King of Battle and Blood (Adrian X Isolde #1)(3)

Then, the cold crept up my back, and I stopped.

A strzyga was near.

Strzyga were humans who had died from the blood plague and risen from the dead. They were horrifying creatures with little intellect, save for their desire to eat human flesh.

The smell grew in potency, and I flexed my hand, turning slowly to face the desiccated monster.

It stood on the edge of the clearing, back bent, staring with hollow eyes and cheeks. Its sparse hair clung to blood spattered on its near-skeletal face. It stared at me and then sniffed the air, a growl erupting from its throat as its lips curled back to show elongated teeth. Then it gave an eerie cry as it fell on all fours and raced toward me.

I spread my feet apart, preparing for the impact of its blow. It launched itself at me, and as it neared, I shoved my hand toward it, deploying a knife I kept sheathed in a brace around my wrist. It sank easily between the creature’s ribs. Just as quickly, I pushed away, retracting my blade. Blood spattered my face as the strzyga staggered back, screaming at me, angry and anguished.

The blow would only wound.

To kill a strzyga, its head must be separated from its body then burned.

Now that the monster was weakened, I drew my sword. As the sharp metal sang against my sheath, the creature hissed its hatred before throwing itself at me again. It sank upon my blade, clawed hand slashing, tearing at my dress and skin. I gave a guttural cry as the pain registered, but it was soon overtaken by anger and adrenaline. I withdrew the sword and swung. The edge was sharp but resisted, lodging in the bone of the strzyga’s neck. I shoved my foot against its chest and jerked my blade free. As the strzyga fell, I sliced through its neck again, and when the body hit the ground, its head landed a few feet away.

I stood for a moment, breathing hard, my chest burning where the creature had shredded my skin. I needed to get to the medics. Infection set in quickly with strzyga wounds. Before I began my trek, I kicked the strzyga’s head, sending it rolling to the tree line of the clearing.

Returning to the castle injured would not bode well for me and my independence.

The air changed suddenly, and I twisted, lifting my blade once more, only to have it connect with another.

The impact surprised me, because I stood face-to-face with a man. He was beautiful, striking, but in a harsh way. His features were angled—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, a straight nose, all framed by blond hair that fell in soft waves past his shoulders. His lips were full and pillowy, and his eyes were hooded by defined brows. It was those strange eyes—blue, rimmed with white—that held mine as he tilted his head and spoke.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” His voice hinted at intrigue, silky in its delivery, and the sound made my stomach clench.

My brows lowered at his words, and I studied him further. He wore a black tunic secured with gold buckles and a surcoat of the same color. The edges were stitched with gold thread. It was fine work, but it was not made by my people—our designs were far more intricate.

I narrowed my eyes. “Who are you?” I asked.

The man dropped his sword, as if he no longer perceived me as a threat, which made me want to be a threat, except that I dropped my arm too, my fingers loose around the hilt. I tried to tighten my hold but couldn’t.

“I am many things,” he said. “Man, monster, lover.”

This time when he spoke, I detected a faint accent—a slight clip I couldn’t place.

“That’s not an answer,” I said.

“I think what you mean is that’s not the answer you want.”

“You are toying with me.”

His smile stretched, and he looked wicked in a sinful way, in a way I wanted to taste and feel. Those thoughts made my skin prick, and I felt myself growing warmer beneath his gaze.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked. His voice was low, a purr that coaxed a shiver from the depths of my stomach.

I swallowed hard. “I want to know why you’re here.”

“I was tracking the strzyga when it changed course.” His eyes lowered to my chest. “I see why.”

Self-consciously, I lifted my hand and hissed at the sting of my shredded skin. The sudden flare of pain made me feel light-headed.

“I killed it,” I managed to say, though my tongue felt thick in my mouth.

The corners of his lips curled. “I see that too.”

“I should go,” I whispered, holding his gaze. I wanted to move my body but felt too relaxed. Perhaps it was infection, already rooted in my blood.

“You should,” he agreed. “But you won’t.”

An alarm sounded in my head as he spoke. And as he stepped toward me, I suddenly regained my ability to move. I drove my hand toward his stomach, releasing my knife, but his hand clamped down upon my wrist. He yanked me forward, his body pressing into mine, despite my wound, despite the blood. He bent over me, grasping my head, fingers digging into my scalp, and for a moment, I feared that he would either kiss me or break my neck. Instead, he gripped me harder, eyes never leaving mine, thumb brushing my lips.

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice shivered through me, and I found myself speaking.

“I am Isolde.” The answer slipped from my mouth, at war with my mind, which raged against him.

“Who are you?”

Again, I answered not of my own accord, my voice the whisper of a lover. “I am princess of the House of Lara.”