grey skin, their ridged skeletal sides, to the warriors mounted on them.
Most of those fae stare straight ahead.
Some turn their gazes over us.
But one lures in my wide stare.
The one who stares atme.
A fae, chiselled from marble. The iciness of his hair falls into his face, the tips grazing his shaped eyebrows.
My lashes flutter at the sight of him, catching on the warmth of my tears.
The greens of his eyes gleam like faint lights in the dusty blend of torches and darkness. His lashes are low over those piercing, cold eyes—and his stare is spearing into me.
Click, click, click.
Still, in all her stupid panic, Ramona tugs the trigger over and over, as if the rifle will somehow magically reload itself under the assault.
The ice fae wears some speckled dots of white on his face, peppered along the sharpness of his cheekbone—and I find the source, fast. On the arm of his leathers, a hole is carved.
A bullet hole.
He was struck by the gunfire.
And it bleeds—but not like it should.
His blood isn’t red.
With a swerved, wet look around the other fae—the ones on foot, the ones who bleed from their necks, their arms—I see a different sort of blood.
Black like tar. It sludges just like it, too. Slow. Thick.
But not his.
