by S A McClure
Emma pressed her fisted hand into her mouth at the immensity of the wings to keep herself from screaming. She breathed in and out quickly, her head feeling light.
I am the huntress, she whispered. I am the huntress.
It left a trail of crimson blood staining the white snow behind it. Its muffled—almost strangled—cawing drifted farther away from her. She heaved in a deep breath, her entire chest rising. Her mind raced through the stories she’d read about the monsters that prowled the Beoscuret Mountains.
There were countless beasts resided in the mountainous kingdom of Dramadoon. She remembered her mother’s gentle arms cradling her as she read the stories to her. She remembered her sister’s pale face peering at her, eyes wide, in the firelight. It had been warm. And loving. And safe.
Her mind kept coming back to the terror she’d seen in that first animal’s eyes. The bobcat. She had never seen that kind of look before. She’d seen fear. She’d seen desperation. She’d seen hopelessness. But this—this was something else entirely.
There was a memory that pricked at the back of her mind. There was that mixture of a roar but also that strange, strangled cawing sound. She’d seen a description of that somewhere, hadn’t she?
She gasped as the realization came to her.
“A cockatrice,” she whispered, her breathing misting before her face.
Her blood turned to ice as she tried to remember everything she’d read about the creature. They were rare—one of the rarest magical creatures known in the whole of Mitier. There were only a handful of books that even mentioned them, much less give full on descriptions of the monsters.
That’s what they were. Monsters. Half dragon and half rooster, they were able to instantly kill anything they locked eyes with. Nearly impossible to defeat, too. She scrunched her brow as she tried to remember the ways listed to kill them. As far as she could reckon, there were only two ways. One: force the cockatrice to look at its own reflection. Two: make the cockatrice hear the crow of a rooster at sunrise.
If she wanted to survive, either had to be done without the beast making eye contact with you.
Emma gulped at the dilemma before her. She could try. She could go on the offense. She would most likely die, but it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? If she saved Iris? If she saved what was left of the animals Balkeen kept in his collection?
She stood there for several moments, weighing her options. In the end, she knew there was only one choice. There had only ever been.
Her palms sweaty, but her mind focused, Emma called into the trees where the trail of blood led.
“You want to kill me? That’s what you were sent here to do, right? To take me out of the equation so that you can dispose of Myrella? Isn’t that you were sent here to do?”
Only the sound of the wind rattling through the ice laden trees answered her. She had been expecting this. It had been her experience—limited as it was—that it took a lot more than a single baiting session to catch the worm.
“How will your master feel, knowing that you couldn’t even complete this one, small task for her?”
She inched her way forwards, keeping her eyes locked on the trail of crimson blood. The trail would end eventually. Cocktrices could heal themselves. It was part of the reason they were so difficult to kill. The spots of blood increasingly became less prominent until, as she knew they would, petering out.
She stretched her neck, tilting it side-to-side in anticipation of what was coming. She would need to be blind during the fight. The thought terrified her.
The cocktrice’s gaze wasn’t the only thing dangerous about it. It had long, sharp claws on its massive feet. She’d read that the spikes running up and down its back were venomous. Despite its ability to roar, it had a razor-sharp beak that could break bones with a single peck.
But, there was nothing left to do. It was risk her life and try to defeat the cockatrice or let everyone she loved die.
I am the huntress.
She smacked the spear against a tree near her and closed her eyes.
“Come get me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Emmaleigh
She heard the beast thundering towards her. Its massive body slammed into trees, cracking them, sending splinters raining down upon her. She gritted her teeth, knowing it was trying to frighten her into looking at it. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. No matter what it did to her, she would refuse to open them until the bitter end.
She heard the whooshing sound of something large swiping through the air. The beast’s tail slammed into her back, knocking her off her feet. She threw back her hands to break her fall but slammed her head into a tree. White dots filled her vision. The wind was knocked from her chest. She gasped for breath as she tried to listen for the sound of the cockatrice around her.
Something crunched the ice only a few paces away. Gooseflesh prickled on her arms as a gust of moist, hot air tickled her arms. Her eyelids fluttered, and she almost opened them. Was it her or did the beast just linger there, right in front of her face? She stretched out a hand, expecting to make contact, but swiped through empty air.
Nausea filled her when she sat up. The muscles in her shoulders and biceps spasmed as she reached behind her head to feel at the place where she’d struck it. Her hair was matted with leaves, twigs, and hot, sticky blood.
Cursing beneath her breath, she positioned herself onto her knees.
Think, think, think. She pressed heels of her hands into her eyes. You can do this. You just have to think.
The sound of a low growl drew her attention to the right. She could still hear the incessant squawking of the ravens from her left. Their voices nearly blocked out the faint growling. She scrambled backwards until her back met the rough wood of a tree. She heaved in a sigh before leaping to her feet. A whoosh of air gusted against her as the beast lunged towards her.
