Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(107)
A body fell silently down the middle. She wouldn’t have noticed it, for the faerie did not even shout in fear, but air whistled through her armor and the thudding weight charged the air with electricity.
“They are following us,” she said. Her words seemed too loud, disrespectful of the deaths she had just seen.
“Of course they are. Stay close.”
As they neared the bottom, Eamonn drew his broadsword. The rubies in the handle suddenly made more sense. The blade feasted upon the blood of its enemies, and thousands of souls were caught there.
Though the thought was fanciful, Sorcha still edged away from his sword.
“Are you frightened of me?” he asked. He did not look at her, instead he stared down the hallway and waited for her answer.
“Not of you, but of your weapon.”
“You should be afraid of Ocras.”
“The sword’s is name Hunger?”
“It devours my foes and cleaves flesh and bone. She does not desire you.”
“Her?”
Eamonn flashed a feral grin. “Of course. Women are capable of both beauty and pain.”
“There are many who would argue with you on that.”
“They would have to argue with Ocras.”
“Are we running?”
“Not yet.”
“Why are we waiting?” She didn’t look down the hallway, not wanting to see what they would run towards until the last second.
“Just a bit more,” he murmured. “Just long enough to give them time.”
“For what?”
“Now.”
He rounded the wall and charged down the hallway with a piercing shout. His roar made the walls shake and the ground quake with the force of his rage. As promised, Sorcha followed close behind but gave him enough room to swing his sword.
And swing he did.
Four soldiers waited for them. Two men, two women, golden armor molded to their bodies. Helms topped with bright feathers hid their species and made them appear all the more otherworldly.
They attacked all at once, and it was as if they struck a bull. Eamonn ducked into the first one, slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach. Metal crunched as he lifted an arm to block a sword slicing towards him. It struck his forearm and snapped in half as it cut through his armor and met crystal underneath.
Ocras sang as she swung through the air and sliced through the neck of a male faerie. It stopped halfway through, blood dripping down his armor as Eamonn placed a foot on his chest and shoved him away.
He didn’t hesitate. He turned and lashed out, plunging the sword into another soldier's chest cavity. She shrieked and fell to the ground while holding her stomach.
Eamonn wrenched her sword out of her dying grip and caught the next attack on its blade. The weapons shrieked their fury into the air. The muscles on Eamonn’s neck bulged, veins pulsing as he pushed the other back. Step by step.
Unlocking their swords by swinging his to the side, Eamonn sank the blade through the crevice where thigh met pelvis. The man fell with a cry, holding onto his leg.
The last woman ran. She raced down the hallway as if it might contain a new escape. Eamonn growled and pulled the stolen faerie sword from the man’s leg, ducked his head, and calmly walked down the hallway.
Sorcha didn’t know whether to be terrified or angry. There were better ways to end a fight than in blood and gore.
The metallic scent burned her nostrils. Blood welled into the air until she thought she could see it hanging above her like a curtain of guilt.
She couldn’t stand by and watch this happen.
Eamonn wasn’t looking, so he couldn’t stop her. She rushed forward and placed her hands on the faerie man’s shoulders.
“Easy,” she whispered. “I will drag you back to the wall. Do not make a sound, or he will turn around.”
The man grunted and pressed his hands harder against his wound.
Sorcha, though small, had grown strong from manipulating the human body and hiking all across the isle. He was larger than her but small for a Fae. She tucked her hands under his armpits and dragged him a few feet until he could lean against stone.
She dropped to her knees next to him and brushed his hands out of the way.
“No,” he grumbled.
“Let me. I’m a healer.”
The wound was deep and cut through muscle. If he was lucky, he would live, but he would never walk again.
Sorcha would not be the one who told him that. Perhaps faerie healers knew more than she did about their bodies. The only thing she could do was stop him from bleeding out.
The tearing sound of her dress made Eamonn pause. She could feel the heat of his stare, his anger burning through her flesh.
Quickly, she wrapped the cloth underneath his thigh and cinched it as tight as possible. She knotted the fabric, ignored his pained whimper, and turned towards the faerie glaring daggers at her actions.
“I won’t let him die.”
“Why? Some strange affection towards my twin?”
“Because he’s just doing a job. I won’t stand by when I can help, no matter what side he fights for.”
“Soft heart.”
Eamonn turned and flung the sword in his hand. It whistled through the air and embedded in the faerie woman’s back who scrabbled at the door, then hung limp.
“Let’s go,” Eamonn said. He turned and yanked Ocras out of the other woman, holding out a bloodied hand for her to take.