Page 94 of Fated to Monsters

“That’s my girl,” Bo says while a shit-eating grin forms on his handsome face. He drags his hair out of his eyes and winks at me.

Just like that, all the tension that was between us is erased, and what remains is a friendship that has grown through the strangest of ways. Bo has seen me at my worst, hated me, and wanted me dead. I have never sugar-coated the version of myself that he has seen, and despite being at odds, a relationship formed whether we wanted it to or not. Bo has always been attractive, but I didn'ttrulystart to notice it until I saw more pieces of him that were uncovered. He is brutal, irrational, and a pain in the ass, but he is as broken as the rest of us. He is a lover of bread and violence, and he would do anything for the people he cares about. Bo might not let people in so easily, but when he does, he will go to the ends of the universe for them.

Literally.

And as he hovers behind me, our forms back-to-back, our knives poised to kill, I realize, I am one of those very lucky people.

He could have stayed in Arthlia. He didn’t have to come. But the second he saw that something was wrong, he risked himself to be here with us.

We fall quickly into a rhythm and use the shield each other provides to slaughter anyone who dares to come our way.

I ignore the fatigue that sets in and focus on the adrenaline coursing through me.

Panting, I shove my blade into the thigh of a hunter. His screams pierce my ears and do nothing to stop me from yanking out the knife and driving it into his neck. Blood speckles my face, coating me with yet another layer of red.

Bo throws his weapon into the chest of an oncoming hunter, and reaches for another, tilting his head and sinking his fangs into his throat. He jerks back, his vicious teeth ripping a huge chunk of his flesh off. Bo spits it out and rushes over to snatch his knife from the other man's deceased torso.

“They just keep coming,” he calls out to me. “Where’s the bitch?”

“I…” I slam my fist across the face of one hunter and spin, extending my leg and kicking another right in the chest. “Don’t know.” Quickly ducking, I swipe my blade at the ankle of another unsuspecting victim. “I lost her when you showed up. I’ve been searching ever since.”

My gaze continues to skim the crowd between every kill, but aside from being able to locate Wes and my friends, I haven’t found Parla. Did she retreat when Bo arrived? Or is she planning something for him, too? There’s no telling what kind of magical defense she has up her sleeve.

Most of the hunters look alike, just varying heights and weights. They’re all dressed in the same attire, making them easy targets. But because of this, it’s difficult to differentiate the ones that belong to Parla’s personal guard. Just when I think I’ve homed in on them, they disperse and go their separate ways into battle. Is this a purposeful distraction or simply another advantage she doesn’t even realize she has?

Four rather large hunters charge at me at once, one of them landing a blow across my jaw.

Stars dot my vision, and I lose my footing. My hands scrape against the ground as they catch the brunt of my weight. “Fuck!” I cry out.

Someone kicks me square in the back, knocking the wind out of me and cracking my spine.

I dig my fingers into the dirt and spit out the blood that’s filled my mouth. “Is that all you’ve got?” Pushing onto my feet, I’m met with another blow, this one turning me over and onto my ass. I stare up at the endless hunters that surround me, my gaze darting to Bo, who has at least twice the number of hunters to tend to. I locate Wes, grateful to see him still standing, but that hope is dimmed quickly at noticing how many are attacking him, too. Pippa struggles with the man in front of her, and even the wendigo seems surrounded, only his antlered head poking out above the throng of hunters.

Is this it? The end? I thought I would have met my maker numerous times before, but I don’t think things have ever been quite as hopeless as they have right now.

I wanted to die that day in the warehouse when Wes saved me. I thought he was going to torture me and make my final days worse than any death imaginable. But who would have thought that this, witnessing the people I care about losing a war that was never meant for them, would be more painful than the most brutal of torture? I would spend an eternity in Rockbridge to rid them of this.

My head throbs and I cough, blood spewing from my lips. The men close in, their knives and swords pointed toward me. Eyeing my empty ankle holster, hopelessness continues to hit me like a ton of bricks. My sights fall on my dagger, lying discarded in the dirt a few feet away.

It’s too far.

I am weaponless and injured.

In my peak form, maybe I could have taken the lot of them on, but here, now, beaten and bloodied, I’m not so sure.

That doesn’t mean I will give in without a fight, though. I size them up and quickly analyze any potential weaknesses and opportunities. Three of the men are easily twice my size. One holds a long sword, but his grip is loose, a bit unsure, as though this might be the first time he's held a weapon that massive. He's the biggest of the bunch, and somehow, the most unsteady on his feet. The littlest man's hands shake as he clutches a dagger. The other two, a tinge more confident than the others, poise their knives in my direction.

It's only been a few seconds since they knocked me onto my ass and already, I've learned more about them than their comrades probably know.

Spreading my fingers into the cold dirt, I make the decision that I’m hoping is the correct one. I shove the brunt of my weight onto my hand and force myself up, moving as quickly as I can to rush the largest of the guys and thrust the brunt of my boot into his knee.

It buckles just as I'd wanted it to, and he lets the sword slip from his grasp. It clanks onto the ground, but I leave it. It's far too heavy for either of us to use effectively and his concern is no longer on me as much as it is on his broken leg.

He whimpers and moans and clutches the awkward-shaped thing on the ground like a baby.

The two moderate fighters run toward me, their knives aimed in my direction. The little guy follows up the rear and manages to drive his blade through the flesh on my arm on his way by. Pain, hot and steady, just like the blood gushing from my wound.

“Bleed, bitch,” one of the two says.

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