She thrust the spear downward, driving in the makeshift blade into the beast once more. She felt it rear as it released a strangled caw. She had a momentary sense of success as she was suspended in the air, holding the spear in place.
A sharp crack splintered the air as the spear broke. Her stomach jumped to her chest as she fell to the ground in a heap. Her hand caught on a jagged rock and tore the flesh before hot liquid began spilling down her arm.
She yelped in pain. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t risk opening her eyes to check the damage to her hand. She could sense that the beast was close. It most likely was waiting for her to break her concentration. To slip. To peer into its eyes and perish the same way all those animals in Balkeen’s lair had.
She wiped her hands on her tunic and, using her uninjured one, prodded at the gash on her palm. It stung. She could imagine the small bits of debris that must have been in the wound. She felt around her, scooping up snow as she went, and packed it into the gash. All she could hope was that, if she could survive this, Grandmother Rel would be able to use her magic to cleanse the wound and get rid of any infection caused by the dirt she knew was also packed into the cut.
The cockatrice breathed straight into her face. It was the foulest thing she had ever smelled. She turned her face away, sucking in a breath of clean air. A rough, wet tongue lapped against the wound on her hand. She had the strangest sensation that it was drinking her blood.
She felt around her until she found a large rock. She slammed it into the side of the beast’s head. It screeched and pecked at her with its beak. Its sharp point sank into the soft spot between her thumb and pointer finger. She whimpered as she clutched her hand back to her chest.
She didn’t understand why it didn’t just peck her to death. Or use its venomous spikes to kill her. It was almost as if it took pleasure in toying with her. As if it enjoyed coming up with new and torturous ways to force her into meetings its gaze.
She wouldn’t be giving it that satisfaction anytime soon.
She rolled away. Now that both hands were bloody, her best cours
e of action would be to run. She thought back on the maps she’d studied in Grandmother Rel’s cottage. There was a river nearby. She was sure of it. At least, a mountain stream, if nothing else. There had to be.
The ravens fluttered around her. She felt one of them swoop down and rest atop her head before swirling around her once, then twice, then a third time. It left her as the beast crowed. The rest of its murder rushed past her.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked as, presumably the same raven, brushed its wing across her face.
If anyone had told her about this type of experience, she would have laughed and told them they had lost their minds. But, she somehow knew the ravens wanted her to follow them.
So, she did.
She tripped over upturned roots as she rushed forward. The beast’s breath puffed against the back of her neck. She took a chance, opening her eyes to peer ahead of her. Sure enough, the murder of ravens was there, flying in a clustered formation. One of them lagged behind the rest and kept ducking back towards her.
She had no doubt that it was the one who’d pushed her to follow them. There was a pause in the raven’s movements and then they shot skyward. A clearing appeared ahead of her. Emma pumped her legs more quickly. Her calves burned, and she feared they’d seize up before she reached the clearing. Still, she forced herself to keep going. She squinted her eyes, trying to see beyond the tree line.
It looked like there was nothing.
“What the bloody moons!” she yelled as she fell to the ground and rolled forward.
The forest disappeared into a steep cliff face. It dropped several hundred paces. Her heart hammered in her chest. If she had fallen off this cliff, there was no way she would have survived.
She glared at the leader of the murder of ravens. It circled her, but didn’t make a sound as it darted back into the heights of the trees just as the cockatrice leapt through the trees and landed beside her.
Emma caught a glimpse of its face. She had never seen anything more horrifying in her entire life. Its beak was coated in blood. It had a mixture of fur and feathers surrounding large, bulging eyes. She didn’t need to meet its gaze to see how bloodshot the eyes were. The feathers and fur on its face was matted, with chunks of what looked like bits of flesh clinging it.
She shut her eyes tightly. She whimpered as it nudged her with its beak, but didn’t peck.
“What is your problem?” she yelled as she rolled away from it.
The frozen ground beneath her started to give. Her legs swung over the side of the cliff. She scrambled to clutch onto a low hanging branch and pulled herself up. She felt the cockatrice pass beside her. Gusts of wind pummeled against her as it unfurled its wings and, presumably, took flight.
“Cheater,” she mumbled as she cracked her eyes just enough to see its shape soaring over the deep ravine. The frozen river at the bottom of the river glinted in the sunlight.
The beast dove straight down, the muscles in its long body flexing as it stretched its wings as far out as they could go, catching the wind and breaking its descent. It darted upwards, more quickly than she would have thought possible before coming to a stop directly in front of her.
The power of its wings continued to buffet her as she clung to the branch. The wounds on her hands stung. She bit back the tears that sprang to her eyes. The beast didn’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing her terror. Or her pain.
The only thing it deserved was death.
She tilted her chin down and cracked her eyes slightly more. She could see the flash of silver as the sun reflected against the frozen water.
Reflected.
An idea blossomed in her mind.
It could work, she told herself. It would work.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Iris
The glowing red eyes were terrible to look at. The crackling black and purple lines exploding from the pupil were like lightning. They seemed to change direction and magnitude as the witch seized Iris’s arm and dragged her to the middle of the circle. They were the only things Iris could see of the witch’s face in the shadows of her hood.
