Page 9 of Fated to the Damned
Come on, Jessa, I coax myself. Get up. Save yourself.
With monumental effort, I peel my eyes open. My eyelids feel weighted, trying to pull me back under. I force them wider, shapes and colors bleeding back into my vision.
I see the night sky peeking through the canopy overhead. The shadowy trees surround me, their branches softly swaying. Slowly, I manage to turn my head to see a pale, dark-haired man, standing with his back to me.
Dread pierces through the calm. But as I try to move, the hypnotic chill keeps my body languid and heavy.
I can do nothing as I stare at the man. His arms are exposed, but the rest of him is covered. Still, his clothing is tight enough that I can see his body is toned and lithe just like my attacker. They are very similar...
Except for the wings.
My heart leaps in fresh fear as I take in the immense wings arched behind him, black as the night itself. He's like the monster that was chasing me, but more dangerous, primal power evident as he stands over something.
I have to move. Every instinct screams it, even through the lethargy trying to pull me under. With an extreme effort, I shift my leg, leaves crinkling beneath me as I try to scramble back.
At the soft sound, the winged man's head whips toward me. I freeze like prey spotted by a predator.
By the Thirteen, he’s otherworldly.
If I thought the other guy was gorgeous, I need a new word for him.
He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. High cheekbones, strong jawline, full lips drawn back over straight white teeth. Ethereal perfection.
But there is no softness in his chiseled features. His face is all sharp planes and shadows, eyes a glowing jewel-toned amber. They bore into mine, rage simmering in their depths. My heart stammers.
His wings flare higher behind him, an intimidating frame, and my eyes trace the shape of them. I’ve never seen a dark elf or orc or anything have wings before. I don’t know what to make of this.
But as he shifts, I see what he was standing over. Before him on the ground is a mangled corpse. My attacker lies in a pool of blood, still seeping out, body twisted unnaturally, flesh ripped open in savage wounds. His torso is shredded, ribcage cracked open, entrails strewn across the leaf litter.
One arm is attached by only a strip of skin. His face is frozen in a scream, the handsome features warped in agony, throat slashed ear to ear. His eyes stare into nothingness, but despite all of that...
His chest still rises.
My gaze darts from him to the winged creature still staring at me. The calming feeling has since washed away, and pure panic coats my tongue as I consider, if he could do that to my attacker, what could he do to me?
What have I gotten myself into?
6
NIKOLAI
“Iunderstand why they call us gods-blessed,” Lev says to my left.
I don’t have to look at him to know that his face is shining with excitement. He and I, the only two with wings, took to the skies as soon as we stepped out of the caves. With the others on the ground, using their magic to sense and search for the wildspont base, I decided it was best for the two of us to fly so we could scout ahead.
The fact that I have never felt such great exhilaration in my life is just a bonus.
“Do you feel anything?” I ask as I bank to the left, letting a tendril of magic pull me in the right direction. At least, that’s what I hope.
Since the wildspont can spit us out at random – a downside to the explosive and uncontrollable magic – we don’t know exactly how far we are from the wildspont. And the Council wasn’t feeling particularly helpful enough to send a scout. They believed that if we are so strong – Brinda doesn’t try hard to hide her disdain for those who don’t worship her – then we could find the base on our own.
My wings stretch so wide that it almost hurts, and I have to fight the grin that wants to spread across my face. I have never had the luxury of soaring like this, of tasting fresh air like I was intended to.
It’s absolutely incredible.
“No, not–” He pulls up short and I stop in reflex. “Did you hear that?”
I turn my head, noticing how the other accolades stop below us. I’m just about to respond when I pick up the quietest sound. It’s a cry – one of anguish.