Page 59 of Stealing Embers
I hack and gasp as the creature holding me captive—a monster with the likeness of a man—glares at me.
“I find this task tedious.” The creature hisses the words between elongated fangs.
“Even so, we’re not supposed to damage the merchandise . . . much.”
The unnamed female appears over the shoulder of my Forsaken captor, Ronove. Her long hair drapes across her shoulders in matted dreads. Her skin is bleached of color. Her eyes are not only dark, but the area that should be white is blackened as well. It’s like looking into someone’s eye sockets.
Clothes dangle off her emaciated frame as she lays a hand on the back of the ugly beast in front of me.
How is this possible?
I just saw these people in the real world. They weren’t Forsaken—they were beautiful. But the stench wafting from them, as well as the physical characteristics of a corpse, prove they’re Forsaken and not human. They smell like they’re rotting from the inside out.
“How?” The creature in front of me chuckles. I must have spoken part of that out loud. “Oh my pet, you have much to learn.”
Gross.
“I am not your pet.” My voice is scratchy.
A half-smile lifts his cracked lips. Nasty.
“We shall see.”
“Are you sure this is the right one?” The other male appears at the mouth of the alley. Also a Forsaken. “She hasn’t even fully phased.” He tilts his head as he studies me. “I think she may be defective.”
Great, even monsters think I’m substandard.
“Shut it, Aamon,” the female barks.
Aamon leans against the wall, watching the show.
It’s only then I realize these Forsaken aren’t quite the wild beasts that attacked the academy last month. Yes, they’re scary, fanged, and seriously lacking in personal hygiene, but they possess a measure of intelligence and restraint the other creatures didn’t.
If the Forsaken last month were rabid beasts, these three are . . . intelligent beasts? Beasts to be sure, but of a different breed.
The one that holds me captive, Ronove, shoves his free hand—er, claw—into my shoulder. His sharpened nails bite into my flesh, and he squeezes until the skin breaks. A trickle of warm blood leaks down my arm.
He rips the fabric from my shoulder to wrist—coat and sweater both—until the wound is exposed.
My struggle ramps up as he brings his face closer and . . .
Oh gosh, I’m gonna be sick.
. . . licks the blood from my skin.
He leans back and closes his eyes, slurping the excess blood from his pale lips.
A shiver of revulsion wracks my frame.
“It’s her. I can taste it on—”
A low growl cuts off his words.
In unison, my three captors’ heads snap up and to the right. The synchronized motion reminds me of puppets connected to the same strings. In another situation, I would have found it humorous, but considering the gravity of my predicament, it isn’t funny at all.
I twist my neck as far to the right as possible, and relief floods my system.
A massive golden lion with a black-streaked mane paws at the ground. The hair on his back stands on end as another deep growl rips from his throat.