Page 191 of Memories Like Fangs
Hot tears overflowed down my face.
The world was bleeding now.
Father tore his blade free, ripping my and Byrd’s breath away at the same time. Diego shoved Byrd away like she was nothing, making her stumble back. Her face contorted in a vivid pain that I was all too familiar with since I felt it, too. It was a white-hot jagged hook, yanking me forward and down to my knees. Mylungs seized up to where I struggled to breathe or cry out around the wound that I didn’t have physically have. That was the worst part, that this wasn’t my pain buthers. That killed me in a way my father’s sword never could. Her suffering was acid in my veins, burning through reason and restraint immediately.
That was before I saw the blood.
Byrd coughed up more blood as she staggered. She pressed her hands to the wound on her side. Crimson bloomed between her fingers there before spilling over to coat the pink-orange sapphire of her engagement ring and the rose gold of her girlfriend proposal bracelet in her glittery red. Byrd’s blood poured out fast, hot, and opalescent.
Her blood hit the hardwood floor.
Glistening droplets of red with opal sheen and sparkles catching the light like liquid crystals.
Just like the dazzling red on the Archive floor.
Just like the dazzling red in the snow.
Byrd was broken again.
Byrd was hurt again.
Byrd was dying again.
And, it was all my fault.
Again.
I was a failure.
A disappointment.
I was going to lose her.
I was going to lose itall.
Something cracked inside me. No, iterupted. It was the brittle crust over a volcano giving way. Unstoppable and searing, all the molten fury I had buried underneath for years surged up and out. The room became coated in a single color: the same red as Byrd’s blood. The same red that haunted every failure of mine. The same red as my heated, roaring rage.
The same red as a laser scope on a target.
My daggers were in my hands before I knew I’d unsheathed them. The obsidian edges gleamed in the bright light of the living room. Faster than I ever had before, I lunged forward. I drove one dagger into my father’s leg with a sickening grind. I felt the black stone break through bones and tear through muscles. I twisted with all the force I could until he went down hard on one knee. His roar of pain was deliciously satisfying.
The points of Amy and Tina kissed his throat. Every syllable within each word I spat at him was nothing but acid rainfall. “Diego ‘Safari’ Garcia, you have broken the Hunter’s Code, and you have no remorse or desire to atone for your crimes. You have attacked your family and their mates. You have also attackedmymate in cold blood when she has committed no crime and has no bounty on her head. As the First Blade and heir to the role of Huntscommander, I am invoking my right to challenge you for leadership right now. On your fucking feet.NOW.”
Mama gasped behind me. “No! Quinn! Don’t! You can’t?—”
Diego grinned wickedly despite the blood still streaming from his leg. “Look who finally got some balls?—”
My blade flashed across his chest before he could finish, an animalistic snarl tearing from my throat.
I was done fucking talking.
After all the fucking trauma and bullshit, I gave in to the fever of anger and allowed it to take over for once.
Now, my father and I moved in the same language. Strike, block, feint, slash, parry. His sword had more weight and brutality to it, but my daggers were quicker and sharper. My daggers danced against his sword, sparks flying from every clash. I had done this dance with him before, training with him to become the best hunteress I could be. Even during training, when I was supposed to be learning as a young child, he treated it like I was fighting for my life. He was merciless, never holding back his power or letting me win. As well as I could naturallytake a hit, Ireallylearned it from my father. He left me on my ass, bleeding, bruised, and battered on the training mat more times than I could count. Sure, I learned how he fought that way. I knew how he liked to invade your space to disorient and overwhelm you. I knew how he liked to weaken you early on with a barrage of attacks, so he could watch you wither away later. I knew how he kept his fighting style inconsistent, so you could never predict where he was going or what he was going to do next.
Now, I also knew Byrd’s pain pulsing through our bond, steady and ragged.
I knew that he had meant to kill Byrd’s mother.