The rest of the coven—Iris knew that’s what this was now—chanted all around her as she tried to pull her arm from the witch’s grasp. They hissed her name. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She kept her back straight, rigid. If they were going to sacrifice her, she would be taken with dignity.
Their voices were like hissing snakes. Smooth. Hypnotizing. Guttural at times.
“Who are you?” she asked the crimson-eyed one.
She received no response as the witch rejoined the circle. She clasped hands with the others standing around her. Iris twirled around, watching as the rest of the witches also joined hands. The air thickened, as if anticipating the witches’ next actions.
Iris held up her hands, palms outward.
“I’m like you,” she said, her voice unwavering. “I can be one of you.”
They didn’t seem to hear her. Or they ignored her. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she twisted around, trying to meet the gaze of at least one of the witches. Each face was hidden by the shadows of the hood. Each shadow had a pair of glowing eyes staring straight ahead. They were all different colors: blues, greens, yellows, oranges, but only one red. They didn’t even blink as they continued to chant, their hands locked with one another.
Iris couldn’t tell if she were still caught in the dream. Unlike the one she’d had with Liam, this one didn’t have the hazy, surreal quality to it. It was crisp. It was clear.
It was real.
There wasn’t any other explanation.
“Please,” she pled, “just tell me what you want. Maybe I can help you.”
The sky flashed with a deep purple and red streak of lightning. Iris covered her ears with her hands, dampening a loud crack of thunder.
“Iris Valka,” the voices whispered in unison all around.
The red-eyed witch stepped forward. The others abruptly stopped chanting. The silence that followed chilled Iris to the very marrow of her bones.
Definitely not like the other dreams.
These witches had somehow hijacked her visions and forced her into theirs.
The red-eyed witch threw back her hood. Iris gasped, clamping her hand over her mouth. From her blonde hair and the gentle curve of her nose to the sharp, angular cut of her jawline, the woman standing before her was the identical twin to her sister.
Except for the eyes. Emma’s were dark green with bits of fiery copper flecks. They were kind eyes. Determined ones that looked at her with nothing but love. Even when she was angry with her, there was always love in Emma’s eyes.
But the woman standing before her was angry. Furious, even. And there was a deep, dark hatred that seemed to spread from her eyes and tighten the muscles in her entire body.
“You are an abomination. Dreamwalker.”
The coven echoed the word ‘dreamwalker.’
Their voices sent chills down Iris’s spine.
“You are a threat to the foundation of the Light, the walk of the Creators, and the tapestry that binds us all together. Spellbreaker.”
The coven whispered the word ‘spellbreaker.’ She had never heard that word before. Grandmother had only called her a dreamwalker. The recognition that Grandmother had once again withheld information from her set her mind on fire. She deserved to know the truth.
“How do you plead?”
The question hung in the space between them. Iris wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t know if she was either of the things the coven was holding her responsible for.
“How do you plead?” her sister’s lookalike repeated.
Iris jumped at the venom in the woman’s tone.
“How can I be any of these things if I don’t even know what they are?”
The circle whispered spellbreaker and dreamwalker again as they inched closer. Iris cocked her head towards the red-eyed witch.
“What crime is it to be born with these abilities? Didn’t the Creators build us to live the way the Light intended? Wasn’t I created for this purpose?”
It was a gamble. She knew some of the witches in Dramadoon believed they served the Light. Others had chosen to follow the path of Obliteration. They lived in darkness. Preyed on the weak. Forgave nothing. Remembered all the wrongs they had survived. There had been times Iris had believed that Grandmother followed them. Other times, she knew there was no chance Grandmother would ever succumb to that kind of temptation.
Her sister’s lookalike cackled, her voice high-pitched and piercing.
“You are of the Darkness, Iris Valka. The time for reckoning is upon us.”
The coven hissed “it’s upon us” like snakes stuffed in a pit. Their voices slithered over her skin, leaving her feeling coated in their venom.
“I’m not,” she said, trying to sound brave.
The crimson-eyed woman glowered at her. For the first time, Iris noticed how her veins bulged in her pale face. They were like little rivers of blue and purple, sweeping across her sister’s skin. They seemed to pulse with each step the woman took.
“Who are you?” Iris asked, her voice trembling.
“Death.”
The single word sent a shiver down Iris’s spine. She wasn’t sure who whispered it first—or if it had been all of them all at once. The coven’s voices were one. They carried the same inflection. They moved at the same speed. They begged for her death. Her destruction.
Panic.
Iris clenched her fists so tightly that her fingers went numb. Her breaths came in sharp, shallow waves. Her stomach was knotted and queasy. She was shaking. She needed out.
She shoved her mind beyond the ring of witches. It felt like drifting through a fog—a haze—with no beginning or end. Wind whipped across her face.
Was this real or just another dream?