Page 9 of The Sacrifice

And one Shadow.

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Qora practically cuddles my back. Closer than ever before, as if we’re reversed, and I’m the shadow. But I don’t mind. Not when it feels like icy fingers creeping up my spine. I shiver, adoring the chill. Some of the girls form groups—strength in numbers. But it will only attract more monsters with so many beating hearts bundled around one another, so many blood scents.

By now, I’ve rubbed soil all over my body, including the dress and cloak. For good measure, I dip my fingers into the blood sap of the trees, hold my breath, and wrinkle my nose while smearing it on my face and hair. With any luck, the beasts will scent the wailing trees and corpse blood, nothing more.

A shrill scream, followed by a gurgle, cuts through the night. A tremor racks my limbs. Close to me. I duck low, hugging the roots of the tree behind me, sidling against bones and threads of hair, and a skull.

Off to my right, I see it. Too crippled by fear to slam my eyes shut, all I can do is stare while the lower monster gores its claws into the belly of the girl, burying its jaws into her flesh and intestines. It’s a Waste wolf. The bones protruding along the roll of its back and the black blood dripping from its eyes give it away. Her screams engulf the air. My vym itches to leave my blood. I can’t save her. I could end her pain, but it would mean giving away my position.

When the wolf jerks its bloodied muzzle up, and I snap my head in the direction it’s looking, my heart screams to leave my chest. Not a few hundred yards away, a girl has stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the dread wolf with wide, horror-stricken eyes.

I recognize her. Ayda, one of the girls from our village. I served a week in the root cellar after healing her brother because their wood-carver father couldn’t pay the coin, which I knew prior. Punishment for giving away my vym without profit.

The wolf crouches. I don’t think. I lunge.

Dragging the blade across my arm, I shed a line of blood to divert the wolf and ready my knife just as it turns, licking its bloodied canines, silver eyes gleaming and hungry for me. My stomach lining twists. I taste acid in my throat the moment the wolf charges for me.

Before its shadow may close around me, Qora shifts unexpectedly. My Shadow dives in front of me, shrieks shriller than a weeping bird, and throws out her shadows to shoot into the wolf. It opens its jaws, yelping and whining from the black smoke gushing from its fur, eye sockets, nostrils, and mouth. Finally, the Waste wolf drops like a stone to the ground. Qora spins to me with a hiss.

Dumbfounded, I stare at Qora, a million questions scrambling through my brain. But I cover my mouth with a giggle and say, “See, I knew you liked me!”

One swipe from her hand, and she’s slashed clear through my dress and the corset bodice. I stick out my tongue. “That was just rude.”

At least Ayda is nowhere in sight. Must have bolted away as soon as the wolf targeted another prey.

Sharp wind rakes claws across my body, and I wrap the cloak around myself, debating what to do. If I make it to the cemetery grounds beyond the tree line, I’ll have survived. At the most, the Sisters will offer me sanctum at the convent. At the least...I lower my head, chewing on the inside of my cheek, wondering if I could leave the Borderlands. Perhaps scratch out some sort of living as a blood binder in one of the larger cities closer to the god-eater’s prime city. My mind reels with images of his realm with their conveniences far more advanced than our primitive lifestyle. The most we have in the Borderlands is the modern electric lights—reserved for the Elder-Brothers and the Governor.

First, I must survive.

A banshee scream spears the air, bleeding my ears from its strident pitch. Qora tenses, crouches, turning her head. There is the banshee, not a hundred feet from me. Her dark hair branches off in all directions hovering in the air. Rib bones protrude through her emaciated body and sagging skin, arms disproportionate with overlarge hands and fingers as keen as naked, spindly tree branches. Her tattered dress sweeps to the ground but wisps back and forth, never still. A former Sister, she gave her soul to become one of these protectors.

When she throws her head back to scream again, icy fear cuts through my blood. It’s an omen. She’s warning me. Something worse than a Waste wolf is coming.

Stomach lurching, I tear into a run, careless of how my bare feet scramble over bones and skulls from the sprawling tree roots. A third scream from the banshee signals an attack. It curdles my blood, but I don’t stop flying past the trees, hoping for some hiding spot.

Something hard knocks the wind out of me. And sends my body hurtling against the side of a tree, crushing my hopes. The knife slips from my fingers. Blood drips down the side of my face, and I reach up to find a gash on my head, but I can’t tell if anything is broken. Not when I can’t feel pain. Never felt pain, until a few seconds ago. All I know is it felt like a boulder crashing against my figure.

A moan escapes my throat at the same time that a massive shadow stalks toward me. I blink, expecting something like a blood demon, but the figure is the size of at least two grown men with a stacked muscled chest and arms. But it’s not his monstrous size or even the taloned paws, layers of emerald-hued, black scales covering his body, and enormous tail. It’s not the muzzle or the horns or his vast wings. It’s the fire wreathing every inch of his body that betrays what and who he is.

The fire god, the most powerful of the Waste rulers. A dragon in mid-transformation.

Every inch of me is trembling, but I dare to lift my head and look him in the eyes with their flaming, dilated pupils. With a low growl emanating from his chest to rumble in the air, the dragon god beats his wings in a sudden strike that casts my gray hair about my cheeks. When his head dips to my lower half, only then do I register what’s happened. That little whirlwind has fed the flames smoldering the ends of my dress.

Yelping, I roll and stem the flames as best I can, but it’s burnt to blackened tatters at my knees. I wince from the stench of scorched flesh. While I feel no pain, the surface of my skin has seared to a blistering red.

As the monster crouches with his wings hemming me in on both sides, I press my back against the tree and glower, incensed. Blood simmering, I jut out my chin to say, “Why don’t you cook all of me before you eat me, then?” My hands fumble, searching for the fallen blade. “I’d say I’m a medium rare.”

Something dark and rippled escapes the dragon’s mouth. Smoke rings surge from his nostrils. This creature is laughing at me!

The dragon god tilts his head to the side, studying me. More flames tickle the sides of my body, but when I don’t shrink, unfazed by the fire caressing my hushed, half-ghost nerves, those fiery pupils dilate to eclipse his dark irises. No laughter this time. Another deep growl rolls through the air. The dragon bares its teeth—teeth that are twice the size of my dagger blade. It opens its mouth, the flames swelling from the depths of its belly to glow its rising warning in its throat.

My breath stills. Lungs shut down. Eyes wide and struck with the horror that he’s fulfilling my impulsive dare. But when something dark and familiar flies toward the monster from behind, hope surges in my chest. And my hand closes around the cold, metallic blade. Qora drives her shadows down, and I thrust the blade up and up and up—where the scales soften at the base of the dragon’s throat.

He roars! But I freeze. And press my fingers against the scales. It only lasts a moment, but it’s all I need to understand this novelty: the friction of skin, however fleeting. One touch.

The fire from the dragon’s throat perishes to nothing more than crackles biting at my dress and cloak. I roll to one side as the beast thrashes with the air, roaring more.

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