Grave Visions (Alex Craft, #4)(91)

Tommy Rawhead lifted one of the bone clubs over his head.

I scuttled sideways, my concentration shifting to not falling over my own weak legs. The bone whistled through air inches from my shoulder. A miss. But barely. I had to keep moving. To put distance between myself and the glamoured bogeyman.

Rawhead spun, giving chase. And he was faster. A lot faster. Not surprising considering my head still felt a little too heavy.

I couldn’t outrun him—not that I had anywhere to go. Where the hell is that damn door?

I didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. The bones had been in the corner, but now I couldn’t remember which corner in comparison to the door.

There was no way out. I’d have to fight. I’d often heard that the best defense is a good offense. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly trained in fighting. With my recent history, I might have to change that.

Of course, first I had to survive now and not end up getting killed by my own imagination.

Crouching, I shifted my grip on the dagger and waited. Rawhead rushed forward, his bone clubs lifted. I didn’t know much about fighting, but the move looked more crazed barbarian than anything skilled. I guess that was the only good thing about not having a great imagination. Rawhead was limited to what my waking nightmare could conjure.

I waited for the charging figure to draw close. Then I lunged to the side, slashing out with the dagger as I moved. Unlike my hallucination, I had an enchanted dagger that liked to draw blood and was very good at it. So I let the dagger’s mental prodding push me.

The blade sank into flesh, catching momentarily, and then slid free. A hot gush of blood spilled over my hand, and the blade sang in triumph.

But, while the blade guided my arm, it wasn’t watching out for the rest of me. The lunge scored a wound in my opponent, but the impact with his body killed my forward momentum. Instead of sailing straight past him, I came down short, slightly to his side. One of the bone clubs slammed against my calf. It was only a grazing hit—not full impact—but pain exploded along my leg.

I rolled aside, a move that was not good for my spinning head, but the next swing of the club missed. When my roll ended, I tried to climb to my feet, but the room lurched, throwing me sideways. Or maybe I just fell.

Rawhead charged. Shit. I scooted backward, my butt and boots leaving streaks in the sleet-covered floor like a demented snow angel.

Rawhead was moving too fast, or I was too slow. Whichever way, if I stayed on the defensive, I’d lose. My own damn hallucination would kill me.

No, damn it. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.

I gripped the dagger tight. It sung in my hand. It didn’t care if Rawhead was glamour or real, it just wanted a fight. I hope you know what you’re doing, I thought at it. The dagger, of course, didn’t respond. Though, with as much of the drug as Ryese had introduced to my system, I wouldn’t have been shocked if it had.

Blood still poured down Rawhead’s side, turning his brown pants a sticky crimson color. The wound was deep, maybe mortal for a human. I wasn’t so sure for a fae, especially one who was already dead and only a figment of my imagination. Still, it was a lot of blood. If I could keep him occupied long enough to bleed out . . .

He charged again, the clubs swinging. I got my feet under me enough to skitter aside. We’d circled enough that I was now near the bone pile, and I dove around it for cover as a club crashed into the space I’d been a moment before.

Rawhead followed.

I grabbed a long bone from the massive pile and gripped it between both hands, using it to block his next swing. The bones crashed together with a splintering crunch. My arms vibrated with the hit. His club and my makeshift shield both snapped, the top half of his flying off to my side and me left holding two splintered ends. I kept one, dropping the one in the same hand as my dagger.

Having blocked his first blow, I was unprepared for the swing of his off-hand club. It crashed into my stomach, slamming me backward. The air rushed out of me in a loud whoosh, and my back crashed into the bone pile.

Rawhead stalked forward, a short, jagged bone in one hand, a long club in the other, but he was moving slower now, his movements jerkier. Blood still poured from his side, the wound clearly hurting.

If he could be hurt, he could be stopped.

I tried to push out of the pile, but my feet dislodged an avalanche of bones that tumbled down the side, onto the floor. Rawhead kicked them out of his way, never stopping. I grabbed a skull, cupping the forehead with my palm, my fingers in the eye sockets, and then hurled it at Rawhead. He batted it aside with his club, but it slowed him, marginally.

I threw another bone, followed by a third, a fourth. I wasn’t doing any damage, just annoying him and buying time, but I kept hurling skulls, arm bones, a whole foot—whatever my hand landed on. Then he was right on top of me, and I was out of time.

He lifted his arm to swing and I pitched myself forward. It was a desperate, almost blind, move, but I had no other options.

The dagger slammed into his chest, sliding through clothing and flesh with no resistance. Rawhead went rigid. Then the rest of my body weight hit him, knocking him off his feet, and I rode him down. My hands were wet, slick with blood, but I didn’t let go of the dagger. By the time Rawhead’s back hit the floor, he’d stopped moving.

I sat there, straddling his body, panting from exertion. Dizziness swam through my head, leaving black dots across my vision in its wake. When I could see again, I looked down. The dagger was hilt deep in Rawhead’s chest, just left of his sternum. I’d hit his heart.