Hunted(34)

“Did as ordered. Took him down.”

An imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders almost went unnoticed. “Did you kill him?”

Lazgul might be a beast like this, but he was also a man, older than her and wise enough. His eerie black pupils with yellow irises watched her carefully. “Nay,” he growled.

She looked away, acting for all the world like she was uncaring.

A moan brought their attention to the dancer.

“Great, she’s waking up. You really screwed up with this one, Laz. Kill her now and be done with it.”

Lazgul snarled, growling in warning before he squatted next to the dancer in a protective move. Lysse wanted to rip his rotten head off. “You’re supposed to obey me. Rainer said---”

“Kekekekekekekekekekek.”

Lazgul’s menacing crackling snapped her mouth shut. That was the sound an Ava made before attacking.

“Don’t you threaten me!” Lysse snarled. “If it’s a fight you want, then forget about it. There’s no time. The general, the king, everyone will be looking for this girl. Don’t you see what you did?” This time she did scream the words.

Her voice seemed to be the catalyst that shook Penelope awake.

Penelope’s eyes shot open. Disoriented, she looked around, brows furrowed.

“Huh?” she mumbled, looking between the creature in front of her, to Lysse.

Lysse rolled her eyes. “Here we go. Shut her up before she screams.”

Too late, Penelope’s eyes flashed with recognition—

recalling everything that had happened to her.

Great.

Except, she took Lysse completely by surprise. Maybe under different circumstances she’d have more respect for the girl. Penelope didn’t scream at all as Lysse had predicted.

Instead, she suddenly reached under her dress, drawing forth shocked looks from the three Avagarians and Lysse. Befuddled like a bunch of school children.

She used that to her advantage.

Penelope lunged forward, the glint of silver flashing too quickly to react.

Lazgul never had a chance. With surprising speed the dancer advanced—and sank the blade deep into his chest.

Lazgul howled, but Penelope, in another surprising move, removed the blade and stabbed again. Blood oozed like black liquid tar dripped from between his foaming lips as he twitched in agony.

This creature, this part-man, who was older than Lysse’s thirty-one years, who’d endured wars and triumphs, collapsed onto his back in violent seizures. He’d just been felled by a tiny ballet dancer with a silver knife.

“Get the knife!” Lysse screeched.

Lazgul gave one last violent shiver, then stopped moving at once. He lie still. His black eyes staring up at the sky. The other Avagarians were stunned for far too long.

Lysse had to take care of this herself. She had to stop relying on others to carry out her plans. Lazgul had messed up her plans by bringing the girl here to begin with, and now she had to put an end to it. She supposed that he received what was coming to him, and at least she didn’t have to do it herself.

With an empowering breath, Lysse called forth the beast inside her. Her other half. The bad half. Or maybe it was the good half of her.

And she transformed.

Skin stretched, like working in new leather. Hair sprouted like fresh grass, as she grew in height until she towered like the great Avagarian she was. Taller than 6’, muscles ripped with sinewy strength, canines ready to pierce and rip flesh; venom in fangs prepared to bite.

Penelope toppled backward at her transformation, looking stunned.

“Y-you can’t be,” she was saying. “You’re…one of them…”

Lysse smiled to reveal a row of canines. Then she pounced.

Something stuck in her side—pain erupting at the spot. Lysse landed on top of the dancer, slamming her back into the ground so hard it made her lose her grip on the blade. She knocked the breath clean out of the dancer, leaving her gasping and unable to breathe.

Looking down at herself, Lysse saw the silver knife embedded deep into her lean, ebony chest. The pain shocked her senses—her skin bubbled, boiled like acid at the touch of silver. She howled in ungodly pain and tore the blade from her chest flinging it far away.

Blood dripped from the wound, saturating the dancer’s white dress with angry red splotches. Growling in the back of her throat, Lysse could smell the fear clinging to Penelope. It saturated her like wet clothes, clinging sickeningly.

Lysse tossed back her snout and laughed, or made some similar sound as close as she could.

Then she opened her mouth wide and howled in victory. In victory of the kill—a moment before she readied her strike.



* * *



Penelope must be close by. Or so Ryon told himself. She must be.